From a30c790edea652494e7481f6798047a3bc1fd4ea Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: luxagraf Date: Fri, 28 Jul 2023 13:43:36 -0500 Subject: added a backup of old pages that are no longer live --- bak/oldluxpages/412-holman-ave.html | 1034 +++++++++ bak/oldluxpages/adventures.html | 113 + bak/oldluxpages/adventures.txt | 113 + bak/oldluxpages/babyvideos.html | 143 ++ bak/oldluxpages/babyvideos.txt | 143 ++ bak/oldluxpages/birds/blue-jay.html | 120 + bak/oldluxpages/birds/blue-jay.txt | 0 bak/oldluxpages/birds/brown-headed-cowbird.html | 120 + bak/oldluxpages/birds/brown-headed-cowbird.txt | 0 bak/oldluxpages/birds/brown-pelican.html | 120 + bak/oldluxpages/birds/brown-pelican.txt | 0 bak/oldluxpages/birds/chipping-sparrow.html | 121 + bak/oldluxpages/birds/chipping-sparrow.txt | 0 bak/oldluxpages/birds/eastern-bluebird.html | 120 + bak/oldluxpages/birds/eastern-bluebird.txt | 0 bak/oldluxpages/birds/hooded-warbler.html | 120 + bak/oldluxpages/birds/hooded-warbler.txt | 0 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bak/oldluxpages/writing/united-states/2/index.html create mode 100644 bak/oldluxpages/writing/united-states/3/index.html create mode 100644 bak/oldluxpages/writing/united-states/4/index.html create mode 100644 bak/oldluxpages/writing/united-states/5/index.html create mode 100644 bak/oldluxpages/writing/united-states/index.html (limited to 'bak/oldluxpages') diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/412-holman-ave.html b/bak/oldluxpages/412-holman-ave.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bd07381 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/412-holman-ave.html @@ -0,0 +1,1034 @@ + + + + + 412 Holman Ave + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

+

Walk Slowly

+
+ +
+ +
+

For Sale: 412 Holman Ave, Athens, GA

+ + +

The Front Living Room

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The Front Bedroom

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None

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None sec at f/None, ISO None

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The Back Bedroom

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Kitchen

+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

The Back Living Room

+ + + + + + + + + + + + + +

Bathroom

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+
+ + + None + +
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None

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5/8 sec at f/14, ISO 250

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Laundry/Sewing/Craft Room

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None

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None sec at f/None, ISO None

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Office/Guest Room

+

Coming Soon

+ +

Deck and Backyard

+

Coming Soon

+ +
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/adventures.html b/bak/oldluxpages/adventures.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..609d061 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/adventures.html @@ -0,0 +1,113 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Our Adventures + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

+

Walk Slowly

+
+ +
+ +
+

Our Adventures

+
+

|Ad*ven”ture| n. 1. That which happens without design; chance; hazard; hap; hence, chance of danger or loss. — Websters, 1913.

+ +

So one day in 2005 I quit my job, took two years’ savings and set off to see the world for a while. A while turned out to be 13 months.

+

trip around the world thumbnails

+

Then I came back, started writing for Wired.com and got married. Finally the royal we was literal. We celebrated by exploring Nicaragua for a month.

+

nicaragua

+

In 2010 we decided it was time for a road trip, so we spent four months on the road in a 1969 pickup with shell.

+

1969 ford f250 on the oregon trail

+

Then, after far too many flights, we circumnavigated the globe going east. From this we learned that we do not wish to fly anymore. Next time we will use the sea.

+

going and returning self portraits

+

In 2012 we added two new members to luxagraf and a third in 2014. Once we’ve all become acquainted we’re off again. Stay tuned.

+

twins born

+

Ongoing Adventures

+

Some things take a while. Like trying to see every National Park in the U.S.

+
+
+ + + +
+ + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/adventures.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/adventures.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..609d061 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/adventures.txt @@ -0,0 +1,113 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Our Adventures + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

+

Walk Slowly

+
+ +
+ +
+

Our Adventures

+
+

|Ad*ven”ture| n. 1. That which happens without design; chance; hazard; hap; hence, chance of danger or loss. — Websters, 1913.

+ +

So one day in 2005 I quit my job, took two years’ savings and set off to see the world for a while. A while turned out to be 13 months.

+

trip around the world thumbnails

+

Then I came back, started writing for Wired.com and got married. Finally the royal we was literal. We celebrated by exploring Nicaragua for a month.

+

nicaragua

+

In 2010 we decided it was time for a road trip, so we spent four months on the road in a 1969 pickup with shell.

+

1969 ford f250 on the oregon trail

+

Then, after far too many flights, we circumnavigated the globe going east. From this we learned that we do not wish to fly anymore. Next time we will use the sea.

+

going and returning self portraits

+

In 2012 we added two new members to luxagraf and a third in 2014. Once we’ve all become acquainted we’re off again. Stay tuned.

+

twins born

+

Ongoing Adventures

+

Some things take a while. Like trying to see every National Park in the U.S.

+
+
+ + + +
+ + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/babyvideos.html b/bak/oldluxpages/babyvideos.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b3bacf8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/babyvideos.html @@ -0,0 +1,143 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Videos of Lilah and Olivia + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

+

Walk Slowly

+
+ +
+ +
+
+ +
+ +
+ +
+ +
+ + + +
+ + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/babyvideos.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/babyvideos.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b3bacf8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/babyvideos.txt @@ -0,0 +1,143 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Videos of Lilah and Olivia + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

+

Walk Slowly

+
+ +
+ +
+
+ +
+ +
+ +
+ +
+ + + +
+ + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/birds/blue-jay.html b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/blue-jay.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..19a0095 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/blue-jay.html @@ -0,0 +1,120 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

+

Walk Slowly

+
+ +
+ +
+
+

Blue Jay

+

Cyanocitta cristata

+

Family Corvidae (Jays and Crows )

+ + +
+ +Audio recorded by on in . © +
+ +

Seen at Athens, Georgia in May 2014 by

+ +
+
+ + + +
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/birds/blue-jay.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/blue-jay.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e69de29 diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/birds/brown-headed-cowbird.html b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/brown-headed-cowbird.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b68267e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/brown-headed-cowbird.html @@ -0,0 +1,120 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

+

Walk Slowly

+
+ +
+ +
+
+

Brown-headed Cowbird

+

Molothrus ater

+

Family Icteridae (Blackbirds )

+ + +
+ +Audio recorded by on in . © +
+ +

Seen at Athens, Georgia in Mar 2016 by lilah, olivia, elliott, and corrinne

+ +
+
+ + + +
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/birds/brown-headed-cowbird.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/brown-headed-cowbird.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e69de29 diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/birds/brown-pelican.html b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/brown-pelican.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7869c09 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/brown-pelican.html @@ -0,0 +1,120 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

+

Walk Slowly

+
+ +
+ +
+
+

Brown Pelican

+

Pelecanus occidentalis

+

Family Pelecanidae (Pelicans )

+ + +
+ +Audio recorded by on in . © +
+ +

Seen at St. George Island, Florida in May 2015 by luxagraf, lilah, olivia, and corrinne

+ +
+
+ + + +
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/birds/brown-pelican.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/brown-pelican.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e69de29 diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/birds/chipping-sparrow.html b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/chipping-sparrow.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..46a50f0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/chipping-sparrow.html @@ -0,0 +1,121 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

+

Walk Slowly

+
+ +
+ +
+
+

Chipping Sparrow

+

Spizella passerina

+

Family Emberizidae (Emberizids )

+ + +
+ +Audio recorded by Geoffrey A. Keller on March 1, 2016 in Oregon June 1988. © +
+ +

Seen at Athens, Georgia in Mar 2016 by luxagraf, lilah, olivia, elliott, and corrinne

+ + +
+
+ + + +
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/birds/chipping-sparrow.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/chipping-sparrow.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e69de29 diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/birds/eastern-bluebird.html b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/eastern-bluebird.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ed4b9bd --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/eastern-bluebird.html @@ -0,0 +1,120 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

+

Walk Slowly

+
+ +
+ +
+
+

Eastern Bluebird

+

Sialia sialis

+

Family Turdidae (Thrushes )

+ + +
+ +Audio recorded by on in . © +
+ +

Seen at Athens, Georgia in Jun 2015 by luxagraf

+ +
+
+ + + +
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/birds/eastern-bluebird.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/eastern-bluebird.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e69de29 diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/birds/hooded-warbler.html b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/hooded-warbler.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..05ec5c7 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/hooded-warbler.html @@ -0,0 +1,120 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

+

Walk Slowly

+
+ +
+ +
+
+

Hooded Warbler

+

Setophaga citrina

+

Family Parulidae (Wood-Warblers )

+ + +
+ +Audio recorded by on in . © +
+ +

Seen at Athens, Georgia in Jun 2015 by luxagraf, lilah, and olivia

+ +
+
+ + + +
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/birds/hooded-warbler.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/hooded-warbler.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e69de29 diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/birds/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fd61b59 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,302 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Birds seen by AnonymousUser -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

+

Walk Slowly

+
+ +
+ +
+

Birds seen by AnonymousUser

+
+
+ +
+

Blue Jay (Cyanocitta cristata)

+ +

+ Loc: + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95768773434918 + -83.40819353408268 + + +

+
+
+
+
+ +
+

Sanderling (Calidris alba)

+ +

+ Loc: + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.659898333704685 + -84.86732493121369 + + +

+
+
+
+
+ +
+

Laughing Gull (Leucophaeus atricilla)

+ +

+ Loc: + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.658976957492097 + -84.86935371683055 + + +

+
+
+
+
+ +
+

Brown Pelican (Pelecanus occidentalis)

+ +

+ Loc: + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.660084795997196 + -84.86711035449284 + + +

+
+
+
+
+ +
+

Red-headed Woodpecker (Melanerpes erythrocephalus)

+ +

+ Loc: + Lake Oconee, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.41774313998028 + -83.24366579752923 + + +

+
+
+
+
+ +
+

Eastern Bluebird (Sialia sialis)

+ +

+ Loc: + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95819343426575 + -83.40811739662607 + + +

+
+
+
+
+ +
+

Hooded Warbler (Setophaga citrina)

+ +

+ Loc: + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.98372677778418 + -83.3858990127521 + + +

+
+
+
+
+ +
+

Chipping Sparrow (Spizella passerina)

+ +

+ Loc: + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.957928007992244 + -83.40860122985255 + + +

+
+ + Audio recorded by Geoffrey A. Keller on March 1, 2016 in Oregon June 1988. © +
+
+
+
+ +
+

Brown-headed Cowbird (Molothrus ater)

+ +

+ Loc: + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95785236636359 + -83.40819353408268 + + +

+
+
+
+
+ +
+

Willet (Tringa semipalmata)

+ +

+ Loc: + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.65973692700207 + -84.86674557406661 + + +

+
+ + Audio recorded by Kevin J Colver on March 21, 2016 in Plumas County California. © 2016 Cornell University +
+
+
+
+ +
+

Ruddy Turnstone (Arenaria interpres)

+ +

+ Loc: + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.659898333703907 + -84.86702452380466 + + +

+
+ + Audio recorded by Gerrit Vyn on March 21, 2016 in Colville River Delta, Alaska. © 2016 Cornell University +
+
+
+ + + + +
+ + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/birds/laughing-gull.html b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/laughing-gull.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2701a72 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/laughing-gull.html @@ -0,0 +1,120 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

+

Walk Slowly

+
+ +
+ +
+
+

Laughing Gull

+

Leucophaeus atricilla

+

Family Laridae (Gulls, Terns, and Skimmers )

+ + +
+ +Audio recorded by on in . © +
+ +

Seen at St. George Island, Florida in May 2015 by luxagraf, lilah, olivia, and corrinne

+ +
+
+ + + +
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/birds/laughing-gull.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/laughing-gull.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e69de29 diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/birds/red-headed-woodpecker.html b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/red-headed-woodpecker.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..89d22b8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/red-headed-woodpecker.html @@ -0,0 +1,120 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

+

Walk Slowly

+
+ +
+ +
+
+

Red-headed Woodpecker

+

Melanerpes erythrocephalus

+

Family Picidae (Woodpeckers and Allies )

+ + +
+ +Audio recorded by on in . © +
+ +

Seen at Lake Oconee, Georgia in Jun 2015 by luxagraf

+ +
+
+ + + +
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/birds/red-headed-woodpecker.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/red-headed-woodpecker.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e69de29 diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/birds/ruddy-turnstone.html b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/ruddy-turnstone.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a4fec91 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/ruddy-turnstone.html @@ -0,0 +1,125 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

+

Walk Slowly

+
+ +
+ +
+
+

Ruddy Turnstone

+

Arenaria interpres

+

Family Scolopacidae (Sandpipers, Phalaropes, and Allies )

+ +Ruddy Turnstone (Arenaria interpres) photographed by Scott Gilbertson + + +
+ +Audio recorded by Gerrit Vyn on March 21, 2016 in Colville River Delta, Alaska. © 2016 Cornell University +
+ +

Seen at St. George Island, Florida in May 2015 by luxagraf, lilah, olivia, and corrinne

+ + +
+
+ + + +
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/birds/ruddy-turnstone.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/ruddy-turnstone.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e69de29 diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/birds/sanderling.html b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/sanderling.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..76c8601 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/sanderling.html @@ -0,0 +1,120 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

+

Walk Slowly

+
+ +
+ +
+
+

Sanderling

+

Calidris alba

+

Family Scolopacidae (Sandpipers, Phalaropes, and Allies )

+ + +
+ +Audio recorded by on in . © +
+ +

Seen at St. George Island, Florida in May 2015 by luxagraf, lilah, olivia, and corrinne

+ +
+
+ + + +
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/birds/sanderling.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/sanderling.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e69de29 diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/birds/willet.html b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/willet.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dbeb0f5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/willet.html @@ -0,0 +1,125 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

+

Walk Slowly

+
+ +
+ +
+
+

Willet

+

Tringa semipalmata

+

Family Scolopacidae (Sandpipers, Phalaropes, and Allies )

+ +Willet (Tringa semipalmata) photographed by Scott Gilbertson + + +
+ +Audio recorded by Kevin J Colver on March 21, 2016 in Plumas County California. © 2016 Cornell University +
+ +

Seen at St. George Island, Florida in May 2015 by luxagraf, lilah, olivia, and corrinne

+ + +
+
+ + + +
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/birds/willet.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/birds/willet.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e69de29 diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/content-marketing.html b/bak/oldluxpages/content-marketing.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a96e1b2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/content-marketing.html @@ -0,0 +1,111 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Content Marketing Services + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

+

Walk Slowly

+
+ +
+ +
+

Content Marketing Services

+
+

Welcome to the Future

+

In the future there is no bullshit. Just content.

+

It’s what your customers want, it’s how they find you and how they become your customers.

+

Advertising is dead. built in ad-blockers mean your customers will never see that campaign you just spent a fortune on.

+

SEO is a waste of time. Google is much smarter and five steps ahead of that SEO expert you just hired.

+

You need real content, written by real experts.

+

Blah blah blah

+

Customer testimonials

+

Hit up some customers for quotes.

+

Case Study

+

Sifter portfolio stuff goes here.

+

http://sifterapp.com/

+
+
+ + + +
+ + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/content-marketing.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/content-marketing.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a96e1b2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/content-marketing.txt @@ -0,0 +1,111 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Content Marketing Services + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

+

Walk Slowly

+
+ +
+ +
+

Content Marketing Services

+
+

Welcome to the Future

+

In the future there is no bullshit. Just content.

+

It’s what your customers want, it’s how they find you and how they become your customers.

+

Advertising is dead. built in ad-blockers mean your customers will never see that campaign you just spent a fortune on.

+

SEO is a waste of time. Google is much smarter and five steps ahead of that SEO expert you just hired.

+

You need real content, written by real experts.

+

Blah blah blah

+

Customer testimonials

+

Hit up some customers for quotes.

+

Case Study

+

Sifter portfolio stuff goes here.

+

http://sifterapp.com/

+
+
+ + + +
+ + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/cv.html b/bak/oldluxpages/cv.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b1a29d9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/cv.html @@ -0,0 +1,228 @@ + + + + + Scott Gilbertson - Curriculum Vitæ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

+

Walk Slowly

+
+ +
+ +
+
+
+
+

+ Scott + Nathan + Gilbertson +

+

Writer, Photographer, Web Developer

+
+ +
+
+

Profile

+

I am a writer, producer and web developer based in Athens, GA. Clients include Wired, Webmonkey, Ars Technica, Pioneer and Boost Mobile, among others. I wrote for Wired.com’s Webmonkey.com for 13 years and served as head editor for three. I’ve been developing on the web and writing about web development for nearly two decades. For an up-to-date list of recent articles, please browse the publications list.

+
+ +
+

Skills

+ +

+

Freelance writer, producer, journalist, editor and hand model at places like Wired, Ars Technica, Budget Travel. I’ve written blogs, features, news items, ad copy, technical documentation, tutorials, how-tos, wikis and probably other things I’ve forgotten about. I also served as editor-in-chief of Webmonkey.com.

+ +

+

Expert front-end engineer in using , , and high performance , , , , and more.

+

Experience maintaining large-scale web applications and tools with and in conjunction with databases like (including numerous PostGIS, geographic database projects), , . Experience administering servers and running web servers like , and .

+

Advocate and evangelist for free software and open web standards technologies such as , related APIs, , (including a 350 page book on the subject) and .

+ +

+

Good design eye specializing in fluid, clean layouts with strong .

+

Photo and video editing using , , , , , and .

+ +
+ +
+

Experience

+ +
+

Freelance Writer

+
    +
  • (–Present)
    • +
+

Regular contributor to Wired (also, here), Ars Technica, The Register and elsewhere, covering Linux, open source software, web browsers and web technology.

+
+ +
+

Web Developer

+
    +
  • (–Present) +
    • +
+

Co-founded a small design company where I serve as front-end web developer. I work closely with my co-founder (lead UI/UX), transforming visual designs into valid, semantic HTML/CSS/JavaScript. We specialize in responsive designs and mobile-friendly content that works across browsers and devices. Clients included Wired, Pioneer Entertainment, Boost Mobile, Co-op Credit Union and others.

+
+ +
+

Founder, LongHandPixels Press

+
    +
  • (–Present) +
    • +
+

Founded an ebook publishing company, LongHandPixels Press and launched my first book, Build a Better Web with Responsive Web Design. The book covers responsive design, mobile-first web development, progressive enhancement and how modern tools like Sass, Grunt, Node, the Chrome developer tools and more can speed up workflows. +

+
+ +
+

Writer/Editor Webmonkey.com

+ +

I started contributing tutorials to Wired.com’s Webmonkey.com in 1999, became a full time employee in 2006 and served as editor-in-chief from 2010 to 2013. I was in charge of creating resources for web developers, including how-to guides on the latest in web standards, code libraries, server technologies and authoring resources. Wrote roughly 3 million words on various web development tools. I also helped cultivate and manage a global team of freelance contributors.

+
+ +
+

Photography and Video Editing

+ +

Co-founded a video editing company, Barrelman Productions, specializing in HD aerial video. Portfolio and highlights reel available at http://www.barrelmanproductions.com/. Skills include editing in , , and production of web-optimized video.

+
+ +
+
+

Education

+ +
+

Bachelor of Arts, English

+ +
+ +
+ +
+ +
+ + + +
+ + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/cv.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/cv.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b1a29d9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/cv.txt @@ -0,0 +1,228 @@ + + + + + Scott Gilbertson - Curriculum Vitæ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

+

Walk Slowly

+
+ +
+ +
+
+
+
+

+ Scott + Nathan + Gilbertson +

+

Writer, Photographer, Web Developer

+
+ +
+
+

Profile

+

I am a writer, producer and web developer based in Athens, GA. Clients include Wired, Webmonkey, Ars Technica, Pioneer and Boost Mobile, among others. I wrote for Wired.com’s Webmonkey.com for 13 years and served as head editor for three. I’ve been developing on the web and writing about web development for nearly two decades. For an up-to-date list of recent articles, please browse the publications list.

+
+ +
+

Skills

+ +

+

Freelance writer, producer, journalist, editor and hand model at places like Wired, Ars Technica, Budget Travel. I’ve written blogs, features, news items, ad copy, technical documentation, tutorials, how-tos, wikis and probably other things I’ve forgotten about. I also served as editor-in-chief of Webmonkey.com.

+ +

+

Expert front-end engineer in using , , and high performance , , , , and more.

+

Experience maintaining large-scale web applications and tools with and in conjunction with databases like (including numerous PostGIS, geographic database projects), , . Experience administering servers and running web servers like , and .

+

Advocate and evangelist for free software and open web standards technologies such as , related APIs, , (including a 350 page book on the subject) and .

+ +

+

Good design eye specializing in fluid, clean layouts with strong .

+

Photo and video editing using , , , , , and .

+ +
+ +
+

Experience

+ +
+

Freelance Writer

+
    +
  • (–Present)
    • +
+

Regular contributor to Wired (also, here), Ars Technica, The Register and elsewhere, covering Linux, open source software, web browsers and web technology.

+
+ +
+

Web Developer

+
    +
  • (–Present) +
    • +
+

Co-founded a small design company where I serve as front-end web developer. I work closely with my co-founder (lead UI/UX), transforming visual designs into valid, semantic HTML/CSS/JavaScript. We specialize in responsive designs and mobile-friendly content that works across browsers and devices. Clients included Wired, Pioneer Entertainment, Boost Mobile, Co-op Credit Union and others.

+
+ +
+

Founder, LongHandPixels Press

+
    +
  • (–Present) +
    • +
+

Founded an ebook publishing company, LongHandPixels Press and launched my first book, Build a Better Web with Responsive Web Design. The book covers responsive design, mobile-first web development, progressive enhancement and how modern tools like Sass, Grunt, Node, the Chrome developer tools and more can speed up workflows. +

+
+ +
+

Writer/Editor Webmonkey.com

+ +

I started contributing tutorials to Wired.com’s Webmonkey.com in 1999, became a full time employee in 2006 and served as editor-in-chief from 2010 to 2013. I was in charge of creating resources for web developers, including how-to guides on the latest in web standards, code libraries, server technologies and authoring resources. Wrote roughly 3 million words on various web development tools. I also helped cultivate and manage a global team of freelance contributors.

+
+ +
+

Photography and Video Editing

+ +

Co-founded a video editing company, Barrelman Productions, specializing in HD aerial video. Portfolio and highlights reel available at http://www.barrelmanproductions.com/. Skills include editing in , , and production of web-optimized video.

+
+ +
+
+

Education

+ +
+

Bachelor of Arts, English

+ +
+ +
+ +
+ +
+ + + +
+ + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/elliottvideos.html b/bak/oldluxpages/elliottvideos.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6ddf782 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/elliottvideos.html @@ -0,0 +1,140 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Elliott Videos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

+

Walk Slowly

+
+ +
+ +
+
+ + + + + + + +
+
+ + + +
+ + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/elliottvideos.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/elliottvideos.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6ddf782 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/elliottvideos.txt @@ -0,0 +1,140 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Elliott Videos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

+

Walk Slowly

+
+ +
+ +
+
+ + + + + + + +
+
+ + + +
+ + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/figments/desert.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/figments/desert.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2dcfa5c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/figments/desert.amp @@ -0,0 +1,278 @@ + + + + + +The Desert + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

The Desert

+ + + +
+
+

Claire woke up in a sleeping bag. The familiar shimmer of nylon against her skin. The smell of creosote and dampness. Already the darkness was lifting off the desert in front of her. She rolled over on the chaise lounge and groped the ground until she found her headlamp.

+

The little tuna can stove was back against the wall of the house. She stretched until she could hook it with a fingertip. She filled it with alcohol and lit it with a match. As the stove heated up she poured the water and grounds into the moka pot.

+

She sat up, still in the sleeping bag, and sipped the inky black coffee. She thought of something an ex had once said to her, “Claire, normal people want to be liked and accepted. You don’t seem to give a shit. All you seem to care about is your coffee in the morning and your drinks in the evening”. More or less. She took another sip. But not really.

+

Little bubbles of the past had been welling up and bursting on the surface like that ever since the plane touched down yesterday evening. Every time she heard that horrid kitty litter crunch of someone walking on the endless gravel of Tucson, some bit of her younger self broke loose inside.

+

She was facing west, but could tell that the sun had not cleared the horizon. Two Cardinals flitted in the Mesquite tree at the edge of the patio. Flashes of red amongst the blacks and greens. She listened to them talking, the thin chip of their song muted by the morning stillness.

+

The desert began to sketch itself in the morning light, watercolor hues of sand and rock that surged together over the rolling canvas until everything was a million rioting shades of pink sandstone that held the river plain like a cradle, the dark green Palo Verde and Mesquite groves nestled like some dark scars in the blushing sand. It seemed to extend forever, spreading out to the west until it climbed up and disappeared into the green, juniper and pine cloaked world of the Catalina mountains.

+

It was wet. The rain she had dreamed was not just a dream. Everything beyond the few feet of solid patio cover where she had slept was dripping. The foot of her sleeping bag was wet. She slid out into the cool of the morning, gravel gouging at her heels, and hung the sleeping bag to dry from a hook on the patio cover.

+

She cupped her hand to the window and looked inside the house. Her grandfather was passed out in the recliner, fully reclined, just the way she had left him six or seven hours ago, when his eyelids had finally slid shut over the constellations of grief she had watched drift quietly across those dark expanses. The TV still flickered. Ever since she was a girl, the only way he had ever slept.

+
+ +

The late evening sun was just starting to temper its edge, take a little something off finally, maybe give a little respite from this goddamn heat, Ambrose was thinking when the entirety of the gravel station lot just outside the window was swallowed by a giant dust cloud that might, he realized, have somewhere in it a car, a customer, perhaps even customers, something he had not otherwise seen since much earlier in the day, back when it was hotter than Ambrose’s repertoire of swear words could convey.

+

He’d been wondering for some time if he’d need to expand that repertoire for the jungle. The Army was unclear on many things, especially to Guardsmen like Ambrose, not the least of which was how many words he might need to describe the heat of Panama.

+

He was still standing in the shadows of the garage wiping his tanned forehead with a greasy rag, trying to imagine humidity, or at least the idea of water, when he heard the door slam and the inevitable gravel crunch of footsteps coming his way. Squinting against the glare of the setting sun he was just stepping out of the shadows when a woman’s voice startled him.

+

“Sorry about the dust.”

+

“That’s all right ma’am.”

+

“We need some petrol and a place to stay.”

+

“Okay. Well I’ll fill it up for you. You can stay down to street at the Vida Court. I’m sure there’s some rooms.”

+

“I see.”

+

Ambrose followed her back to the truck where two small boys and a teenage girl sat atop a pile of trundles and suitcases in the bed. He nodded to the boys and tipped his hat to girl who met his gaze directly, without flinching in the slightest, which brought a warm heat to his cheeks before he could stop it.

+

Ambrose turned his head away and busied himself with the gas pump.

+

“Heat brings the color to your cheeks.” The woman was beside him again.

+

“Yes ma’am.” Ambrose stared at the ground. “Been a hell of summer, if you’ll pardon me.”

+

“It’s not always this hot?”

+

“It’s always this hot, but not for so long.” The woman said nothing, Ambrose glanced up at her. “Ma’am?”

+

“I was thinking, I was wondering if my grandchildren will have to endure this place.”

+

“Ma’am?”

+

“We’re here for my husband. They said that the dry air would be good for his tuberculosis.”

+

“Mmmhmm. They say that.” Ambrose studied his feet.

+

“I don’t expect I will get to leave.” She was staring off in the distance. “But I’d like to think my daughter might.”

+

He waited a moment, but she did not say anything more. She paid him in coins and climbed back in the truck. The engine coughed back to life after a few sputters that Ambrose attributed to grungy spark plugs. Most people didn’t know to soak them in gasoline, it was rare that they need to be replaced. He decided he liked the woman, she was maybe a bit odd, but the heat did funny things to you if you weren’t used to it. He imagined she would endure, something about her seemed incapable of not enduring. At the very least he didn’t feel like she should need to buy new spark plugs just yet. He would tell her as much tonight, after he went home to the Vida Court.

+

He watched the truck crawl out onto Prince road. He followed it out, kicking a rock out the driveway into the road. He saw the brake lights at the end of the street. The truck lurched into the Vida Court. He thrust his hands in his pockets and walked back toward the office.

+
+ +

If she really didn’t give a shit Claire reasoned, then she would not have come. People who don’t give a shit don’t abandon their lives half way around the world, book very expensive last minute plane tickets and come back to this godforsaken fucking desert.

+

Although, in truth, now that she was here, she missed this desert in some deranged way that made her half understand why people stayed in abusive relationships. Hate is just a perversion of love, but rage, rage is another thing altogether.

+

She had left the desert in a kind of rage, a dull rage of unfairness wrapped up in punk rock and politics, and being born at the wrong time in the wrong place to the wrong people. The people who didn’t stick around.

+

Claire found her aunt’s cigarettes tucked in the side of her purse, which she had left next to the impossibly long telephone cord that connected the old push button land line her grandfather insisted on keeping around. She took two and ducked out the back door for walk in the desert. She wanted to get away from her aunts.

+

Her mother’s sisters both thought she didn’t give a shit. They always had. All because Claire hadn’t cried at her own parents’ funeral. As if a six year old is aware of social decorums.

+

They still hated her for it. Or, if not hated, at least thought she was strange, most likely a little dangerous and best studied in silence. That she insisted on sleeping outside, like animal she had heard her aunt say last night, only reaffirmed this belief. But outside was the only place the rage dissipated. Outside there was only the heat and the stillness and the relative cool of the evening and mornings. Coffee and cocktails were not so far off after all perhaps.

+

There was also the rather insulting move of leaving the desert. Claire did what no one else in the family had dared to do since her grandmother stepped off the beat up flatbed into the cactus-strewn world of kitty litter. Leave. We are here to go she had said with the smirk and she disappeared over the horizon, traveling halfway around the world to do god knows what. Claire imagined how much they must enjoy talking about her when she wasn’t around. Sometimes she thought she should sit them down and just tell them everything, but they had over the years made it pretty clear that they actually liked her better as an object of fascination than a person. Who was she to deny them such pleasure?

+

It was April, the edge of searing heat, more of a baking heat right now. The dry heat of spring in a place where somehow flowers still contrived to not just exist, but explode out of the seemingly dead soil. Claire looked down at the cigarette between her fingers. She’d quit years before, but somehow it seemed like something Emma would do. Now though, standing in the middle of a flame red cluster of Ocotillo flowers she realized Emma would never have lit the cigarette. Would never have even taken it. Would never have even come at all. She was never part of the desert the way Claire was, she had floated above it like a cloud.

+

Claire watched a tiny dust devil gathering in the wash down the hill. The desert was where the earth’s dust came from. Bits of the Sahara coat the Amazon every year. There is no escaping the desert. Even if you travel half way around the world your desert past will find you, grain by grain, dust to dust. Everything ends up back here in the dry desert plain where it settles and bakes in the heat until it’s all as hollow as a corn husk. A little wind and it would all be off again, headed south down to the Mexican coast and out to sea.

+
+ +

Emma had developed a peculiar fascination with chewing sand. It came to her mouth as a dry film licked off her lips. From western Oklahoma onward she had been chewing at the nothingness of sand. Now, after jumping down from the truck bed, she violently spat the contents of her mouth on a cactus and resolved to never chew sand again.

+

Except that it kept settling on her lips. And she kept licking them, out of habit. Perhaps, she thought, the whole West is just one thin dusty film settling over the world. Certainly the room at the Vida Court was saturated with fine grit.

+

Mother had laid Father out on the bed and was giving him a glass of water and some saltines. They were talking in low voices that Emma could not make out. She went outside to get her bag and have a look around.

+

The Vida Court was, Emma reasoned, better than sitting atop trundles in the back of the flatbed wedged between sweaty siblings and a mucus and blood-spewing father. And that was about all that could be said of it.

+

It was not, for instance, a ten-room farmhouse with three floors and a tornado cellar. Nor was it surrounded by endless acres of imported genuine Kentucky bluegrass with a semicircle of drooping cottonwood trees growing around the pond. There were no ponds for miles. Just a small, rusted copper tub full of sun-warmed water.

+

It was only after she removed her stockings that she realized how thoroughly the sand had saturated her. Or perhaps, she thought, perhaps my thighs have tanned through these skirts. She climbed into the water and watched as the brown of her legs faded back to milky white, the dusty film of Oklahoma and New Mexico drifting across the water like great orange clouds moving from one end of the tub to the other.

+

She could see the young man from the gas station through the chalky pink haze of the bathroom window, but only as a still, dark frame in a chair on the porch. It wasn’t long before Emma found herself standing in the bathtub, dripping water, watching the shadowy porch for signs of movement.

+

She put on a clean dress and evacuated the bungalow as fast as she could without raising undue suspicion. The sun was already gone, but the air still held the heat like a treasure of the day. She walked around the cacti and was tempted to touch the thorns. She reached out her hand and ran it from the center out and down the edge, careful to keep her hand moving with the hooked direction of the needles.

+

“So y’all sold your farm, bought the truck and hauled your dad out here for some fresh air huh?”

+

His voice startled her enough that she almost leaned on the cactus for support.

+

“Sorry?”

+

“You sold the farm, bought the truck and here you are, TB and all.”

+

“Something like that.”

+

“We get quite a few passing through these days…”

+

“Oh we’re staying I believe.”

+

“I’m Ambrose”

+

He extended his hand and she stepped out of the cacti and took it in her own.

+

“Emma.”

+

“You know, Emma,” he took another sip of the beer for courage, “that truck you’re family is drivin… you need to pull the plugs and soak them in some gasoline. I can do it if you like.”

+
+ +

The funeral was over by four. Claire sat on the patio with her Grandfather, eating leftover Fancy Franks.

+

“These were her favorite,” he said staring down at the last one in his hand.

+

“No they weren’t, she hated little cocktail crap like this.”

+

He laughed and pitched the last one out into the desert. “You’re right, she did.”

+

She watched a Brown Thrasher study the frank from a low branch of a Palo Verde tree. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

+

“Have I ever not been okay?”

+

“You wife just died Papa…”

+

“She died three years ago Claire, her body stopped working recently is all. I’m old, she was old. People die. It’s what we do Claire. Next time you come around here it’ll be for me.”

+

“Don’t take this the wrong way Papa, but I’m not coming back for you.”

+

“I know.”

+

“How do you know that?”

+

“Because when I’m gone there’s no one to come back to.”

+

Claire smiled. “True, plus I’d hate to disappoint all of them. Everyone thinks I don’t give a shit. If I show up here after you… well, that would seem like I gave a shit wouldn’t it?”

+

“Who thinks you don’t give a shit? Give a shit about what? They don’t think that.”

+

“About anything. And they do. Like everyone else has these complicated situations and feelings and worries and all this shit and I just float away on a bunch of merry red little balloons.”

+

Ambrose chuckled. “Who thinks this?”

+

Claire gestured around her, “I dunno, everyone…”

+

“Mmmhmm. Claire, you know better than most that there is no everyone.”

+
+ +

The rock sounded like a bomb against the window. She was a foot clear of her bed before she had even made sense of the noise. Then she heard his hissing whisper, “Emma…”

+

She pulled the window up and crawled out, tumbling down into his arms. “Stop with the rocks, you scared the life out of me”.

+

They crept through the sandy yard and down the banks of Palo Verde snarls to the edge of the river. He stopped suddenly and she crashed into his body. He started to say something, but she smothered his mouth with a kiss.

+

Later they lay on their backs listening to the river. Ambrose told her the names of the stars that he could remember, making up the rest on the spot.

+

She asked about the stars in Panama and then suddenly, “you aren’t going to get Malaria are you?” +Despite all the words he had conjured for Panama this was one he had not thought of. The Army had not mentioned it either. “Do they have malaria in Panama?”

+

“Of course. And snakes and worms and all sorts of nastiness. It’s a jungle you know.”

+

“I know. It’ll be beautiful, no desert, no dry cracking horridness.”

+

Emma smiled. “You’ve never felt humidity have you?”

+

“No, but I already know I love it.”

+

Emma laughed. “You might be the only person I’ve met who’s happy to be going to war.”

+

“I’m not happy to be going to war, but I’m happy to get out of here. I’ve been trying to get out of here for years.”

+

She laughed again ans stroked his cheek. “You can always leave anywhere Ambrose, you just go. You just have to make sure you understand what you’re leaving.” She slid out of his arms and walked down to the water’s edge. He watched as she crouched down at the river’s edge and skipped rocks out toward the middle.

+
+ +

The patio had a fan. It spun too slow to move the air much. It had always reminded Claire of a tape reel or a movie projector, except that it was broken and only spun backward. A tape reel forever rewinding.

+

The rain had started again off in the distance, a low cloud hung over the mountains, a black mist trailing down from it, filling the canyons and ravines with drops that would become a raging wall of water by the time it passed by here tomorrow morning.

+

Inside the house Ambrose tilted back the reclining chair with a long angry sounding trail of ratcheting clicks. She could hear her aunts talking in the kitchen, their words muffled by the faucet and clatter of dishes. She heard the TV come on. They would be running the ticker tape at the bottom of television again tonight: Flash flood warning in effect.

+

Tomorrow the newspaper would want everyone to know that someone had died; that a new golf course is going to be built on the hillside above someone’s watery grave; that the threat of flood is the price we pay for sunshine; that the desert is a barren curse; that every place has its curse, that eventually all the curses will combine; that everything will be cursed; that the curse is not so bad; that loneliness is a curse; that loneliness is different than alone, that still, the coffee is quite good down at the….

+

Claire slid her legs into the sleeping bag, enjoying the dry slipperiness of nylon against her skin. It felt like slipping between worlds, cool dry worlds where she could float on red balloons forever. Darkness closed in, the world telescoped down into blackness. The foothills faded, the dark splotches of river slipped into black. Eventually there was only the lone saguaro still glowing in the soft blue light of the television flickering behind her.

+
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+ + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/figments/desert.epub b/bak/oldluxpages/figments/desert.epub new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ac7893a Binary files /dev/null and b/bak/oldluxpages/figments/desert.epub differ diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/figments/desert.html b/bak/oldluxpages/figments/desert.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..416022c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/figments/desert.html @@ -0,0 +1,235 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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Walk Slowly

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The Desert

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Claire woke up in a sleeping bag. The familiar shimmer of nylon against her skin. The smell of creosote and dampness. Already the darkness was lifting off the desert in front of her. She rolled over on the chaise lounge and groped the ground until she found her headlamp.

+

The little tuna can stove was back against the wall of the house. She stretched until she could hook it with a fingertip. She filled it with alcohol and lit it with a match. As the stove heated up she poured the water and grounds into the moka pot.

+

She sat up, still in the sleeping bag, and sipped the inky black coffee. She thought of something an ex had once said to her, “Claire, normal people want to be liked and accepted. You don’t seem to give a shit. All you seem to care about is your coffee in the morning and your drinks in the evening”. More or less. She took another sip. But not really.

+

Little bubbles of the past had been welling up and bursting on the surface like that ever since the plane touched down yesterday evening. Every time she heard that horrid kitty litter crunch of someone walking on the endless gravel of Tucson, some bit of her younger self broke loose inside.

+

She was facing west, but could tell that the sun had not cleared the horizon. Two Cardinals flitted in the Mesquite tree at the edge of the patio. Flashes of red amongst the blacks and greens. She listened to them talking, the thin chip of their song muted by the morning stillness.

+

The desert began to sketch itself in the morning light, watercolor hues of sand and rock that surged together over the rolling canvas until everything was a million rioting shades of pink sandstone that held the river plain like a cradle, the dark green Palo Verde and Mesquite groves nestled like some dark scars in the blushing sand. It seemed to extend forever, spreading out to the west until it climbed up and disappeared into the green, juniper and pine cloaked world of the Catalina mountains.

+

It was wet. The rain she had dreamed was not just a dream. Everything beyond the few feet of solid patio cover where she had slept was dripping. The foot of her sleeping bag was wet. She slid out into the cool of the morning, gravel gouging at her heels, and hung the sleeping bag to dry from a hook on the patio cover.

+

She cupped her hand to the window and looked inside the house. Her grandfather was passed out in the recliner, fully reclined, just the way she had left him six or seven hours ago, when his eyelids had finally slid shut over the constellations of grief she had watched drift quietly across those dark expanses. The TV still flickered. Ever since she was a girl, the only way he had ever slept.

+
+ +

The late evening sun was just starting to temper its edge, take a little something off finally, maybe give a little respite from this goddamn heat, Ambrose was thinking when the entirety of the gravel station lot just outside the window was swallowed by a giant dust cloud that might, he realized, have somewhere in it a car, a customer, perhaps even customers, something he had not otherwise seen since much earlier in the day, back when it was hotter than Ambrose’s repertoire of swear words could convey.

+

He’d been wondering for some time if he’d need to expand that repertoire for the jungle. The Army was unclear on many things, especially to Guardsmen like Ambrose, not the least of which was how many words he might need to describe the heat of Panama.

+

He was still standing in the shadows of the garage wiping his tanned forehead with a greasy rag, trying to imagine humidity, or at least the idea of water, when he heard the door slam and the inevitable gravel crunch of footsteps coming his way. Squinting against the glare of the setting sun he was just stepping out of the shadows when a woman’s voice startled him.

+

“Sorry about the dust.”

+

“That’s all right ma’am.”

+

“We need some petrol and a place to stay.”

+

“Okay. Well I’ll fill it up for you. You can stay down to street at the Vida Court. I’m sure there’s some rooms.”

+

“I see.”

+

Ambrose followed her back to the truck where two small boys and a teenage girl sat atop a pile of trundles and suitcases in the bed. He nodded to the boys and tipped his hat to girl who met his gaze directly, without flinching in the slightest, which brought a warm heat to his cheeks before he could stop it.

+

Ambrose turned his head away and busied himself with the gas pump.

+

“Heat brings the color to your cheeks.” The woman was beside him again.

+

“Yes ma’am.” Ambrose stared at the ground. “Been a hell of summer, if you’ll pardon me.”

+

“It’s not always this hot?”

+

“It’s always this hot, but not for so long.” The woman said nothing, Ambrose glanced up at her. “Ma’am?”

+

“I was thinking, I was wondering if my grandchildren will have to endure this place.”

+

“Ma’am?”

+

“We’re here for my husband. They said that the dry air would be good for his tuberculosis.”

+

“Mmmhmm. They say that.” Ambrose studied his feet.

+

“I don’t expect I will get to leave.” She was staring off in the distance. “But I’d like to think my daughter might.”

+

He waited a moment, but she did not say anything more. She paid him in coins and climbed back in the truck. The engine coughed back to life after a few sputters that Ambrose attributed to grungy spark plugs. Most people didn’t know to soak them in gasoline, it was rare that they need to be replaced. He decided he liked the woman, she was maybe a bit odd, but the heat did funny things to you if you weren’t used to it. He imagined she would endure, something about her seemed incapable of not enduring. At the very least he didn’t feel like she should need to buy new spark plugs just yet. He would tell her as much tonight, after he went home to the Vida Court.

+

He watched the truck crawl out onto Prince road. He followed it out, kicking a rock out the driveway into the road. He saw the brake lights at the end of the street. The truck lurched into the Vida Court. He thrust his hands in his pockets and walked back toward the office.

+
+ +

If she really didn’t give a shit Claire reasoned, then she would not have come. People who don’t give a shit don’t abandon their lives half way around the world, book very expensive last minute plane tickets and come back to this godforsaken fucking desert.

+

Although, in truth, now that she was here, she missed this desert in some deranged way that made her half understand why people stayed in abusive relationships. Hate is just a perversion of love, but rage, rage is another thing altogether.

+

She had left the desert in a kind of rage, a dull rage of unfairness wrapped up in punk rock and politics, and being born at the wrong time in the wrong place to the wrong people. The people who didn’t stick around.

+

Claire found her aunt’s cigarettes tucked in the side of her purse, which she had left next to the impossibly long telephone cord that connected the old push button land line her grandfather insisted on keeping around. She took two and ducked out the back door for walk in the desert. She wanted to get away from her aunts.

+

Her mother’s sisters both thought she didn’t give a shit. They always had. All because Claire hadn’t cried at her own parents’ funeral. As if a six year old is aware of social decorums.

+

They still hated her for it. Or, if not hated, at least thought she was strange, most likely a little dangerous and best studied in silence. That she insisted on sleeping outside, like animal she had heard her aunt say last night, only reaffirmed this belief. But outside was the only place the rage dissipated. Outside there was only the heat and the stillness and the relative cool of the evening and mornings. Coffee and cocktails were not so far off after all perhaps.

+

There was also the rather insulting move of leaving the desert. Claire did what no one else in the family had dared to do since her grandmother stepped off the beat up flatbed into the cactus-strewn world of kitty litter. Leave. We are here to go she had said with the smirk and she disappeared over the horizon, traveling halfway around the world to do god knows what. Claire imagined how much they must enjoy talking about her when she wasn’t around. Sometimes she thought she should sit them down and just tell them everything, but they had over the years made it pretty clear that they actually liked her better as an object of fascination than a person. Who was she to deny them such pleasure?

+

It was April, the edge of searing heat, more of a baking heat right now. The dry heat of spring in a place where somehow flowers still contrived to not just exist, but explode out of the seemingly dead soil. Claire looked down at the cigarette between her fingers. She’d quit years before, but somehow it seemed like something Emma would do. Now though, standing in the middle of a flame red cluster of Ocotillo flowers she realized Emma would never have lit the cigarette. Would never have even taken it. Would never have even come at all. She was never part of the desert the way Claire was, she had floated above it like a cloud.

+

Claire watched a tiny dust devil gathering in the wash down the hill. The desert was where the earth’s dust came from. Bits of the Sahara coat the Amazon every year. There is no escaping the desert. Even if you travel half way around the world your desert past will find you, grain by grain, dust to dust. Everything ends up back here in the dry desert plain where it settles and bakes in the heat until it’s all as hollow as a corn husk. A little wind and it would all be off again, headed south down to the Mexican coast and out to sea.

+
+ +

Emma had developed a peculiar fascination with chewing sand. It came to her mouth as a dry film licked off her lips. From western Oklahoma onward she had been chewing at the nothingness of sand. Now, after jumping down from the truck bed, she violently spat the contents of her mouth on a cactus and resolved to never chew sand again.

+

Except that it kept settling on her lips. And she kept licking them, out of habit. Perhaps, she thought, the whole West is just one thin dusty film settling over the world. Certainly the room at the Vida Court was saturated with fine grit.

+

Mother had laid Father out on the bed and was giving him a glass of water and some saltines. They were talking in low voices that Emma could not make out. She went outside to get her bag and have a look around.

+

The Vida Court was, Emma reasoned, better than sitting atop trundles in the back of the flatbed wedged between sweaty siblings and a mucus and blood-spewing father. And that was about all that could be said of it.

+

It was not, for instance, a ten-room farmhouse with three floors and a tornado cellar. Nor was it surrounded by endless acres of imported genuine Kentucky bluegrass with a semicircle of drooping cottonwood trees growing around the pond. There were no ponds for miles. Just a small, rusted copper tub full of sun-warmed water.

+

It was only after she removed her stockings that she realized how thoroughly the sand had saturated her. Or perhaps, she thought, perhaps my thighs have tanned through these skirts. She climbed into the water and watched as the brown of her legs faded back to milky white, the dusty film of Oklahoma and New Mexico drifting across the water like great orange clouds moving from one end of the tub to the other.

+

She could see the young man from the gas station through the chalky pink haze of the bathroom window, but only as a still, dark frame in a chair on the porch. It wasn’t long before Emma found herself standing in the bathtub, dripping water, watching the shadowy porch for signs of movement.

+

She put on a clean dress and evacuated the bungalow as fast as she could without raising undue suspicion. The sun was already gone, but the air still held the heat like a treasure of the day. She walked around the cacti and was tempted to touch the thorns. She reached out her hand and ran it from the center out and down the edge, careful to keep her hand moving with the hooked direction of the needles.

+

“So y’all sold your farm, bought the truck and hauled your dad out here for some fresh air huh?”

+

His voice startled her enough that she almost leaned on the cactus for support.

+

“Sorry?”

+

“You sold the farm, bought the truck and here you are, TB and all.”

+

“Something like that.”

+

“We get quite a few passing through these days…”

+

“Oh we’re staying I believe.”

+

“I’m Ambrose”

+

He extended his hand and she stepped out of the cacti and took it in her own.

+

“Emma.”

+

“You know, Emma,” he took another sip of the beer for courage, “that truck you’re family is drivin… you need to pull the plugs and soak them in some gasoline. I can do it if you like.”

+
+ +

The funeral was over by four. Claire sat on the patio with her Grandfather, eating leftover Fancy Franks.

+

“These were her favorite,” he said staring down at the last one in his hand.

+

“No they weren’t, she hated little cocktail crap like this.”

+

He laughed and pitched the last one out into the desert. “You’re right, she did.”

+

She watched a Brown Thrasher study the frank from a low branch of a Palo Verde tree. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

+

“Have I ever not been okay?”

+

“You wife just died Papa…”

+

“She died three years ago Claire, her body stopped working recently is all. I’m old, she was old. People die. It’s what we do Claire. Next time you come around here it’ll be for me.”

+

“Don’t take this the wrong way Papa, but I’m not coming back for you.”

+

“I know.”

+

“How do you know that?”

+

“Because when I’m gone there’s no one to come back to.”

+

Claire smiled. “True, plus I’d hate to disappoint all of them. Everyone thinks I don’t give a shit. If I show up here after you… well, that would seem like I gave a shit wouldn’t it?”

+

“Who thinks you don’t give a shit? Give a shit about what? They don’t think that.”

+

“About anything. And they do. Like everyone else has these complicated situations and feelings and worries and all this shit and I just float away on a bunch of merry red little balloons.”

+

Ambrose chuckled. “Who thinks this?”

+

Claire gestured around her, “I dunno, everyone…”

+

“Mmmhmm. Claire, you know better than most that there is no everyone.”

+
+ +

The rock sounded like a bomb against the window. She was a foot clear of her bed before she had even made sense of the noise. Then she heard his hissing whisper, “Emma…”

+

She pulled the window up and crawled out, tumbling down into his arms. “Stop with the rocks, you scared the life out of me”.

+

They crept through the sandy yard and down the banks of Palo Verde snarls to the edge of the river. He stopped suddenly and she crashed into his body. He started to say something, but she smothered his mouth with a kiss.

+

Later they lay on their backs listening to the river. Ambrose told her the names of the stars that he could remember, making up the rest on the spot.

+

She asked about the stars in Panama and then suddenly, “you aren’t going to get Malaria are you?” +Despite all the words he had conjured for Panama this was one he had not thought of. The Army had not mentioned it either. “Do they have malaria in Panama?”

+

“Of course. And snakes and worms and all sorts of nastiness. It’s a jungle you know.”

+

“I know. It’ll be beautiful, no desert, no dry cracking horridness.”

+

Emma smiled. “You’ve never felt humidity have you?”

+

“No, but I already know I love it.”

+

Emma laughed. “You might be the only person I’ve met who’s happy to be going to war.”

+

“I’m not happy to be going to war, but I’m happy to get out of here. I’ve been trying to get out of here for years.”

+

She laughed again ans stroked his cheek. “You can always leave anywhere Ambrose, you just go. You just have to make sure you understand what you’re leaving.” She slid out of his arms and walked down to the water’s edge. He watched as she crouched down at the river’s edge and skipped rocks out toward the middle.

+
+ +

The patio had a fan. It spun too slow to move the air much. It had always reminded Claire of a tape reel or a movie projector, except that it was broken and only spun backward. A tape reel forever rewinding.

+

The rain had started again off in the distance, a low cloud hung over the mountains, a black mist trailing down from it, filling the canyons and ravines with drops that would become a raging wall of water by the time it passed by here tomorrow morning.

+

Inside the house Ambrose tilted back the reclining chair with a long angry sounding trail of ratcheting clicks. She could hear her aunts talking in the kitchen, their words muffled by the faucet and clatter of dishes. She heard the TV come on. They would be running the ticker tape at the bottom of television again tonight: Flash flood warning in effect.

+

Tomorrow the newspaper would want everyone to know that someone had died; that a new golf course is going to be built on the hillside above someone’s watery grave; that the threat of flood is the price we pay for sunshine; that the desert is a barren curse; that every place has its curse, that eventually all the curses will combine; that everything will be cursed; that the curse is not so bad; that loneliness is a curse; that loneliness is different than alone, that still, the coffee is quite good down at the….

+

Claire slid her legs into the sleeping bag, enjoying the dry slipperiness of nylon against her skin. It felt like slipping between worlds, cool dry worlds where she could float on red balloons forever. Darkness closed in, the world telescoped down into blackness. The foothills faded, the dark splotches of river slipped into black. Eventually there was only the lone saguaro still glowing in the soft blue light of the television flickering behind her.

+
+
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+ + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/figments/desert.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/figments/desert.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9510555 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/figments/desert.txt @@ -0,0 +1,207 @@ +The Desert +========== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 01 November 2015 + +Claire woke up in a sleeping bag. The familiar shimmer of nylon against her skin. The smell of creosote and dampness. Already the darkness was lifting off the desert in front of her. She rolled over on the chaise lounge and groped the ground until she found her headlamp. + +The little tuna can stove was back against the wall of the house. She stretched until she could hook it with a fingertip. She filled it with alcohol and lit it with a match. As the stove heated up she poured the water and grounds into the moka pot. + +She sat up, still in the sleeping bag, and sipped the inky black coffee. She thought of something an ex had once said to her, "Claire, normal people want to be liked and accepted. You don't seem to give a shit. All you seem to care about is your coffee in the morning and your drinks in the evening". More or less. She took another sip. But not really. + +Little bubbles of the past had been welling up and bursting on the surface like that ever since the plane touched down yesterday evening. Every time she heard that horrid kitty litter crunch of someone walking on the endless gravel of Tucson, some bit of her younger self broke loose inside. + +She was facing west, but could tell that the sun had not cleared the horizon. Two Cardinals flitted in the Mesquite tree at the edge of the patio. Flashes of red amongst the blacks and greens. She listened to them talking, the thin chip of their song muted by the morning stillness. + +The desert began to sketch itself in the morning light, watercolor hues of sand and rock that surged together over the rolling canvas until everything was a million rioting shades of pink sandstone that held the river plain like a cradle, the dark green Palo Verde and Mesquite groves nestled like some dark scars in the blushing sand. It seemed to extend forever, spreading out to the west until it climbed up and disappeared into the green, juniper and pine cloaked world of the Catalina mountains. + +It was wet. The rain she had dreamed was not just a dream. Everything beyond the few feet of solid patio cover where she had slept was dripping. The foot of her sleeping bag was wet. She slid out into the cool of the morning, gravel gouging at her heels, and hung the sleeping bag to dry from a hook on the patio cover. + +She cupped her hand to the window and looked inside the house. Her grandfather was passed out in the recliner, fully reclined, just the way she had left him six or seven hours ago, when his eyelids had finally slid shut over the constellations of grief she had watched drift quietly across those dark expanses. The TV still flickered. Ever since she was a girl, the only way he had ever slept. + +
+ +The late evening sun was just starting to temper its edge, take a little something off finally, maybe give a little respite from this goddamn heat, Ambrose was thinking when the entirety of the gravel station lot just outside the window was swallowed by a giant dust cloud that might, he realized, have somewhere in it a car, a customer, perhaps even customers, something he had not otherwise seen since much earlier in the day, back when it was hotter than Ambrose's repertoire of swear words could convey. + +He'd been wondering for some time if he'd need to expand that repertoire for the jungle. The Army was unclear on many things, especially to Guardsmen like Ambrose, not the least of which was how many words he might need to describe the heat of Panama. + +He was still standing in the shadows of the garage wiping his tanned forehead with a greasy rag, trying to imagine humidity, or at least the idea of water, when he heard the door slam and the inevitable gravel crunch of footsteps coming his way. Squinting against the glare of the setting sun he was just stepping out of the shadows when a woman's voice startled him. + +"Sorry about the dust." + +"That's all right ma'am." + +"We need some petrol and a place to stay." + +"Okay. Well I'll fill it up for you. You can stay down to street at the Vida Court. I'm sure there's some rooms." + +"I see." + +Ambrose followed her back to the truck where two small boys and a teenage girl sat atop a pile of trundles and suitcases in the bed. He nodded to the boys and tipped his hat to girl who met his gaze directly, without flinching in the slightest, which brought a warm heat to his cheeks before he could stop it. + +Ambrose turned his head away and busied himself with the gas pump. + +"Heat brings the color to your cheeks." The woman was beside him again. + +"Yes ma'am." Ambrose stared at the ground. "Been a hell of summer, if you'll pardon me." + +"It's not always this hot?" + +"It's always this hot, but not for so long." The woman said nothing, Ambrose glanced up at her. "Ma'am?" + +"I was thinking, I was wondering if my grandchildren will have to endure this place." + +"Ma'am?" + +"We're here for my husband. They said that the dry air would be good for his tuberculosis." + +"Mmmhmm. They say that." Ambrose studied his feet. + +"I don't expect I will get to leave." She was staring off in the distance. "But I'd like to think my daughter might." + +He waited a moment, but she did not say anything more. She paid him in coins and climbed back in the truck. The engine coughed back to life after a few sputters that Ambrose attributed to grungy spark plugs. Most people didn't know to soak them in gasoline, it was rare that they need to be replaced. He decided he liked the woman, she was maybe a bit odd, but the heat did funny things to you if you weren't used to it. He imagined she would endure, something about her seemed incapable of not enduring. At the very least he didn't feel like she should need to buy new spark plugs just yet. He would tell her as much tonight, after he went home to the Vida Court. + +He watched the truck crawl out onto Prince road. He followed it out, kicking a rock out the driveway into the road. He saw the brake lights at the end of the street. The truck lurched into the Vida Court. He thrust his hands in his pockets and walked back toward the office. + +
+ +If she really didn't give a shit Claire reasoned, then she would not have come. People who don't give a shit don't abandon their lives half way around the world, book very expensive last minute plane tickets and come back to this godforsaken fucking desert. + +Although, in truth, now that she was here, she missed this desert in some deranged way that made her half understand why people stayed in abusive relationships. Hate is just a perversion of love, but rage, rage is another thing altogether. + +She had left the desert in a kind of rage, a dull rage of unfairness wrapped up in punk rock and politics, and being born at the wrong time in the wrong place to the wrong people. The people who didn't stick around. + +Claire found her aunt's cigarettes tucked in the side of her purse, which she had left next to the impossibly long telephone cord that connected the old push button land line her grandfather insisted on keeping around. She took two and ducked out the back door for walk in the desert. She wanted to get away from her aunts. + +Her mother's sisters both thought she didn't give a shit. They always had. All because Claire hadn't cried at her own parents' funeral. As if a six year old is aware of social decorums. + +They still hated her for it. Or, if not hated, at least thought she was strange, most likely a little dangerous and best studied in silence. That she insisted on sleeping outside, like animal she had heard her aunt say last night, only reaffirmed this belief. But outside was the only place the rage dissipated. Outside there was only the heat and the stillness and the relative cool of the evening and mornings. Coffee and cocktails were not so far off after all perhaps. + +There was also the rather insulting move of leaving the desert. Claire did what no one else in the family had dared to do since her grandmother stepped off the beat up flatbed into the cactus-strewn world of kitty litter. Leave. We are here to go she had said with the smirk and she disappeared over the horizon, traveling halfway around the world to do god knows what. Claire imagined how much they must enjoy talking about her when she wasn't around. Sometimes she thought she should sit them down and just tell them everything, but they had over the years made it pretty clear that they actually liked her better as an object of fascination than a person. Who was she to deny them such pleasure? + +It was April, the edge of searing heat, more of a baking heat right now. The dry heat of spring in a place where somehow flowers still contrived to not just exist, but explode out of the seemingly dead soil. Claire looked down at the cigarette between her fingers. She'd quit years before, but somehow it seemed like something Emma would do. Now though, standing in the middle of a flame red cluster of Ocotillo flowers she realized Emma would never have lit the cigarette. Would never have even taken it. Would never have even come at all. She was never part of the desert the way Claire was, she had floated above it like a cloud. + +Claire watched a tiny dust devil gathering in the wash down the hill. The desert was where the earth's dust came from. Bits of the Sahara coat the Amazon every year. There is no escaping the desert. Even if you travel half way around the world your desert past will find you, grain by grain, dust to dust. Everything ends up back here in the dry desert plain where it settles and bakes in the heat until it's all as hollow as a corn husk. A little wind and it would all be off again, headed south down to the Mexican coast and out to sea. + +
+ +Emma had developed a peculiar fascination with chewing sand. It came to her mouth as a dry film licked off her lips. From western Oklahoma onward she had been chewing at the nothingness of sand. Now, after jumping down from the truck bed, she violently spat the contents of her mouth on a cactus and resolved to never chew sand again. + +Except that it kept settling on her lips. And she kept licking them, out of habit. Perhaps, she thought, the whole West is just one thin dusty film settling over the world. Certainly the room at the Vida Court was saturated with fine grit. + +Mother had laid Father out on the bed and was giving him a glass of water and some saltines. They were talking in low voices that Emma could not make out. She went outside to get her bag and have a look around. + +The Vida Court was, Emma reasoned, better than sitting atop trundles in the back of the flatbed wedged between sweaty siblings and a mucus and blood-spewing father. And that was about all that could be said of it. + +It was not, for instance, a ten-room farmhouse with three floors and a tornado cellar. Nor was it surrounded by endless acres of imported genuine Kentucky bluegrass with a semicircle of drooping cottonwood trees growing around the pond. There were no ponds for miles. Just a small, rusted copper tub full of sun-warmed water. + +It was only after she removed her stockings that she realized how thoroughly the sand had saturated her. Or perhaps, she thought, perhaps my thighs have tanned through these skirts. She climbed into the water and watched as the brown of her legs faded back to milky white, the dusty film of Oklahoma and New Mexico drifting across the water like great orange clouds moving from one end of the tub to the other. + +She could see the young man from the gas station through the chalky pink haze of the bathroom window, but only as a still, dark frame in a chair on the porch. It wasn't long before Emma found herself standing in the bathtub, dripping water, watching the shadowy porch for signs of movement. + +She put on a clean dress and evacuated the bungalow as fast as she could without raising undue suspicion. The sun was already gone, but the air still held the heat like a treasure of the day. She walked around the cacti and was tempted to touch the thorns. She reached out her hand and ran it from the center out and down the edge, careful to keep her hand moving with the hooked direction of the needles. + +"So y'all sold your farm, bought the truck and hauled your dad out here for some fresh air huh?" + +His voice startled her enough that she almost leaned on the cactus for support. + +"Sorry?" + +"You sold the farm, bought the truck and here you are, TB and all." + +"Something like that." + +"We get quite a few passing through these days..." + +"Oh we're staying I believe." + +"I'm Ambrose" + +He extended his hand and she stepped out of the cacti and took it in her own. + +"Emma." + +"You know, Emma," he took another sip of the beer for courage, "that truck you're family is drivin... you need to pull the plugs and soak them in some gasoline. I can do it if you like." + +
+ +The funeral was over by four. Claire sat on the patio with her Grandfather, eating leftover Fancy Franks. + +"These were her favorite," he said staring down at the last one in his hand. + +"No they weren't, she hated little cocktail crap like this." + +He laughed and pitched the last one out into the desert. "You're right, she did." + +She watched a Brown Thrasher study the frank from a low branch of a Palo Verde tree. "Are you sure you're going to be okay?" + +"Have I ever not been okay?" + +"You wife just died Papa..." + +"She died three years ago Claire, her body stopped working recently is all. I'm old, she was old. People die. It's what we do Claire. Next time you come around here it'll be for me." + +"Don't take this the wrong way Papa, but I'm not coming back for you." + +"I know." + +"How do you know that?" + +"Because when I'm gone there's no one to come back to." + +Claire smiled. "True, plus I'd hate to disappoint all of them. Everyone thinks I don't give a shit. If I show up here after you... well, that would seem like I gave a shit wouldn't it?" + +"Who thinks you don't give a shit? Give a shit about what? They don't think that." + +"About anything. And they do. Like everyone else has these complicated situations and feelings and worries and all this shit and I just float away on a bunch of merry red little balloons." + +Ambrose chuckled. "Who thinks this?" + +Claire gestured around her, "I dunno, everyone..." + +"Mmmhmm. Claire, you know better than most that there is no everyone." + + +
+ + +The rock sounded like a bomb against the window. She was a foot clear of her bed before she had even made sense of the noise. Then she heard his hissing whisper, "Emma..." + +She pulled the window up and crawled out, tumbling down into his arms. "Stop with the rocks, you scared the life out of me". + +They crept through the sandy yard and down the banks of Palo Verde snarls to the edge of the river. He stopped suddenly and she crashed into his body. He started to say something, but she smothered his mouth with a kiss. + +Later they lay on their backs listening to the river. Ambrose told her the names of the stars that he could remember, making up the rest on the spot. + +She asked about the stars in Panama and then suddenly, "you aren't going to get Malaria are you?" +Despite all the words he had conjured for Panama this was one he had not thought of. The Army had not mentioned it either. "Do they have malaria in Panama?" + +"Of course. And snakes and worms and all sorts of nastiness. It's a jungle you know." + +"I know. It'll be beautiful, no desert, no dry cracking horridness." + +Emma smiled. "You've never felt humidity have you?" + +"No, but I already know I love it." + +Emma laughed. "You might be the only person I've met who's happy to be going to war." + +"I'm not happy to be going to war, but I'm happy to get out of here. I've been trying to get out of here for years." + +She laughed again ans stroked his cheek. "You can always leave anywhere Ambrose, you just go. You just have to make sure you understand what you're leaving." She slid out of his arms and walked down to the water's edge. He watched as she crouched down at the river’s edge and skipped rocks out toward the middle. + + +
+ + +The patio had a fan. It spun too slow to move the air much. It had always reminded Claire of a tape reel or a movie projector, except that it was broken and only spun backward. A tape reel forever rewinding. + +The rain had started again off in the distance, a low cloud hung over the mountains, a black mist trailing down from it, filling the canyons and ravines with drops that would become a raging wall of water by the time it passed by here tomorrow morning. + +Inside the house Ambrose tilted back the reclining chair with a long angry sounding trail of ratcheting clicks. She could hear her aunts talking in the kitchen, their words muffled by the faucet and clatter of dishes. She heard the TV come on. They would be running the ticker tape at the bottom of television again tonight: Flash flood warning in effect. + +Tomorrow the newspaper would want everyone to know that someone had died; that a new golf course is going to be built on the hillside above someone’s watery grave; that the threat of flood is the price we pay for sunshine; that the desert is a barren curse; that every place has its curse, that eventually all the curses will combine; that everything will be cursed; that the curse is not so bad; that loneliness is a curse; that loneliness is different than alone, that still, the coffee is quite good down at the.... + +Claire slid her legs into the sleeping bag, enjoying the dry slipperiness of nylon against her skin. It felt like slipping between worlds, cool dry worlds where she could float on red balloons forever. Darkness closed in, the world telescoped down into blackness. The foothills faded, the dark splotches of river slipped into black. Eventually there was only the lone saguaro still glowing in the soft blue light of the television flickering behind her. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/figments/feed.xml b/bak/oldluxpages/figments/feed.xml new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cc977cd --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/figments/feed.xml @@ -0,0 +1,106 @@ + +luxagraf figments: stories less literally true.http://luxagraf.net/figments/Latest postings to luxagraf.net/figmentsen-usFri, 04 Nov 2016 12:16:47 -0000The Deserthttp://luxagraf.net/figments/desert<p>Claire woke up in a sleeping bag. The familiar shimmer of nylon against her skin. The smell of creosote and dampness. Already the darkness was lifting off the desert in front of her. She rolled over on the chaise lounge and groped the ground until she found her headlamp.</p> +<p>The little tuna can stove was back against the wall of the house. She stretched until she could hook it with a fingertip. She filled it with alcohol and lit it with a match. As the stove heated up she poured the water and grounds into the moka pot.</p> +<p>She sat up, still in the sleeping bag, and sipped the inky black coffee. She thought of something an ex had once said to her, "Claire, normal people want to be liked and accepted. You don't seem to give a shit. All you seem to care about is your coffee in the morning and your drinks in the evening". More or less. She took another sip. But not really.</p> +<p>Little bubbles of the past had been welling up and bursting on the surface like that ever since the plane touched down yesterday evening. Every time she heard that horrid kitty litter crunch of someone walking on the endless gravel of Tucson, some bit of her younger self broke loose inside. </p> +<p>She was facing west, but could tell that the sun had not cleared the horizon. Two Cardinals flitted in the Mesquite tree at the edge of the patio. Flashes of red amongst the blacks and greens. She listened to them talking, the thin chip of their song muted by the morning stillness.</p> +<p>The desert began to sketch itself in the morning light, watercolor hues of sand and rock that surged together over the rolling canvas until everything was a million rioting shades of pink sandstone that held the river plain like a cradle, the dark green Palo Verde and Mesquite groves nestled like some dark scars in the blushing sand. It seemed to extend forever, spreading out to the west until it climbed up and disappeared into the green, juniper and pine cloaked world of the Catalina mountains. </p> +<p>It was wet. The rain she had dreamed was not just a dream. Everything beyond the few feet of solid patio cover where she had slept was dripping. The foot of her sleeping bag was wet. She slid out into the cool of the morning, gravel gouging at her heels, and hung the sleeping bag to dry from a hook on the patio cover. </p> +<p>She cupped her hand to the window and looked inside the house. Her grandfather was passed out in the recliner, fully reclined, just the way she had left him six or seven hours ago, when his eyelids had finally slid shut over the constellations of grief she had watched drift quietly across those dark expanses. The TV still flickered. Ever since she was a girl, the only way he had ever slept. </p> +<hr /> + +<p>The late evening sun was just starting to temper its edge, take a little something off finally, maybe give a little respite from this goddamn heat, Ambrose was thinking when the entirety of the gravel station lot just outside the window was swallowed by a giant dust cloud that might, he realized, have somewhere in it a car, a customer, perhaps even customers, something he had not otherwise seen since much earlier in the day, back when it was hotter than Ambrose's repertoire of swear words could convey.</p> +<p>He'd been wondering for some time if he'd need to expand that repertoire for the jungle. The Army was unclear on many things, especially to Guardsmen like Ambrose, not the least of which was how many words he might need to describe the heat of Panama.</p> +<p>He was still standing in the shadows of the garage wiping his tanned forehead with a greasy rag, trying to imagine humidity, or at least the idea of water, when he heard the door slam and the inevitable gravel crunch of footsteps coming his way. Squinting against the glare of the setting sun he was just stepping out of the shadows when a woman's voice startled him.</p> +<p>"Sorry about the dust."</p> +<p>"That's all right ma'am."</p> +<p>"We need some petrol and a place to stay."</p> +<p>"Okay. Well I'll fill it up for you. You can stay down to street at the Vida Court. I'm sure there's some rooms."</p> +<p>"I see."</p> +<p>Ambrose followed her back to the truck where two small boys and a teenage girl sat atop a pile of trundles and suitcases in the bed. He nodded to the boys and tipped his hat to girl who met his gaze directly, without flinching in the slightest, which brought a warm heat to his cheeks before he could stop it.</p> +<p>Ambrose turned his head away and busied himself with the gas pump. </p> +<p>"Heat brings the color to your cheeks." The woman was beside him again.</p> +<p>"Yes ma'am." Ambrose stared at the ground. "Been a hell of summer, if you'll pardon me."</p> +<p>"It's not always this hot?"</p> +<p>"It's always this hot, but not for so long." The woman said nothing, Ambrose glanced up at her. "Ma'am?"</p> +<p>"I was thinking, I was wondering if my grandchildren will have to endure this place."</p> +<p>"Ma'am?"</p> +<p>"We're here for my husband. They said that the dry air would be good for his tuberculosis."</p> +<p>"Mmmhmm. They say that." Ambrose studied his feet.</p> +<p>"I don't expect I will get to leave." She was staring off in the distance. "But I'd like to think my daughter might."</p> +<p>He waited a moment, but she did not say anything more. She paid him in coins and climbed back in the truck. The engine coughed back to life after a few sputters that Ambrose attributed to grungy spark plugs. Most people didn't know to soak them in gasoline, it was rare that they need to be replaced. He decided he liked the woman, she was maybe a bit odd, but the heat did funny things to you if you weren't used to it. He imagined she would endure, something about her seemed incapable of not enduring. At the very least he didn't feel like she should need to buy new spark plugs just yet. He would tell her as much tonight, after he went home to the Vida Court.</p> +<p>He watched the truck crawl out onto Prince road. He followed it out, kicking a rock out the driveway into the road. He saw the brake lights at the end of the street. The truck lurched into the Vida Court. He thrust his hands in his pockets and walked back toward the office.</p> +<hr /> + +<p>If she really didn't give a shit Claire reasoned, then she would not have come. People who don't give a shit don't abandon their lives half way around the world, book very expensive last minute plane tickets and come back to this godforsaken fucking desert.</p> +<p>Although, in truth, now that she was here, she missed this desert in some deranged way that made her half understand why people stayed in abusive relationships. Hate is just a perversion of love, but rage, rage is another thing altogether.</p> +<p>She had left the desert in a kind of rage, a dull rage of unfairness wrapped up in punk rock and politics, and being born at the wrong time in the wrong place to the wrong people. The people who didn't stick around.</p> +<p>Claire found her aunt's cigarettes tucked in the side of her purse, which she had left next to the impossibly long telephone cord that connected the old push button land line her grandfather insisted on keeping around. She took two and ducked out the back door for walk in the desert. She wanted to get away from her aunts. </p> +<p>Her mother's sisters both thought she didn't give a shit. They always had. All because Claire hadn't cried at her own parents' funeral. As if a six year old is aware of social decorums. </p> +<p>They still hated her for it. Or, if not hated, at least thought she was strange, most likely a little dangerous and best studied in silence. That she insisted on sleeping outside, like animal she had heard her aunt say last night, only reaffirmed this belief. But outside was the only place the rage dissipated. Outside there was only the heat and the stillness and the relative cool of the evening and mornings. Coffee and cocktails were not so far off after all perhaps. </p> +<p>There was also the rather insulting move of leaving the desert. Claire did what no one else in the family had dared to do since her grandmother stepped off the beat up flatbed into the cactus-strewn world of kitty litter. Leave. We are here to go she had said with the smirk and she disappeared over the horizon, traveling halfway around the world to do god knows what. Claire imagined how much they must enjoy talking about her when she wasn't around. Sometimes she thought she should sit them down and just tell them everything, but they had over the years made it pretty clear that they actually liked her better as an object of fascination than a person. Who was she to deny them such pleasure? </p> +<p>It was April, the edge of searing heat, more of a baking heat right now. The dry heat of spring in a place where somehow flowers still contrived to not just exist, but explode out of the seemingly dead soil. Claire looked down at the cigarette between her fingers. She'd quit years before, but somehow it seemed like something Emma would do. Now though, standing in the middle of a flame red cluster of Ocotillo flowers she realized Emma would never have lit the cigarette. Would never have even taken it. Would never have even come at all. She was never part of the desert the way Claire was, she had floated above it like a cloud.</p> +<p>Claire watched a tiny dust devil gathering in the wash down the hill. The desert was where the earth's dust came from. Bits of the Sahara coat the Amazon every year. There is no escaping the desert. Even if you travel half way around the world your desert past will find you, grain by grain, dust to dust. Everything ends up back here in the dry desert plain where it settles and bakes in the heat until it's all as hollow as a corn husk. A little wind and it would all be off again, headed south down to the Mexican coast and out to sea.</p> +<hr /> + +<p>Emma had developed a peculiar fascination with chewing sand. It came to her mouth as a dry film licked off her lips. From western Oklahoma onward she had been chewing at the nothingness of sand. Now, after jumping down from the truck bed, she violently spat the contents of her mouth on a cactus and resolved to never chew sand again. </p> +<p>Except that it kept settling on her lips. And she kept licking them, out of habit. Perhaps, she thought, the whole West is just one thin dusty film settling over the world. Certainly the room at the Vida Court was saturated with fine grit. </p> +<p>Mother had laid Father out on the bed and was giving him a glass of water and some saltines. They were talking in low voices that Emma could not make out. She went outside to get her bag and have a look around.</p> +<p>The Vida Court was, Emma reasoned, better than sitting atop trundles in the back of the flatbed wedged between sweaty siblings and a mucus and blood-spewing father. And that was about all that could be said of it. </p> +<p>It was not, for instance, a ten-room farmhouse with three floors and a tornado cellar. Nor was it surrounded by endless acres of imported genuine Kentucky bluegrass with a semicircle of drooping cottonwood trees growing around the pond. There were no ponds for miles. Just a small, rusted copper tub full of sun-warmed water.</p> +<p>It was only after she removed her stockings that she realized how thoroughly the sand had saturated her. Or perhaps, she thought, perhaps my thighs have tanned through these skirts. She climbed into the water and watched as the brown of her legs faded back to milky white, the dusty film of Oklahoma and New Mexico drifting across the water like great orange clouds moving from one end of the tub to the other.</p> +<p>She could see the young man from the gas station through the chalky pink haze of the bathroom window, but only as a still, dark frame in a chair on the porch. It wasn't long before Emma found herself standing in the bathtub, dripping water, watching the shadowy porch for signs of movement.</p> +<p>She put on a clean dress and evacuated the bungalow as fast as she could without raising undue suspicion. The sun was already gone, but the air still held the heat like a treasure of the day. She walked around the cacti and was tempted to touch the thorns. She reached out her hand and ran it from the center out and down the edge, careful to keep her hand moving with the hooked direction of the needles.</p> +<p>"So y'all sold your farm, bought the truck and hauled your dad out here for some fresh air huh?"</p> +<p>His voice startled her enough that she almost leaned on the cactus for support.</p> +<p>"Sorry?"</p> +<p>"You sold the farm, bought the truck and here you are, TB and all."</p> +<p>"Something like that."</p> +<p>"We get quite a few passing through these days..."</p> +<p>"Oh we're staying I believe."</p> +<p>"I'm Ambrose"</p> +<p>He extended his hand and she stepped out of the cacti and took it in her own. </p> +<p>"Emma."</p> +<p>"You know, Emma," he took another sip of the beer for courage, "that truck you're family is drivin... you need to pull the plugs and soak them in some gasoline. I can do it if you like."</p> +<hr /> + +<p>The funeral was over by four. Claire sat on the patio with her Grandfather, eating leftover Fancy Franks. </p> +<p>"These were her favorite," he said staring down at the last one in his hand. </p> +<p>"No they weren't, she hated little cocktail crap like this."</p> +<p>He laughed and pitched the last one out into the desert. "You're right, she did."</p> +<p>She watched a Brown Thrasher study the frank from a low branch of a Palo Verde tree. "Are you sure you're going to be okay?"</p> +<p>"Have I ever not been okay?"</p> +<p>"You wife just died Papa..."</p> +<p>"She died three years ago Claire, her body stopped working recently is all. I'm old, she was old. People die. It's what we do Claire. Next time you come around here it'll be for me."</p> +<p>"Don't take this the wrong way Papa, but I'm not coming back for you."</p> +<p>"I know."</p> +<p>"How do you know that?"</p> +<p>"Because when I'm gone there's no one to come back to."</p> +<p>Claire smiled. "True, plus I'd hate to disappoint all of them. Everyone thinks I don't give a shit. If I show up here after you... well, that would seem like I gave a shit wouldn't it?"</p> +<p>"Who thinks you don't give a shit? Give a shit about what? They don't think that."</p> +<p>"About anything. And they do. Like everyone else has these complicated situations and feelings and worries and all this shit and I just float away on a bunch of merry red little balloons."</p> +<p>Ambrose chuckled. "Who thinks this?"</p> +<p>Claire gestured around her, "I dunno, everyone..."</p> +<p>"Mmmhmm. Claire, you know better than most that there is no everyone."</p> +<hr /> + +<p>The rock sounded like a bomb against the window. She was a foot clear of her bed before she had even made sense of the noise. Then she heard his hissing whisper, "Emma..."</p> +<p>She pulled the window up and crawled out, tumbling down into his arms. "Stop with the rocks, you scared the life out of me". </p> +<p>They crept through the sandy yard and down the banks of Palo Verde snarls to the edge of the river. He stopped suddenly and she crashed into his body. He started to say something, but she smothered his mouth with a kiss.</p> +<p>Later they lay on their backs listening to the river. Ambrose told her the names of the stars that he could remember, making up the rest on the spot. </p> +<p>She asked about the stars in Panama and then suddenly, "you aren't going to get Malaria are you?" +Despite all the words he had conjured for Panama this was one he had not thought of. The Army had not mentioned it either. "Do they have malaria in Panama?"</p> +<p>"Of course. And snakes and worms and all sorts of nastiness. It's a jungle you know."</p> +<p>"I know. It'll be beautiful, no desert, no dry cracking horridness."</p> +<p>Emma smiled. "You've never felt humidity have you?" </p> +<p>"No, but I already know I love it."</p> +<p>Emma laughed. "You might be the only person I've met who's happy to be going to war."</p> +<p>"I'm not happy to be going to war, but I'm happy to get out of here. I've been trying to get out of here for years."</p> +<p>She laughed again ans stroked his cheek. "You can always leave anywhere Ambrose, you just go. You just have to make sure you understand what you're leaving." She slid out of his arms and walked down to the water's edge. He watched as she crouched down at the river’s edge and skipped rocks out toward the middle. </p> +<hr /> + +<p>The patio had a fan. It spun too slow to move the air much. It had always reminded Claire of a tape reel or a movie projector, except that it was broken and only spun backward. A tape reel forever rewinding. </p> +<p>The rain had started again off in the distance, a low cloud hung over the mountains, a black mist trailing down from it, filling the canyons and ravines with drops that would become a raging wall of water by the time it passed by here tomorrow morning.</p> +<p>Inside the house Ambrose tilted back the reclining chair with a long angry sounding trail of ratcheting clicks. She could hear her aunts talking in the kitchen, their words muffled by the faucet and clatter of dishes. She heard the TV come on. They would be running the ticker tape at the bottom of television again tonight: Flash flood warning in effect. </p> +<p>Tomorrow the newspaper would want everyone to know that someone had died; that a new golf course is going to be built on the hillside above someone’s watery grave; that the threat of flood is the price we pay for sunshine; that the desert is a barren curse; that every place has its curse, that eventually all the curses will combine; that everything will be cursed; that the curse is not so bad; that loneliness is a curse; that loneliness is different than alone, that still, the coffee is quite good down at the....</p> +<p>Claire slid her legs into the sleeping bag, enjoying the dry slipperiness of nylon against her skin. It felt like slipping between worlds, cool dry worlds where she could float on red balloons forever. Darkness closed in, the world telescoped down into blackness. The foothills faded, the dark splotches of river slipped into black. Eventually there was only the lone saguaro still glowing in the soft blue light of the television flickering behind her.</p>http://luxagraf.net/figments/desert \ No newline at end of file diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/figments/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/figments/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5b693f5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/figments/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,107 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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Walk Slowly

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Figments of Imagination

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I dislike the term “fiction” because it implies that there is a non-fiction and I categorically deny that such a thing can exist. So I call these stories “less true stories mostly made up” and hope for the best, where “the best” is that you enjoy them.

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Fiction

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She sat up, still in the sleeping bag, and sipped the inky black coffee. She thought of something an ex had once said to her, “Claire, normal people want to be liked and accepted. You don’t seem to give a shit. All you seem to care about is your coffee in the morning and your drinks in the evening”. More or less. She took another sip. But not really. Read ⇢

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+ + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/for-sale-412-holman-ave.html b/bak/oldluxpages/for-sale-412-holman-ave.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6b67f06 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/for-sale-412-holman-ave.html @@ -0,0 +1,279 @@ + + + + + + For Sale: 412 Holman Ave, Athens, GA + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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For Sale: 412 Holman Ave, Athens, GA

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Welcome. Take a tour of your new home.

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412 Holman is 1434 sq ft of bright and cheery Normaltown charm. The house is move in ready with the option to convey washer, dryer and refrigerator. List price: $232,000.

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Shown by appointment only, please contact Scott: sng@luxagraf.net or call (706) 438-4297

+

There will be an open house Sunday 11-20-2016.

+
+ +None photographed by luxagraf + + + +
+
+
+
+
+ + photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + +
+ +
+ +
    +

  • Normaltown Style

    Nestled in the heart of Normaltown, 412 Holman puts you within easy walking distance of all that the neighborhood has to offer — coffee shops, bakeries, restaurants, groceries, pubs, pizza, and more. You’re also only three blocks from the UGA bus line and four from the city bus.
    • +

  • Chase St School

    412 Holman Ave is zoned for Chase St. Elementary school, one of the best in the district, Clarke Middle school, and Clarke Central High School.
    • +

  • Bishop Park

    Just two blocks down the street is Bishop Park with everything from a pool to soccer fields to tennis courts to gymnastics classes for kids. There’s also a nice track for running and every Saturday it hosts the largest Farmers Market in Athens.
    • +
+ +
+
+ photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + +
+ +
+ +
+

Video Tour

+

Please enjoy this short video tour of the house. For more details, there are additional images below (click or tap for larger images).

+
+
+ +
+

Front Living Room

+

The front door opens into the front living room, a bright spacious area perfect for relaxing or entertaining. There’s wonderful natural light here throughout the day.

+
+ +
+None photographed by luxagraf + +
+ photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + +
+ +

None photographed by luxagraf

+
+ +
+

Kitchen/Dining Nook

+

The kitchen features all electric appliances, ample cabinet space and a central counter area that’s perfect for bar stools and conversation.

+
+ +
+
+ photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + +
+ +
+ photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + +
+ +
+ +
+

Back Living Room

+

The back living area has large french doors and numerous windows looking out over the deck and back yard. It’s a versatile space that can be used as a second sitting room, dining area, playroom , and more. There’s also a large closet for additional storage or keeping a media entertainment center out of the way when you aren’t using it.

+
+ +
+None photographed by luxagraf + +
+ photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + + + photographed by luxagraf + +
+ +

None photographed by luxagraf

+
+ +
+

Bedrooms

+

Both bedrooms are large enough to comfortably fit a king size bed (for size reference, the large mattress in the images below is a king) and both have ample closet space.

+
+ +
+ +None photographed by luxagraf + + + + +None photographed by luxagraf + + +
+ photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + +
+ +

photographed by luxagraf

+
+ +
+

Office/3rd Bedroom

+

The office sits on the east side of the house and is nearly as large as the bedrooms. It could in fact easily become a third bedroom with the addition of some closet space.

+
+ +
+ +None photographed by luxagraf + + + + +None photographed by luxagraf + + +
+ +
+

Laundry/Craft Room

+

The laundry room has washer and dryer hooks ups (the current washer and dryer can convey if you’d like them) and still has plenty of space for folding laundry or creating a sewing/craft workspace.

+
+ +
+ +None photographed by luxagraf + + +
+ photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + +
+ +
+ +
+

Storage/Other

+

There’s a basement with 6ft of clearance that offers plenty of storage space (there’s also probably enough room to move the washer and dryer down there). Access is via stairway that opens into the central hall across from the kitchen.

+

There’s also a large attic storage space above the office area, as well as three extra closets in the main living area, one between the bedrooms, one in the front living room and a very large one in the back living room.

+
+ +
+

Yard

+

Sitting on a fully fenced .26 acre lot, 412 Holman features large front and back yards, with ample shade provided by pine and oak trees. The back deck adds about 240 sq ft of outdoor living space and built in benches around the whole thing make it perfect for entertaining a crowd. It’s our favorite place to watch the sunrise.

+ +

There’s also a garden on the south (sunny) side of the house that has rough 250 sq ft of developed beds. We’ve grown everything from heirloom tomatoes to okra using the permaculture gardening method known as hugelkultur (a way to garden without watering, see link for more info). The garden also has two mature blueberry bushes and countless red and golden raspberry canes

+
+ +
+
+ photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + +
+ +
+ photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + +
+ +
+
+
+
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/for-sale-412-holman-ave.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/for-sale-412-holman-ave.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6b67f06 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/for-sale-412-holman-ave.txt @@ -0,0 +1,279 @@ + + + + + + For Sale: 412 Holman Ave, Athens, GA + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
+
+
+

For Sale: 412 Holman Ave, Athens, GA

+

Welcome. Take a tour of your new home.

+

412 Holman is 1434 sq ft of bright and cheery Normaltown charm. The house is move in ready with the option to convey washer, dryer and refrigerator. List price: $232,000.

+

Shown by appointment only, please contact Scott: sng@luxagraf.net or call (706) 438-4297

+

There will be an open house Sunday 11-20-2016.

+
+ +None photographed by luxagraf + + + +
+
+
+
+
+ + photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + +
+ +
+ +
    +

  • Normaltown Style

    Nestled in the heart of Normaltown, 412 Holman puts you within easy walking distance of all that the neighborhood has to offer — coffee shops, bakeries, restaurants, groceries, pubs, pizza, and more. You’re also only three blocks from the UGA bus line and four from the city bus.
    • +

  • Chase St School

    412 Holman Ave is zoned for Chase St. Elementary school, one of the best in the district, Clarke Middle school, and Clarke Central High School.
    • +

  • Bishop Park

    Just two blocks down the street is Bishop Park with everything from a pool to soccer fields to tennis courts to gymnastics classes for kids. There’s also a nice track for running and every Saturday it hosts the largest Farmers Market in Athens.
    • +
+ +
+
+ photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + +
+ +
+ +
+

Video Tour

+

Please enjoy this short video tour of the house. For more details, there are additional images below (click or tap for larger images).

+
+
+ +
+

Front Living Room

+

The front door opens into the front living room, a bright spacious area perfect for relaxing or entertaining. There’s wonderful natural light here throughout the day.

+
+ +
+None photographed by luxagraf + +
+ photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + +
+ +

None photographed by luxagraf

+
+ +
+

Kitchen/Dining Nook

+

The kitchen features all electric appliances, ample cabinet space and a central counter area that’s perfect for bar stools and conversation.

+
+ +
+
+ photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + +
+ +
+ photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + +
+ +
+ +
+

Back Living Room

+

The back living area has large french doors and numerous windows looking out over the deck and back yard. It’s a versatile space that can be used as a second sitting room, dining area, playroom , and more. There’s also a large closet for additional storage or keeping a media entertainment center out of the way when you aren’t using it.

+
+ +
+None photographed by luxagraf + +
+ photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + + + photographed by luxagraf + +
+ +

None photographed by luxagraf

+
+ +
+

Bedrooms

+

Both bedrooms are large enough to comfortably fit a king size bed (for size reference, the large mattress in the images below is a king) and both have ample closet space.

+
+ +
+ +None photographed by luxagraf + + + + +None photographed by luxagraf + + +
+ photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + +
+ +

photographed by luxagraf

+
+ +
+

Office/3rd Bedroom

+

The office sits on the east side of the house and is nearly as large as the bedrooms. It could in fact easily become a third bedroom with the addition of some closet space.

+
+ +
+ +None photographed by luxagraf + + + + +None photographed by luxagraf + + +
+ +
+

Laundry/Craft Room

+

The laundry room has washer and dryer hooks ups (the current washer and dryer can convey if you’d like them) and still has plenty of space for folding laundry or creating a sewing/craft workspace.

+
+ +
+ +None photographed by luxagraf + + +
+ photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + +
+ +
+ +
+

Storage/Other

+

There’s a basement with 6ft of clearance that offers plenty of storage space (there’s also probably enough room to move the washer and dryer down there). Access is via stairway that opens into the central hall across from the kitchen.

+

There’s also a large attic storage space above the office area, as well as three extra closets in the main living area, one between the bedrooms, one in the front living room and a very large one in the back living room.

+
+ +
+

Yard

+

Sitting on a fully fenced .26 acre lot, 412 Holman features large front and back yards, with ample shade provided by pine and oak trees. The back deck adds about 240 sq ft of outdoor living space and built in benches around the whole thing make it perfect for entertaining a crowd. It’s our favorite place to watch the sunrise.

+ +

There’s also a garden on the south (sunny) side of the house that has rough 250 sq ft of developed beds. We’ve grown everything from heirloom tomatoes to okra using the permaculture gardening method known as hugelkultur (a way to garden without watering, see link for more info). The garden also has two mature blueberry bushes and countless red and golden raspberry canes

+
+ +
+
+ photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + +
+ +
+ photographed by luxagraf + + photographed by luxagraf + +
+ +
+
+
+
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/hellonewworld.html b/bak/oldluxpages/hellonewworld.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..75aeaf8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/hellonewworld.html @@ -0,0 +1 @@ +heelloooo diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/base.css b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/base.css new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0519ecb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/base.css @@ -0,0 +1 @@ + \ No newline at end of file diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/base.uncompressed.css b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/base.uncompressed.css new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d770590 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/base.uncompressed.css @@ -0,0 +1 @@ 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";display:table;clear:both}@font-face{font-family:'carrois_gothicregular';src:url("/media/carroisgothic-regular-webfont.eot");src:url("/media/carroisgothic-regular-webfont.eot?#iefix") format("embedded-opentype"),url("/media/carroisgothic-regular-webfont.woff") format("woff"),url("/media/carroisgothic-regular-webfont.ttf") format("truetype");font-weight:normal;font-style:normal}footer[role="contentinfo"]{margin-top:5em}@media screen and (min-width: 56em){footer[role="contentinfo"]{max-width:960}}@media screen and (min-width: 49em){footer[role="contentinfo"]:before{display:block;content:"";margin-top:3em;height:1px;width:100%;background:-webkit-linear-gradient(left, transparent, rgba(0,0,0,0.1), transparent);background:-moz-linear-gradient(left, transparent, rgba(0,0,0,0.1), transparent);background:-o-linear-gradient(left, transparent, rgba(0,0,0,0.1), transparent);background:linear-gradient(left, transparent, rgba(0,0,0,0.1), transparent);margin-bottom:1.2em}}footer[role="contentinfo"] 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0}header[role="banner"] h2{margin-top:0.25em !important;margin-left:auto !important;margin-right:auto !important;text-align:center;font-family:Georgia, serif !important;font-size:10px !important;font-style:italic !important;font-weight:300 !important}@media screen and (min-width: 49em){header[role="banner"]{float:left !important;position:relative !important;bottom:1em !important}header[role="banner"] h1,header[role="banner"] h2{text-align:left !important}header[role="banner"] h1{width:360px !important}header[role="banner"] h1 a{line-height:2.5em !important}header[role="banner"] h1 a:before{display:inline-block !important;background-size:102px !important;height:85px !important;width:105px !important;margin-right:10px !important}header[role="banner"] h2{margin-left:179px !important;margin-top:-30px !important;text-align:left}}nav[role="navigation"]{font-family:Georgia, Helvetica, sans-serif !important;border-top:1px #444444 dotted !important;border-bottom:1px #444444 dotted !important;padding-left:20px !important;padding-right:20px !important;margin-right:-20px !important;margin-left:inherit;margin-top:1em !important;padding:0.25em 0.5em !important}nav[role="navigation"] a{text-decoration:none !important;color:#505050 !important}nav[role="navigation"] ul{text-transform:uppercase;letter-spacing:1px;max-width:100% !important;font-weight:300 !important;margin-top:0.5em !important;font-size:11px !important;margin-bottom:0.5em !important;padding:0 !important;max-width:85%;margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto}nav[role="navigation"] li{display:inline !important;margin:0 0.25em !important}nav[role="navigation"] li:after{content:"\00b7";color:#999999;padding-left:0.75em}nav[role="navigation"] li.last{margin-right:0}nav[role="navigation"] li.last:after{content:" "}@media screen and (min-width: 49em){nav[role="navigation"]{float:right !important;border:none !important;margin:52px 0 0 0 !important;padding:0 !important}nav[role="navigation"] ul{max-width:50em !important;font-size:13px !important}}.header-wrapper{margin-bottom:1em !important}@media screen and (min-width: 49em){.header-wrapper{border-bottom:1px #201a11 solid !important;position:relative !important}}@media screen and (min-width: 56em){.header-wrapper{max-width:960px !important;margin-left:auto !important;margin-right:auto !important}}@media screen and (min-width: 73.125em){.header-wrapper{margin-top:1.5em !important;max-width:1170px !important}}@media screen and (min-width: 49em){.black .header-wrapper,.dark .header-wrapper{border-bottom:1px #b3aeae solid !important}} + + +.h-custom-headline { + margin-top: 0 !important; + margin-bottom: 1em; +} diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/HELP-US-OUT.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/HELP-US-OUT.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..83d083d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/HELP-US-OUT.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7 @@ +I hope you love Font Awesome. If you've found it useful, please do me a favor and check out my latest project, +Fort Awesome (https://fortawesome.com). It makes it easy to put the perfect icons on your website. Choose from our awesome, +comprehensive icon sets or copy and paste your own. + +Please. Check it out. + +-Dave Gandy diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/css/font-awesome.css b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/css/font-awesome.css new file mode 100644 index 0000000..15e462d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/css/font-awesome.css @@ -0,0 +1 @@ + @font-face {font-family:'FontAwesome'; src:url('../fonts/fontawesome-webfont.eot?v=4.6.3'); src:url('../fonts/fontawesome-webfont.eot?#iefix&v=4.6.3') format('embedded-opentype'), url('../fonts/fontawesome-webfont.woff2?v=4.6.3') format('woff2'), url('../fonts/fontawesome-webfont.woff?v=4.6.3') format('woff'), url('../fonts/fontawesome-webfont.ttf?v=4.6.3') format('truetype'), url('../fonts/fontawesome-webfont.svg?v=4.6.3#fontawesomeregular') format('svg'); font-weight:normal; font-style:normal;}.fa {display:inline-block; font:normal normal normal 14px/1 FontAwesome; font-size:inherit; text-rendering:auto; -webkit-font-smoothing:antialiased; 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infinite steps(8);} @-webkit-keyframes fa-spin {0% {-webkit-transform:rotate(0deg); transform:rotate(0deg);} 100% {-webkit-transform:rotate(359deg); transform:rotate(359deg);}} @keyframes fa-spin {0% {-webkit-transform:rotate(0deg); transform:rotate(0deg);} 100% {-webkit-transform:rotate(359deg); transform:rotate(359deg);}}.fa-rotate-90 {-ms-filter:"progid:DXImageTransform.Microsoft.BasicImage(rotation=1)"; -webkit-transform:rotate(90deg); -ms-transform:rotate(90deg); transform:rotate(90deg);}.fa-rotate-180 {-ms-filter:"progid:DXImageTransform.Microsoft.BasicImage(rotation=2)"; -webkit-transform:rotate(180deg); -ms-transform:rotate(180deg); transform:rotate(180deg);}.fa-rotate-270 {-ms-filter:"progid:DXImageTransform.Microsoft.BasicImage(rotation=3)"; -webkit-transform:rotate(270deg); -ms-transform:rotate(270deg); transform:rotate(270deg);}.fa-flip-horizontal {-ms-filter:"progid:DXImageTransform.Microsoft.BasicImage(rotation=0, mirror=1)"; -webkit-transform:scale(-1, 1); 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"\f073"; +} +.fa-random:before { + content: "\f074"; +} +.fa-comment:before { + content: "\f075"; +} +.fa-magnet:before { + content: "\f076"; +} +.fa-chevron-up:before { + content: "\f077"; +} +.fa-chevron-down:before { + content: "\f078"; +} +.fa-retweet:before { + content: "\f079"; +} +.fa-shopping-cart:before { + content: "\f07a"; +} +.fa-folder:before { + content: "\f07b"; +} +.fa-folder-open:before { + content: "\f07c"; +} +.fa-arrows-v:before { + content: "\f07d"; +} +.fa-arrows-h:before { + content: "\f07e"; +} +.fa-bar-chart-o:before, +.fa-bar-chart:before { + content: "\f080"; +} +.fa-twitter-square:before { + content: "\f081"; +} +.fa-facebook-square:before { + content: "\f082"; +} +.fa-camera-retro:before { + content: "\f083"; +} +.fa-key:before { + content: "\f084"; +} +.fa-gears:before, +.fa-cogs:before { + content: "\f085"; +} +.fa-comments:before { + content: "\f086"; +} +.fa-thumbs-o-up:before { + content: "\f087"; +} +.fa-thumbs-o-down:before { + content: "\f088"; +} 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content: "\f09e"; +} +.fa-hdd-o:before { + content: "\f0a0"; +} +.fa-bullhorn:before { + content: "\f0a1"; +} +.fa-bell:before { + content: "\f0f3"; +} +.fa-certificate:before { + content: "\f0a3"; +} +.fa-hand-o-right:before { + content: "\f0a4"; +} +.fa-hand-o-left:before { + content: "\f0a5"; +} +.fa-hand-o-up:before { + content: "\f0a6"; +} +.fa-hand-o-down:before { + content: "\f0a7"; +} +.fa-arrow-circle-left:before { + content: "\f0a8"; +} +.fa-arrow-circle-right:before { + content: "\f0a9"; +} +.fa-arrow-circle-up:before { + content: "\f0aa"; +} +.fa-arrow-circle-down:before { + content: "\f0ab"; +} +.fa-globe:before { + content: "\f0ac"; +} +.fa-wrench:before { + content: "\f0ad"; +} +.fa-tasks:before { + content: "\f0ae"; +} +.fa-filter:before { + content: "\f0b0"; +} +.fa-briefcase:before { + content: "\f0b1"; +} +.fa-arrows-alt:before { + content: "\f0b2"; +} +.fa-group:before, +.fa-users:before { + content: "\f0c0"; +} +.fa-chain:before, +.fa-link:before { + content: "\f0c1"; +} +.fa-cloud:before { + content: "\f0c2"; +} +.fa-flask:before { + content: "\f0c3"; +} +.fa-cut:before, +.fa-scissors:before { + content: "\f0c4"; +} +.fa-copy:before, +.fa-files-o:before { + content: "\f0c5"; +} +.fa-paperclip:before { + content: "\f0c6"; +} +.fa-save:before, +.fa-floppy-o:before { + content: "\f0c7"; +} +.fa-square:before { + content: "\f0c8"; +} +.fa-navicon:before, +.fa-reorder:before, +.fa-bars:before { + content: "\f0c9"; +} +.fa-list-ul:before { + content: "\f0ca"; +} +.fa-list-ol:before { + content: "\f0cb"; +} +.fa-strikethrough:before { + content: "\f0cc"; +} +.fa-underline:before { + content: "\f0cd"; +} +.fa-table:before { + content: "\f0ce"; +} +.fa-magic:before { + content: "\f0d0"; +} +.fa-truck:before { + content: "\f0d1"; +} +.fa-pinterest:before { + content: "\f0d2"; +} +.fa-pinterest-square:before { + content: "\f0d3"; +} +.fa-google-plus-square:before { + content: "\f0d4"; +} +.fa-google-plus:before { + content: "\f0d5"; +} 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content: "\f0e9"; +} +.fa-paste:before, +.fa-clipboard:before { + content: "\f0ea"; +} +.fa-lightbulb-o:before { + content: "\f0eb"; +} +.fa-exchange:before { + content: "\f0ec"; +} +.fa-cloud-download:before { + content: "\f0ed"; +} +.fa-cloud-upload:before { + content: "\f0ee"; +} +.fa-user-md:before { + content: "\f0f0"; +} +.fa-stethoscope:before { + content: "\f0f1"; +} +.fa-suitcase:before { + content: "\f0f2"; +} +.fa-bell-o:before { + content: "\f0a2"; +} +.fa-coffee:before { + content: "\f0f4"; +} +.fa-cutlery:before { + content: "\f0f5"; +} +.fa-file-text-o:before { + content: "\f0f6"; +} +.fa-building-o:before { + content: "\f0f7"; +} +.fa-hospital-o:before { + content: "\f0f8"; +} +.fa-ambulance:before { + content: "\f0f9"; +} +.fa-medkit:before { + content: "\f0fa"; +} +.fa-fighter-jet:before { + content: "\f0fb"; +} +.fa-beer:before { + content: "\f0fc"; +} +.fa-h-square:before { + content: "\f0fd"; +} +.fa-plus-square:before { + content: "\f0fe"; +} 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"\f114"; +} +.fa-folder-open-o:before { + content: "\f115"; +} +.fa-smile-o:before { + content: "\f118"; +} +.fa-frown-o:before { + content: "\f119"; +} +.fa-meh-o:before { + content: "\f11a"; +} +.fa-gamepad:before { + content: "\f11b"; +} +.fa-keyboard-o:before { + content: "\f11c"; +} +.fa-flag-o:before { + content: "\f11d"; +} +.fa-flag-checkered:before { + content: "\f11e"; +} +.fa-terminal:before { + content: "\f120"; +} +.fa-code:before { + content: "\f121"; +} +.fa-mail-reply-all:before, +.fa-reply-all:before { + content: "\f122"; +} +.fa-star-half-empty:before, +.fa-star-half-full:before, +.fa-star-half-o:before { + content: "\f123"; +} +.fa-location-arrow:before { + content: "\f124"; +} +.fa-crop:before { + content: "\f125"; +} +.fa-code-fork:before { + content: "\f126"; +} +.fa-unlink:before, +.fa-chain-broken:before { + content: "\f127"; +} +.fa-question:before { + content: "\f128"; +} +.fa-info:before { + content: "\f129"; +} +.fa-exclamation:before { + content: "\f12a"; +} +.fa-superscript:before { + content: "\f12b"; +} +.fa-subscript:before { + content: "\f12c"; +} +.fa-eraser:before { + content: "\f12d"; +} +.fa-puzzle-piece:before { + content: "\f12e"; +} +.fa-microphone:before { + content: "\f130"; +} +.fa-microphone-slash:before { + content: "\f131"; +} +.fa-shield:before { + content: "\f132"; +} +.fa-calendar-o:before { + content: "\f133"; +} +.fa-fire-extinguisher:before { + content: "\f134"; +} +.fa-rocket:before { + content: "\f135"; +} +.fa-maxcdn:before { + content: "\f136"; +} +.fa-chevron-circle-left:before { + content: "\f137"; +} +.fa-chevron-circle-right:before { + content: "\f138"; +} +.fa-chevron-circle-up:before { + content: "\f139"; +} +.fa-chevron-circle-down:before { + content: "\f13a"; +} +.fa-html5:before { + content: "\f13b"; +} +.fa-css3:before { + content: "\f13c"; +} +.fa-anchor:before { + content: "\f13d"; +} +.fa-unlock-alt:before { + content: "\f13e"; +} +.fa-bullseye:before { + content: "\f140"; +} 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"\f166"; +} +.fa-youtube:before { + content: "\f167"; +} +.fa-xing:before { + content: "\f168"; +} +.fa-xing-square:before { + content: "\f169"; +} +.fa-youtube-play:before { + content: "\f16a"; +} +.fa-dropbox:before { + content: "\f16b"; +} +.fa-stack-overflow:before { + content: "\f16c"; +} +.fa-instagram:before { + content: "\f16d"; +} +.fa-flickr:before { + content: "\f16e"; +} +.fa-adn:before { + content: "\f170"; +} +.fa-bitbucket:before { + content: "\f171"; +} +.fa-bitbucket-square:before { + content: "\f172"; +} +.fa-tumblr:before { + content: "\f173"; +} +.fa-tumblr-square:before { + content: "\f174"; +} +.fa-long-arrow-down:before { + content: "\f175"; +} +.fa-long-arrow-up:before { + content: "\f176"; +} +.fa-long-arrow-left:before { + content: "\f177"; +} +.fa-long-arrow-right:before { + content: "\f178"; +} +.fa-apple:before { + content: "\f179"; +} +.fa-windows:before { + content: "\f17a"; +} +.fa-android:before { + content: "\f17b"; +} +.fa-linux:before { + content: "\f17c"; +} +.fa-dribbble:before { + content: "\f17d"; +} +.fa-skype:before { + content: "\f17e"; +} +.fa-foursquare:before { + content: "\f180"; +} +.fa-trello:before { + content: "\f181"; +} +.fa-female:before { + content: "\f182"; +} +.fa-male:before { + content: "\f183"; +} +.fa-gittip:before, +.fa-gratipay:before { + content: "\f184"; +} +.fa-sun-o:before { + content: "\f185"; +} +.fa-moon-o:before { + content: "\f186"; +} +.fa-archive:before { + content: "\f187"; +} +.fa-bug:before { + content: "\f188"; +} +.fa-vk:before { + content: "\f189"; +} +.fa-weibo:before { + content: "\f18a"; +} +.fa-renren:before { + content: "\f18b"; +} +.fa-pagelines:before { + content: "\f18c"; +} +.fa-stack-exchange:before { + content: "\f18d"; +} +.fa-arrow-circle-o-right:before { + content: "\f18e"; +} +.fa-arrow-circle-o-left:before { + content: "\f190"; +} +.fa-toggle-left:before, +.fa-caret-square-o-left:before { + content: "\f191"; +} +.fa-dot-circle-o:before { + content: "\f192"; +} 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+.fa-deviantart:before { + content: "\f1bd"; +} +.fa-soundcloud:before { + content: "\f1be"; +} +.fa-database:before { + content: "\f1c0"; +} +.fa-file-pdf-o:before { + content: "\f1c1"; +} +.fa-file-word-o:before { + content: "\f1c2"; +} +.fa-file-excel-o:before { + content: "\f1c3"; +} +.fa-file-powerpoint-o:before { + content: "\f1c4"; +} +.fa-file-photo-o:before, +.fa-file-picture-o:before, +.fa-file-image-o:before { + content: "\f1c5"; +} +.fa-file-zip-o:before, +.fa-file-archive-o:before { + content: "\f1c6"; +} +.fa-file-sound-o:before, +.fa-file-audio-o:before { + content: "\f1c7"; +} +.fa-file-movie-o:before, +.fa-file-video-o:before { + content: "\f1c8"; +} +.fa-file-code-o:before { + content: "\f1c9"; +} +.fa-vine:before { + content: "\f1ca"; +} +.fa-codepen:before { + content: "\f1cb"; +} +.fa-jsfiddle:before { + content: "\f1cc"; +} +.fa-life-bouy:before, +.fa-life-buoy:before, +.fa-life-saver:before, +.fa-support:before, +.fa-life-ring:before { + content: "\f1cd"; +} +.fa-circle-o-notch:before { + content: "\f1ce"; +} +.fa-ra:before, +.fa-resistance:before, +.fa-rebel:before { + content: "\f1d0"; +} +.fa-ge:before, +.fa-empire:before { + content: "\f1d1"; +} +.fa-git-square:before { + content: "\f1d2"; +} +.fa-git:before { + content: "\f1d3"; +} +.fa-y-combinator-square:before, +.fa-yc-square:before, +.fa-hacker-news:before { + content: "\f1d4"; +} +.fa-tencent-weibo:before { + content: "\f1d5"; +} +.fa-qq:before { + content: "\f1d6"; +} +.fa-wechat:before, +.fa-weixin:before { + content: "\f1d7"; +} +.fa-send:before, +.fa-paper-plane:before { + content: "\f1d8"; +} +.fa-send-o:before, +.fa-paper-plane-o:before { + content: "\f1d9"; +} +.fa-history:before { + content: "\f1da"; +} +.fa-circle-thin:before { + content: "\f1db"; +} +.fa-header:before { + content: "\f1dc"; +} +.fa-paragraph:before { + content: "\f1dd"; +} +.fa-sliders:before { + content: "\f1de"; +} +.fa-share-alt:before { + content: "\f1e0"; +} +.fa-share-alt-square:before { + content: "\f1e1"; +} +.fa-bomb:before { + content: "\f1e2"; +} +.fa-soccer-ball-o:before, +.fa-futbol-o:before { + content: "\f1e3"; +} +.fa-tty:before { + content: "\f1e4"; +} +.fa-binoculars:before { + content: "\f1e5"; +} +.fa-plug:before { + content: "\f1e6"; +} +.fa-slideshare:before { + content: "\f1e7"; +} +.fa-twitch:before { + content: "\f1e8"; +} +.fa-yelp:before { + content: "\f1e9"; +} +.fa-newspaper-o:before { + content: "\f1ea"; +} +.fa-wifi:before { + content: "\f1eb"; +} +.fa-calculator:before { + content: "\f1ec"; +} +.fa-paypal:before { + content: "\f1ed"; +} +.fa-google-wallet:before { + content: "\f1ee"; +} +.fa-cc-visa:before { + content: "\f1f0"; +} +.fa-cc-mastercard:before { + content: "\f1f1"; +} +.fa-cc-discover:before { + content: "\f1f2"; +} +.fa-cc-amex:before { + content: "\f1f3"; +} +.fa-cc-paypal:before { + content: "\f1f4"; +} +.fa-cc-stripe:before { + content: "\f1f5"; +} +.fa-bell-slash:before { + content: "\f1f6"; +} +.fa-bell-slash-o:before { + content: "\f1f7"; +} +.fa-trash:before { + content: "\f1f8"; +} +.fa-copyright:before { + content: "\f1f9"; +} +.fa-at:before { + content: "\f1fa"; +} +.fa-eyedropper:before { + content: "\f1fb"; +} +.fa-paint-brush:before { + content: "\f1fc"; +} +.fa-birthday-cake:before { + content: "\f1fd"; +} +.fa-area-chart:before { + content: "\f1fe"; +} +.fa-pie-chart:before { + content: "\f200"; +} +.fa-line-chart:before { + content: "\f201"; +} +.fa-lastfm:before { + content: "\f202"; +} +.fa-lastfm-square:before { + content: "\f203"; +} +.fa-toggle-off:before { + content: "\f204"; +} +.fa-toggle-on:before { + content: "\f205"; +} +.fa-bicycle:before { + content: "\f206"; +} +.fa-bus:before { + content: "\f207"; +} +.fa-ioxhost:before { + content: "\f208"; +} +.fa-angellist:before { + content: "\f209"; +} +.fa-cc:before { + content: "\f20a"; +} +.fa-shekel:before, +.fa-sheqel:before, +.fa-ils:before { + content: "\f20b"; +} +.fa-meanpath:before { + content: "\f20c"; +} +.fa-buysellads:before { + content: "\f20d"; +} +.fa-connectdevelop:before { + content: "\f20e"; +} +.fa-dashcube:before { + content: "\f210"; +} +.fa-forumbee:before { + content: "\f211"; +} +.fa-leanpub:before { + content: "\f212"; +} +.fa-sellsy:before { + content: "\f213"; +} +.fa-shirtsinbulk:before { + content: "\f214"; +} +.fa-simplybuilt:before { + content: "\f215"; +} +.fa-skyatlas:before { + content: "\f216"; +} +.fa-cart-plus:before { + content: "\f217"; +} +.fa-cart-arrow-down:before { + content: "\f218"; +} +.fa-diamond:before { + content: "\f219"; +} +.fa-ship:before { + content: "\f21a"; +} +.fa-user-secret:before { + content: "\f21b"; +} +.fa-motorcycle:before { + content: "\f21c"; +} +.fa-street-view:before { + content: "\f21d"; +} +.fa-heartbeat:before { + content: "\f21e"; +} +.fa-venus:before { + content: "\f221"; +} +.fa-mars:before { + content: "\f222"; +} +.fa-mercury:before { + content: "\f223"; +} +.fa-intersex:before, +.fa-transgender:before { + content: "\f224"; +} +.fa-transgender-alt:before { + content: "\f225"; +} +.fa-venus-double:before { + content: "\f226"; +} +.fa-mars-double:before { + content: "\f227"; +} +.fa-venus-mars:before { + content: "\f228"; +} +.fa-mars-stroke:before { + content: "\f229"; +} +.fa-mars-stroke-v:before { + content: "\f22a"; +} +.fa-mars-stroke-h:before { + content: "\f22b"; +} +.fa-neuter:before { + content: "\f22c"; +} +.fa-genderless:before { + content: "\f22d"; +} +.fa-facebook-official:before { + content: "\f230"; +} +.fa-pinterest-p:before { + content: "\f231"; +} +.fa-whatsapp:before { + content: "\f232"; +} +.fa-server:before { + content: "\f233"; +} +.fa-user-plus:before { + content: "\f234"; +} +.fa-user-times:before { + content: "\f235"; +} +.fa-hotel:before, +.fa-bed:before { + content: "\f236"; +} +.fa-viacoin:before { + content: "\f237"; +} +.fa-train:before { + content: "\f238"; +} +.fa-subway:before { + content: "\f239"; +} +.fa-medium:before { + content: "\f23a"; +} +.fa-yc:before, 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content: "\f24d"; +} +.fa-balance-scale:before { + content: "\f24e"; +} +.fa-hourglass-o:before { + content: "\f250"; +} +.fa-hourglass-1:before, +.fa-hourglass-start:before { + content: "\f251"; +} +.fa-hourglass-2:before, +.fa-hourglass-half:before { + content: "\f252"; +} +.fa-hourglass-3:before, +.fa-hourglass-end:before { + content: "\f253"; +} +.fa-hourglass:before { + content: "\f254"; +} +.fa-hand-grab-o:before, +.fa-hand-rock-o:before { + content: "\f255"; +} +.fa-hand-stop-o:before, +.fa-hand-paper-o:before { + content: "\f256"; +} +.fa-hand-scissors-o:before { + content: "\f257"; +} +.fa-hand-lizard-o:before { + content: "\f258"; +} +.fa-hand-spock-o:before { + content: "\f259"; +} +.fa-hand-pointer-o:before { + content: "\f25a"; +} +.fa-hand-peace-o:before { + content: "\f25b"; +} +.fa-trademark:before { + content: "\f25c"; +} +.fa-registered:before { + content: "\f25d"; +} +.fa-creative-commons:before { + content: "\f25e"; +} +.fa-gg:before { + content: "\f260"; +} 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content: "\f28c"; +} +.fa-stop-circle:before { + content: "\f28d"; +} +.fa-stop-circle-o:before { + content: "\f28e"; +} +.fa-shopping-bag:before { + content: "\f290"; +} +.fa-shopping-basket:before { + content: "\f291"; +} +.fa-hashtag:before { + content: "\f292"; +} +.fa-bluetooth:before { + content: "\f293"; +} +.fa-bluetooth-b:before { + content: "\f294"; +} +.fa-percent:before { + content: "\f295"; +} +.fa-gitlab:before { + content: "\f296"; +} +.fa-wpbeginner:before { + content: "\f297"; +} +.fa-wpforms:before { + content: "\f298"; +} +.fa-envira:before { + content: "\f299"; +} +.fa-universal-access:before { + content: "\f29a"; +} +.fa-wheelchair-alt:before { + content: "\f29b"; +} +.fa-question-circle-o:before { + content: "\f29c"; +} +.fa-blind:before { + content: "\f29d"; +} +.fa-audio-description:before { + content: "\f29e"; +} +.fa-volume-control-phone:before { + content: "\f2a0"; +} +.fa-braille:before { + content: "\f2a1"; +} +.fa-assistive-listening-systems:before { + content: "\f2a2"; +} +.fa-asl-interpreting:before, +.fa-american-sign-language-interpreting:before { + content: "\f2a3"; +} +.fa-deafness:before, +.fa-hard-of-hearing:before, +.fa-deaf:before { + content: "\f2a4"; +} +.fa-glide:before { + content: "\f2a5"; +} +.fa-glide-g:before { + content: "\f2a6"; +} +.fa-signing:before, +.fa-sign-language:before { + content: "\f2a7"; +} +.fa-low-vision:before { + content: "\f2a8"; +} +.fa-viadeo:before { + content: "\f2a9"; +} +.fa-viadeo-square:before { + content: "\f2aa"; +} +.fa-snapchat:before { + content: "\f2ab"; +} +.fa-snapchat-ghost:before { + content: "\f2ac"; +} +.fa-snapchat-square:before { + content: "\f2ad"; +} +.fa-pied-piper:before { + content: "\f2ae"; +} +.fa-first-order:before { + content: "\f2b0"; +} +.fa-yoast:before { + content: "\f2b1"; +} +.fa-themeisle:before { + content: "\f2b2"; +} +.fa-google-plus-circle:before, +.fa-google-plus-official:before { + content: "\f2b3"; +} +.fa-fa:before, +.fa-font-awesome:before { + content: "\f2b4"; +} +.sr-only { + position: absolute; + width: 1px; + height: 1px; + padding: 0; + margin: -1px; + overflow: hidden; + clip: rect(0, 0, 0, 0); + border: 0; +} +.sr-only-focusable:active, +.sr-only-focusable:focus { + position: static; + width: auto; + height: auto; + margin: 0; + overflow: visible; + clip: auto; +} diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/fontawesome-webfont.eot b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/fontawesome-webfont.eot new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c7b00d2 Binary files /dev/null and b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/fontawesome-webfont.eot differ diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/fontawesome-webfont.svg b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/fontawesome-webfont.svg new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8b66187 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/fontawesome-webfont.svg @@ -0,0 +1,685 @@ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + 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a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/fontawesome-webfont.woff2 b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/fontawesome-webfont.woff2 new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7eb74fd Binary files /dev/null and b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/fontawesome-webfont.woff2 differ diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/fonts/FontAwesome.otf b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/fonts/FontAwesome.otf new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d4de13e Binary files /dev/null and b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/fonts/FontAwesome.otf differ diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/animated.less b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/animated.less new file mode 100644 index 0000000..66ad52a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/animated.less @@ -0,0 +1,34 @@ +// Animated Icons +// -------------------------- + +.@{fa-css-prefix}-spin { + -webkit-animation: fa-spin 2s infinite linear; + animation: fa-spin 2s infinite linear; +} + +.@{fa-css-prefix}-pulse { + -webkit-animation: fa-spin 1s infinite steps(8); + animation: fa-spin 1s infinite steps(8); +} + +@-webkit-keyframes fa-spin { + 0% { + -webkit-transform: rotate(0deg); + transform: rotate(0deg); + } + 100% { + -webkit-transform: rotate(359deg); + transform: rotate(359deg); + } +} + +@keyframes fa-spin { + 0% { + -webkit-transform: rotate(0deg); + transform: rotate(0deg); + } + 100% { + -webkit-transform: rotate(359deg); + transform: rotate(359deg); + } +} diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/bordered-pulled.less b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/bordered-pulled.less new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f1c8ad7 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/bordered-pulled.less @@ -0,0 +1,25 @@ +// Bordered & Pulled +// ------------------------- + +.@{fa-css-prefix}-border { + padding: .2em .25em .15em; + border: solid .08em @fa-border-color; + border-radius: .1em; +} + +.@{fa-css-prefix}-pull-left { float: left; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-pull-right { float: right; } + +.@{fa-css-prefix} { + &.@{fa-css-prefix}-pull-left { margin-right: .3em; } + &.@{fa-css-prefix}-pull-right { margin-left: .3em; } +} + +/* Deprecated as of 4.4.0 */ +.pull-right { float: right; } +.pull-left { float: left; } + +.@{fa-css-prefix} { + &.pull-left { margin-right: .3em; } + &.pull-right { margin-left: .3em; } +} diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/core.less b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/core.less new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c577ac8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/core.less @@ -0,0 +1,12 @@ +// Base Class Definition +// ------------------------- + +.@{fa-css-prefix} { + display: inline-block; + font: normal normal normal @fa-font-size-base/@fa-line-height-base FontAwesome; // shortening font declaration + font-size: inherit; // can't have font-size inherit on line above, so need to override + text-rendering: auto; // optimizelegibility throws things off #1094 + -webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; + -moz-osx-font-smoothing: grayscale; + +} diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/fixed-width.less b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/fixed-width.less new file mode 100644 index 0000000..110289f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/fixed-width.less @@ -0,0 +1,6 @@ +// Fixed Width Icons +// ------------------------- +.@{fa-css-prefix}-fw { + width: (18em / 14); + text-align: center; +} diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/font-awesome.less b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/font-awesome.less new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c44e5f4 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/font-awesome.less @@ -0,0 +1,18 @@ +/*! + * Font Awesome 4.6.3 by @davegandy - http://fontawesome.io - @fontawesome + * License - http://fontawesome.io/license (Font: SIL OFL 1.1, CSS: MIT License) + */ + +@import "variables.less"; +@import "mixins.less"; +@import "path.less"; +@import "core.less"; +@import "larger.less"; +@import "fixed-width.less"; +@import "list.less"; +@import "bordered-pulled.less"; +@import "animated.less"; +@import "rotated-flipped.less"; +@import "stacked.less"; +@import "icons.less"; +@import "screen-reader.less"; diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/icons.less b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/icons.less new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ba21b22 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/icons.less @@ -0,0 +1,733 @@ +/* Font Awesome uses the Unicode Private Use Area (PUA) to ensure screen + readers do not read off random characters that represent icons */ + +.@{fa-css-prefix}-glass:before { content: @fa-var-glass; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-music:before { content: @fa-var-music; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-search:before { content: @fa-var-search; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-envelope-o:before { content: @fa-var-envelope-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-heart:before { content: @fa-var-heart; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-star:before { content: @fa-var-star; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-star-o:before { content: @fa-var-star-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-user:before { content: @fa-var-user; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-film:before { content: @fa-var-film; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-th-large:before { content: @fa-var-th-large; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-th:before { content: @fa-var-th; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-th-list:before { content: @fa-var-th-list; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-check:before { content: @fa-var-check; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-remove:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-close:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-times:before { content: @fa-var-times; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-search-plus:before { content: @fa-var-search-plus; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-search-minus:before { content: @fa-var-search-minus; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-power-off:before { content: @fa-var-power-off; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-signal:before { content: @fa-var-signal; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-gear:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-cog:before { content: @fa-var-cog; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-trash-o:before { content: @fa-var-trash-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-home:before { content: @fa-var-home; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-file-o:before { content: @fa-var-file-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-clock-o:before { content: @fa-var-clock-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-road:before { content: @fa-var-road; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-download:before { content: @fa-var-download; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-arrow-circle-o-down:before { content: @fa-var-arrow-circle-o-down; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-arrow-circle-o-up:before { content: @fa-var-arrow-circle-o-up; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-inbox:before { content: @fa-var-inbox; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-play-circle-o:before { content: @fa-var-play-circle-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-rotate-right:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-repeat:before { content: @fa-var-repeat; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-refresh:before { content: @fa-var-refresh; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-list-alt:before { content: @fa-var-list-alt; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-lock:before { content: @fa-var-lock; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-flag:before { content: @fa-var-flag; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-headphones:before { content: @fa-var-headphones; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-volume-off:before { content: @fa-var-volume-off; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-volume-down:before { content: @fa-var-volume-down; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-volume-up:before { content: @fa-var-volume-up; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-qrcode:before { content: @fa-var-qrcode; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-barcode:before { content: @fa-var-barcode; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-tag:before { content: @fa-var-tag; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-tags:before { content: @fa-var-tags; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-book:before { content: @fa-var-book; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bookmark:before { content: @fa-var-bookmark; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-print:before { content: @fa-var-print; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-camera:before { content: @fa-var-camera; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-font:before { content: @fa-var-font; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bold:before { content: @fa-var-bold; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-italic:before { content: @fa-var-italic; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-text-height:before { content: @fa-var-text-height; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-text-width:before { content: @fa-var-text-width; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-align-left:before { content: @fa-var-align-left; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-align-center:before { content: @fa-var-align-center; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-align-right:before { content: @fa-var-align-right; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-align-justify:before { content: @fa-var-align-justify; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-list:before { content: @fa-var-list; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-dedent:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-outdent:before { content: @fa-var-outdent; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-indent:before { content: @fa-var-indent; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-video-camera:before { content: @fa-var-video-camera; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-photo:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-image:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-picture-o:before { content: @fa-var-picture-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-pencil:before { content: @fa-var-pencil; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-map-marker:before { content: @fa-var-map-marker; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-adjust:before { content: @fa-var-adjust; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-tint:before { content: @fa-var-tint; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-edit:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-pencil-square-o:before { content: @fa-var-pencil-square-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-share-square-o:before { content: @fa-var-share-square-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-check-square-o:before { content: @fa-var-check-square-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-arrows:before { content: @fa-var-arrows; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-step-backward:before { content: @fa-var-step-backward; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-fast-backward:before { content: @fa-var-fast-backward; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-backward:before { content: @fa-var-backward; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-play:before { content: @fa-var-play; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-pause:before { content: @fa-var-pause; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-stop:before { content: @fa-var-stop; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-forward:before { content: @fa-var-forward; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-fast-forward:before { content: @fa-var-fast-forward; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-step-forward:before { content: @fa-var-step-forward; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-eject:before { content: @fa-var-eject; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-chevron-left:before { content: @fa-var-chevron-left; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-chevron-right:before { content: @fa-var-chevron-right; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-plus-circle:before { content: @fa-var-plus-circle; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-minus-circle:before { content: @fa-var-minus-circle; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-times-circle:before { content: @fa-var-times-circle; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-check-circle:before { content: @fa-var-check-circle; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-question-circle:before { content: @fa-var-question-circle; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-info-circle:before { content: @fa-var-info-circle; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-crosshairs:before { content: @fa-var-crosshairs; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-times-circle-o:before { content: @fa-var-times-circle-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-check-circle-o:before { content: @fa-var-check-circle-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-ban:before { content: @fa-var-ban; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-arrow-left:before { content: @fa-var-arrow-left; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-arrow-right:before { content: @fa-var-arrow-right; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-arrow-up:before { content: @fa-var-arrow-up; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-arrow-down:before { content: @fa-var-arrow-down; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-mail-forward:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-share:before { content: @fa-var-share; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-expand:before { content: @fa-var-expand; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-compress:before { content: @fa-var-compress; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-plus:before { content: @fa-var-plus; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-minus:before { content: @fa-var-minus; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-asterisk:before { content: @fa-var-asterisk; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-exclamation-circle:before { content: @fa-var-exclamation-circle; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-gift:before { content: @fa-var-gift; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-leaf:before { content: @fa-var-leaf; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-fire:before { content: @fa-var-fire; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-eye:before { content: @fa-var-eye; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-eye-slash:before { content: @fa-var-eye-slash; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-warning:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-exclamation-triangle:before { content: @fa-var-exclamation-triangle; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-plane:before { content: @fa-var-plane; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-calendar:before { content: @fa-var-calendar; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-random:before { content: @fa-var-random; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-comment:before { content: @fa-var-comment; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-magnet:before { content: @fa-var-magnet; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-chevron-up:before { content: @fa-var-chevron-up; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-chevron-down:before { content: @fa-var-chevron-down; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-retweet:before { content: @fa-var-retweet; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-shopping-cart:before { content: @fa-var-shopping-cart; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-folder:before { content: @fa-var-folder; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-folder-open:before { content: @fa-var-folder-open; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-arrows-v:before { content: @fa-var-arrows-v; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-arrows-h:before { content: @fa-var-arrows-h; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bar-chart-o:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bar-chart:before { content: @fa-var-bar-chart; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-twitter-square:before { content: @fa-var-twitter-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-facebook-square:before { content: @fa-var-facebook-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-camera-retro:before { content: @fa-var-camera-retro; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-key:before { content: @fa-var-key; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-gears:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-cogs:before { content: @fa-var-cogs; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-comments:before { content: @fa-var-comments; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-thumbs-o-up:before { content: @fa-var-thumbs-o-up; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-thumbs-o-down:before { content: @fa-var-thumbs-o-down; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-star-half:before { content: @fa-var-star-half; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-heart-o:before { content: @fa-var-heart-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-sign-out:before { content: @fa-var-sign-out; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-linkedin-square:before { content: @fa-var-linkedin-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-thumb-tack:before { content: @fa-var-thumb-tack; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-external-link:before { content: @fa-var-external-link; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-sign-in:before { content: @fa-var-sign-in; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-trophy:before { content: @fa-var-trophy; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-github-square:before { content: @fa-var-github-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-upload:before { content: @fa-var-upload; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-lemon-o:before { content: @fa-var-lemon-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-phone:before { content: @fa-var-phone; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-square-o:before { content: @fa-var-square-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bookmark-o:before { content: @fa-var-bookmark-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-phone-square:before { content: @fa-var-phone-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-twitter:before { content: @fa-var-twitter; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-facebook-f:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-facebook:before { content: @fa-var-facebook; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-github:before { content: @fa-var-github; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-unlock:before { content: @fa-var-unlock; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-credit-card:before { content: @fa-var-credit-card; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-feed:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-rss:before { content: @fa-var-rss; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hdd-o:before { content: @fa-var-hdd-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bullhorn:before { content: @fa-var-bullhorn; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bell:before { content: @fa-var-bell; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-certificate:before { content: @fa-var-certificate; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hand-o-right:before { content: @fa-var-hand-o-right; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hand-o-left:before { content: @fa-var-hand-o-left; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hand-o-up:before { content: @fa-var-hand-o-up; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hand-o-down:before { content: @fa-var-hand-o-down; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-arrow-circle-left:before { content: @fa-var-arrow-circle-left; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-arrow-circle-right:before { content: @fa-var-arrow-circle-right; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-arrow-circle-up:before { content: @fa-var-arrow-circle-up; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-arrow-circle-down:before { content: @fa-var-arrow-circle-down; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-globe:before { content: @fa-var-globe; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-wrench:before { content: @fa-var-wrench; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-tasks:before { content: @fa-var-tasks; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-filter:before { content: @fa-var-filter; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-briefcase:before { content: @fa-var-briefcase; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-arrows-alt:before { content: @fa-var-arrows-alt; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-group:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-users:before { content: @fa-var-users; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-chain:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-link:before { content: @fa-var-link; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-cloud:before { content: @fa-var-cloud; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-flask:before { content: @fa-var-flask; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-cut:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-scissors:before { content: @fa-var-scissors; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-copy:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-files-o:before { content: @fa-var-files-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-paperclip:before { content: @fa-var-paperclip; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-save:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-floppy-o:before { content: @fa-var-floppy-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-square:before { content: @fa-var-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-navicon:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-reorder:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bars:before { content: @fa-var-bars; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-list-ul:before { content: @fa-var-list-ul; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-list-ol:before { content: @fa-var-list-ol; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-strikethrough:before { content: @fa-var-strikethrough; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-underline:before { content: @fa-var-underline; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-table:before { content: @fa-var-table; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-magic:before { content: @fa-var-magic; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-truck:before { content: @fa-var-truck; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-pinterest:before { content: @fa-var-pinterest; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-pinterest-square:before { content: @fa-var-pinterest-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-google-plus-square:before { content: @fa-var-google-plus-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-google-plus:before { content: @fa-var-google-plus; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-money:before { content: @fa-var-money; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-caret-down:before { content: @fa-var-caret-down; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-caret-up:before { content: @fa-var-caret-up; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-caret-left:before { content: @fa-var-caret-left; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-caret-right:before { content: @fa-var-caret-right; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-columns:before { content: @fa-var-columns; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-unsorted:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-sort:before { content: @fa-var-sort; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-sort-down:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-sort-desc:before { content: @fa-var-sort-desc; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-sort-up:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-sort-asc:before { content: @fa-var-sort-asc; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-envelope:before { content: @fa-var-envelope; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-linkedin:before { content: @fa-var-linkedin; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-rotate-left:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-undo:before { content: @fa-var-undo; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-legal:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-gavel:before { content: @fa-var-gavel; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-dashboard:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-tachometer:before { content: @fa-var-tachometer; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-comment-o:before { content: @fa-var-comment-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-comments-o:before { content: @fa-var-comments-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-flash:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bolt:before { content: @fa-var-bolt; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-sitemap:before { content: @fa-var-sitemap; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-umbrella:before { content: @fa-var-umbrella; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-paste:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-clipboard:before { content: @fa-var-clipboard; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-lightbulb-o:before { content: @fa-var-lightbulb-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-exchange:before { content: @fa-var-exchange; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-cloud-download:before { content: @fa-var-cloud-download; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-cloud-upload:before { content: @fa-var-cloud-upload; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-user-md:before { content: @fa-var-user-md; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-stethoscope:before { content: @fa-var-stethoscope; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-suitcase:before { content: @fa-var-suitcase; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bell-o:before { content: @fa-var-bell-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-coffee:before { content: @fa-var-coffee; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-cutlery:before { content: @fa-var-cutlery; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-file-text-o:before { content: @fa-var-file-text-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-building-o:before { content: @fa-var-building-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hospital-o:before { content: @fa-var-hospital-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-ambulance:before { content: @fa-var-ambulance; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-medkit:before { content: @fa-var-medkit; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-fighter-jet:before { content: @fa-var-fighter-jet; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-beer:before { content: @fa-var-beer; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-h-square:before { content: @fa-var-h-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-plus-square:before { content: @fa-var-plus-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-angle-double-left:before { content: @fa-var-angle-double-left; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-angle-double-right:before { content: @fa-var-angle-double-right; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-angle-double-up:before { content: @fa-var-angle-double-up; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-angle-double-down:before { content: @fa-var-angle-double-down; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-angle-left:before { content: @fa-var-angle-left; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-angle-right:before { content: @fa-var-angle-right; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-angle-up:before { content: @fa-var-angle-up; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-angle-down:before { content: @fa-var-angle-down; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-desktop:before { content: @fa-var-desktop; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-laptop:before { content: @fa-var-laptop; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-tablet:before { content: @fa-var-tablet; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-mobile-phone:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-mobile:before { content: @fa-var-mobile; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-circle-o:before { content: @fa-var-circle-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-quote-left:before { content: @fa-var-quote-left; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-quote-right:before { content: @fa-var-quote-right; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-spinner:before { content: @fa-var-spinner; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-circle:before { content: @fa-var-circle; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-mail-reply:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-reply:before { content: @fa-var-reply; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-github-alt:before { content: @fa-var-github-alt; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-folder-o:before { content: @fa-var-folder-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-folder-open-o:before { content: @fa-var-folder-open-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-smile-o:before { content: @fa-var-smile-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-frown-o:before { content: @fa-var-frown-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-meh-o:before { content: @fa-var-meh-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-gamepad:before { content: @fa-var-gamepad; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-keyboard-o:before { content: @fa-var-keyboard-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-flag-o:before { content: @fa-var-flag-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-flag-checkered:before { content: @fa-var-flag-checkered; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-terminal:before { content: @fa-var-terminal; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-code:before { content: @fa-var-code; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-mail-reply-all:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-reply-all:before { content: @fa-var-reply-all; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-star-half-empty:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-star-half-full:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-star-half-o:before { content: @fa-var-star-half-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-location-arrow:before { content: @fa-var-location-arrow; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-crop:before { content: @fa-var-crop; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-code-fork:before { content: @fa-var-code-fork; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-unlink:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-chain-broken:before { content: @fa-var-chain-broken; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-question:before { content: @fa-var-question; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-info:before { content: @fa-var-info; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-exclamation:before { content: @fa-var-exclamation; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-superscript:before { content: @fa-var-superscript; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-subscript:before { content: @fa-var-subscript; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-eraser:before { content: @fa-var-eraser; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-puzzle-piece:before { content: @fa-var-puzzle-piece; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-microphone:before { content: @fa-var-microphone; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-microphone-slash:before { content: @fa-var-microphone-slash; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-shield:before { content: @fa-var-shield; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-calendar-o:before { content: @fa-var-calendar-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-fire-extinguisher:before { content: @fa-var-fire-extinguisher; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-rocket:before { content: @fa-var-rocket; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-maxcdn:before { content: @fa-var-maxcdn; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-chevron-circle-left:before { content: @fa-var-chevron-circle-left; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-chevron-circle-right:before { content: @fa-var-chevron-circle-right; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-chevron-circle-up:before { content: @fa-var-chevron-circle-up; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-chevron-circle-down:before { content: @fa-var-chevron-circle-down; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-html5:before { content: @fa-var-html5; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-css3:before { content: @fa-var-css3; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-anchor:before { content: @fa-var-anchor; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-unlock-alt:before { content: @fa-var-unlock-alt; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bullseye:before { content: @fa-var-bullseye; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-ellipsis-h:before { content: @fa-var-ellipsis-h; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-ellipsis-v:before { content: @fa-var-ellipsis-v; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-rss-square:before { content: @fa-var-rss-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-play-circle:before { content: @fa-var-play-circle; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-ticket:before { content: @fa-var-ticket; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-minus-square:before { content: @fa-var-minus-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-minus-square-o:before { content: @fa-var-minus-square-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-level-up:before { content: @fa-var-level-up; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-level-down:before { content: @fa-var-level-down; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-check-square:before { content: @fa-var-check-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-pencil-square:before { content: @fa-var-pencil-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-external-link-square:before { content: @fa-var-external-link-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-share-square:before { content: @fa-var-share-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-compass:before { content: @fa-var-compass; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-toggle-down:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-caret-square-o-down:before { content: @fa-var-caret-square-o-down; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-toggle-up:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-caret-square-o-up:before { content: @fa-var-caret-square-o-up; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-toggle-right:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-caret-square-o-right:before { content: @fa-var-caret-square-o-right; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-euro:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-eur:before { content: @fa-var-eur; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-gbp:before { content: @fa-var-gbp; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-dollar:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-usd:before { content: @fa-var-usd; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-rupee:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-inr:before { content: @fa-var-inr; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-cny:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-rmb:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-yen:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-jpy:before { content: @fa-var-jpy; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-ruble:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-rouble:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-rub:before { content: @fa-var-rub; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-won:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-krw:before { content: @fa-var-krw; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bitcoin:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-btc:before { content: @fa-var-btc; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-file:before { content: @fa-var-file; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-file-text:before { content: @fa-var-file-text; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-sort-alpha-asc:before { content: @fa-var-sort-alpha-asc; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-sort-alpha-desc:before { content: @fa-var-sort-alpha-desc; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-sort-amount-asc:before { content: @fa-var-sort-amount-asc; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-sort-amount-desc:before { content: @fa-var-sort-amount-desc; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-sort-numeric-asc:before { content: @fa-var-sort-numeric-asc; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-sort-numeric-desc:before { content: @fa-var-sort-numeric-desc; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-thumbs-up:before { content: @fa-var-thumbs-up; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-thumbs-down:before { content: @fa-var-thumbs-down; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-youtube-square:before { content: @fa-var-youtube-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-youtube:before { content: @fa-var-youtube; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-xing:before { content: @fa-var-xing; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-xing-square:before { content: @fa-var-xing-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-youtube-play:before { content: @fa-var-youtube-play; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-dropbox:before { content: @fa-var-dropbox; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-stack-overflow:before { content: @fa-var-stack-overflow; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-instagram:before { content: @fa-var-instagram; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-flickr:before { content: @fa-var-flickr; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-adn:before { content: @fa-var-adn; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bitbucket:before { content: @fa-var-bitbucket; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bitbucket-square:before { content: @fa-var-bitbucket-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-tumblr:before { content: @fa-var-tumblr; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-tumblr-square:before { content: @fa-var-tumblr-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-long-arrow-down:before { content: @fa-var-long-arrow-down; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-long-arrow-up:before { content: @fa-var-long-arrow-up; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-long-arrow-left:before { content: @fa-var-long-arrow-left; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-long-arrow-right:before { content: @fa-var-long-arrow-right; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-apple:before { content: @fa-var-apple; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-windows:before { content: @fa-var-windows; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-android:before { content: @fa-var-android; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-linux:before { content: @fa-var-linux; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-dribbble:before { content: @fa-var-dribbble; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-skype:before { content: @fa-var-skype; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-foursquare:before { content: @fa-var-foursquare; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-trello:before { content: @fa-var-trello; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-female:before { content: @fa-var-female; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-male:before { content: @fa-var-male; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-gittip:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-gratipay:before { content: @fa-var-gratipay; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-sun-o:before { content: @fa-var-sun-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-moon-o:before { content: @fa-var-moon-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-archive:before { content: @fa-var-archive; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bug:before { content: @fa-var-bug; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-vk:before { content: @fa-var-vk; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-weibo:before { content: @fa-var-weibo; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-renren:before { content: @fa-var-renren; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-pagelines:before { content: @fa-var-pagelines; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-stack-exchange:before { content: @fa-var-stack-exchange; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-arrow-circle-o-right:before { content: @fa-var-arrow-circle-o-right; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-arrow-circle-o-left:before { content: @fa-var-arrow-circle-o-left; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-toggle-left:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-caret-square-o-left:before { content: @fa-var-caret-square-o-left; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-dot-circle-o:before { content: @fa-var-dot-circle-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-wheelchair:before { content: @fa-var-wheelchair; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-vimeo-square:before { content: @fa-var-vimeo-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-turkish-lira:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-try:before { content: @fa-var-try; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-plus-square-o:before { content: @fa-var-plus-square-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-space-shuttle:before { content: @fa-var-space-shuttle; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-slack:before { content: @fa-var-slack; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-envelope-square:before { content: @fa-var-envelope-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-wordpress:before { content: @fa-var-wordpress; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-openid:before { content: @fa-var-openid; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-institution:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bank:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-university:before { content: @fa-var-university; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-mortar-board:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-graduation-cap:before { content: @fa-var-graduation-cap; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-yahoo:before { content: @fa-var-yahoo; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-google:before { content: @fa-var-google; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-reddit:before { content: @fa-var-reddit; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-reddit-square:before { content: @fa-var-reddit-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-stumbleupon-circle:before { content: @fa-var-stumbleupon-circle; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-stumbleupon:before { content: @fa-var-stumbleupon; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-delicious:before { content: @fa-var-delicious; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-digg:before { content: @fa-var-digg; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-pied-piper-pp:before { content: @fa-var-pied-piper-pp; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-pied-piper-alt:before { content: @fa-var-pied-piper-alt; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-drupal:before { content: @fa-var-drupal; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-joomla:before { content: @fa-var-joomla; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-language:before { content: @fa-var-language; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-fax:before { content: @fa-var-fax; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-building:before { content: @fa-var-building; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-child:before { content: @fa-var-child; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-paw:before { content: @fa-var-paw; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-spoon:before { content: @fa-var-spoon; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-cube:before { content: @fa-var-cube; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-cubes:before { content: @fa-var-cubes; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-behance:before { content: @fa-var-behance; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-behance-square:before { content: @fa-var-behance-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-steam:before { content: @fa-var-steam; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-steam-square:before { content: @fa-var-steam-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-recycle:before { content: @fa-var-recycle; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-automobile:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-car:before { content: @fa-var-car; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-cab:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-taxi:before { content: @fa-var-taxi; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-tree:before { content: @fa-var-tree; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-spotify:before { content: @fa-var-spotify; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-deviantart:before { content: @fa-var-deviantart; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-soundcloud:before { content: @fa-var-soundcloud; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-database:before { content: @fa-var-database; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-file-pdf-o:before { content: @fa-var-file-pdf-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-file-word-o:before { content: @fa-var-file-word-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-file-excel-o:before { content: @fa-var-file-excel-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-file-powerpoint-o:before { content: @fa-var-file-powerpoint-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-file-photo-o:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-file-picture-o:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-file-image-o:before { content: @fa-var-file-image-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-file-zip-o:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-file-archive-o:before { content: @fa-var-file-archive-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-file-sound-o:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-file-audio-o:before { content: @fa-var-file-audio-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-file-movie-o:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-file-video-o:before { content: @fa-var-file-video-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-file-code-o:before { content: @fa-var-file-code-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-vine:before { content: @fa-var-vine; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-codepen:before { content: @fa-var-codepen; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-jsfiddle:before { content: @fa-var-jsfiddle; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-life-bouy:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-life-buoy:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-life-saver:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-support:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-life-ring:before { content: @fa-var-life-ring; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-circle-o-notch:before { content: @fa-var-circle-o-notch; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-ra:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-resistance:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-rebel:before { content: @fa-var-rebel; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-ge:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-empire:before { content: @fa-var-empire; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-git-square:before { content: @fa-var-git-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-git:before { content: @fa-var-git; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-y-combinator-square:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-yc-square:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hacker-news:before { content: @fa-var-hacker-news; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-tencent-weibo:before { content: @fa-var-tencent-weibo; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-qq:before { content: @fa-var-qq; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-wechat:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-weixin:before { content: @fa-var-weixin; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-send:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-paper-plane:before { content: @fa-var-paper-plane; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-send-o:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-paper-plane-o:before { content: @fa-var-paper-plane-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-history:before { content: @fa-var-history; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-circle-thin:before { content: @fa-var-circle-thin; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-header:before { content: @fa-var-header; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-paragraph:before { content: @fa-var-paragraph; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-sliders:before { content: @fa-var-sliders; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-share-alt:before { content: @fa-var-share-alt; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-share-alt-square:before { content: @fa-var-share-alt-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bomb:before { content: @fa-var-bomb; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-soccer-ball-o:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-futbol-o:before { content: @fa-var-futbol-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-tty:before { content: @fa-var-tty; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-binoculars:before { content: @fa-var-binoculars; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-plug:before { content: @fa-var-plug; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-slideshare:before { content: @fa-var-slideshare; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-twitch:before { content: @fa-var-twitch; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-yelp:before { content: @fa-var-yelp; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-newspaper-o:before { content: @fa-var-newspaper-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-wifi:before { content: @fa-var-wifi; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-calculator:before { content: @fa-var-calculator; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-paypal:before { content: @fa-var-paypal; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-google-wallet:before { content: @fa-var-google-wallet; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-cc-visa:before { content: @fa-var-cc-visa; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-cc-mastercard:before { content: @fa-var-cc-mastercard; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-cc-discover:before { content: @fa-var-cc-discover; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-cc-amex:before { content: @fa-var-cc-amex; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-cc-paypal:before { content: @fa-var-cc-paypal; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-cc-stripe:before { content: @fa-var-cc-stripe; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bell-slash:before { content: @fa-var-bell-slash; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bell-slash-o:before { content: @fa-var-bell-slash-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-trash:before { content: @fa-var-trash; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-copyright:before { content: @fa-var-copyright; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-at:before { content: @fa-var-at; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-eyedropper:before { content: @fa-var-eyedropper; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-paint-brush:before { content: @fa-var-paint-brush; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-birthday-cake:before { content: @fa-var-birthday-cake; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-area-chart:before { content: @fa-var-area-chart; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-pie-chart:before { content: @fa-var-pie-chart; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-line-chart:before { content: @fa-var-line-chart; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-lastfm:before { content: @fa-var-lastfm; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-lastfm-square:before { content: @fa-var-lastfm-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-toggle-off:before { content: @fa-var-toggle-off; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-toggle-on:before { content: @fa-var-toggle-on; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bicycle:before { content: @fa-var-bicycle; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bus:before { content: @fa-var-bus; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-ioxhost:before { content: @fa-var-ioxhost; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-angellist:before { content: @fa-var-angellist; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-cc:before { content: @fa-var-cc; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-shekel:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-sheqel:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-ils:before { content: @fa-var-ils; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-meanpath:before { content: @fa-var-meanpath; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-buysellads:before { content: @fa-var-buysellads; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-connectdevelop:before { content: @fa-var-connectdevelop; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-dashcube:before { content: @fa-var-dashcube; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-forumbee:before { content: @fa-var-forumbee; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-leanpub:before { content: @fa-var-leanpub; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-sellsy:before { content: @fa-var-sellsy; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-shirtsinbulk:before { content: @fa-var-shirtsinbulk; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-simplybuilt:before { content: @fa-var-simplybuilt; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-skyatlas:before { content: @fa-var-skyatlas; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-cart-plus:before { content: @fa-var-cart-plus; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-cart-arrow-down:before { content: @fa-var-cart-arrow-down; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-diamond:before { content: @fa-var-diamond; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-ship:before { content: @fa-var-ship; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-user-secret:before { content: @fa-var-user-secret; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-motorcycle:before { content: @fa-var-motorcycle; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-street-view:before { content: @fa-var-street-view; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-heartbeat:before { content: @fa-var-heartbeat; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-venus:before { content: @fa-var-venus; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-mars:before { content: @fa-var-mars; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-mercury:before { content: @fa-var-mercury; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-intersex:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-transgender:before { content: @fa-var-transgender; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-transgender-alt:before { content: @fa-var-transgender-alt; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-venus-double:before { content: @fa-var-venus-double; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-mars-double:before { content: @fa-var-mars-double; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-venus-mars:before { content: @fa-var-venus-mars; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-mars-stroke:before { content: @fa-var-mars-stroke; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-mars-stroke-v:before { content: @fa-var-mars-stroke-v; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-mars-stroke-h:before { content: @fa-var-mars-stroke-h; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-neuter:before { content: @fa-var-neuter; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-genderless:before { content: @fa-var-genderless; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-facebook-official:before { content: @fa-var-facebook-official; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-pinterest-p:before { content: @fa-var-pinterest-p; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-whatsapp:before { content: @fa-var-whatsapp; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-server:before { content: @fa-var-server; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-user-plus:before { content: @fa-var-user-plus; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-user-times:before { content: @fa-var-user-times; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hotel:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bed:before { content: @fa-var-bed; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-viacoin:before { content: @fa-var-viacoin; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-train:before { content: @fa-var-train; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-subway:before { content: @fa-var-subway; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-medium:before { content: @fa-var-medium; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-yc:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-y-combinator:before { content: @fa-var-y-combinator; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-optin-monster:before { content: @fa-var-optin-monster; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-opencart:before { content: @fa-var-opencart; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-expeditedssl:before { content: @fa-var-expeditedssl; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-battery-4:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-battery-full:before { content: @fa-var-battery-full; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-battery-3:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-battery-three-quarters:before { content: @fa-var-battery-three-quarters; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-battery-2:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-battery-half:before { content: @fa-var-battery-half; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-battery-1:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-battery-quarter:before { content: @fa-var-battery-quarter; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-battery-0:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-battery-empty:before { content: @fa-var-battery-empty; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-mouse-pointer:before { content: @fa-var-mouse-pointer; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-i-cursor:before { content: @fa-var-i-cursor; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-object-group:before { content: @fa-var-object-group; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-object-ungroup:before { content: @fa-var-object-ungroup; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-sticky-note:before { content: @fa-var-sticky-note; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-sticky-note-o:before { content: @fa-var-sticky-note-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-cc-jcb:before { content: @fa-var-cc-jcb; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-cc-diners-club:before { content: @fa-var-cc-diners-club; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-clone:before { content: @fa-var-clone; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-balance-scale:before { content: @fa-var-balance-scale; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hourglass-o:before { content: @fa-var-hourglass-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hourglass-1:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hourglass-start:before { content: @fa-var-hourglass-start; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hourglass-2:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hourglass-half:before { content: @fa-var-hourglass-half; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hourglass-3:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hourglass-end:before { content: @fa-var-hourglass-end; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hourglass:before { content: @fa-var-hourglass; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hand-grab-o:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hand-rock-o:before { content: @fa-var-hand-rock-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hand-stop-o:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hand-paper-o:before { content: @fa-var-hand-paper-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hand-scissors-o:before { content: @fa-var-hand-scissors-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hand-lizard-o:before { content: @fa-var-hand-lizard-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hand-spock-o:before { content: @fa-var-hand-spock-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hand-pointer-o:before { content: @fa-var-hand-pointer-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hand-peace-o:before { content: @fa-var-hand-peace-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-trademark:before { content: @fa-var-trademark; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-registered:before { content: @fa-var-registered; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-creative-commons:before { content: @fa-var-creative-commons; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-gg:before { content: @fa-var-gg; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-gg-circle:before { content: @fa-var-gg-circle; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-tripadvisor:before { content: @fa-var-tripadvisor; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-odnoklassniki:before { content: @fa-var-odnoklassniki; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-odnoklassniki-square:before { content: @fa-var-odnoklassniki-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-get-pocket:before { content: @fa-var-get-pocket; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-wikipedia-w:before { content: @fa-var-wikipedia-w; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-safari:before { content: @fa-var-safari; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-chrome:before { content: @fa-var-chrome; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-firefox:before { content: @fa-var-firefox; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-opera:before { content: @fa-var-opera; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-internet-explorer:before { content: @fa-var-internet-explorer; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-tv:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-television:before { content: @fa-var-television; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-contao:before { content: @fa-var-contao; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-500px:before { content: @fa-var-500px; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-amazon:before { content: @fa-var-amazon; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-calendar-plus-o:before { content: @fa-var-calendar-plus-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-calendar-minus-o:before { content: @fa-var-calendar-minus-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-calendar-times-o:before { content: @fa-var-calendar-times-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-calendar-check-o:before { content: @fa-var-calendar-check-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-industry:before { content: @fa-var-industry; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-map-pin:before { content: @fa-var-map-pin; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-map-signs:before { content: @fa-var-map-signs; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-map-o:before { content: @fa-var-map-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-map:before { content: @fa-var-map; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-commenting:before { content: @fa-var-commenting; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-commenting-o:before { content: @fa-var-commenting-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-houzz:before { content: @fa-var-houzz; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-vimeo:before { content: @fa-var-vimeo; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-black-tie:before { content: @fa-var-black-tie; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-fonticons:before { content: @fa-var-fonticons; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-reddit-alien:before { content: @fa-var-reddit-alien; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-edge:before { content: @fa-var-edge; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-credit-card-alt:before { content: @fa-var-credit-card-alt; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-codiepie:before { content: @fa-var-codiepie; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-modx:before { content: @fa-var-modx; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-fort-awesome:before { content: @fa-var-fort-awesome; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-usb:before { content: @fa-var-usb; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-product-hunt:before { content: @fa-var-product-hunt; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-mixcloud:before { content: @fa-var-mixcloud; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-scribd:before { content: @fa-var-scribd; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-pause-circle:before { content: @fa-var-pause-circle; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-pause-circle-o:before { content: @fa-var-pause-circle-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-stop-circle:before { content: @fa-var-stop-circle; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-stop-circle-o:before { content: @fa-var-stop-circle-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-shopping-bag:before { content: @fa-var-shopping-bag; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-shopping-basket:before { content: @fa-var-shopping-basket; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hashtag:before { content: @fa-var-hashtag; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bluetooth:before { content: @fa-var-bluetooth; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-bluetooth-b:before { content: @fa-var-bluetooth-b; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-percent:before { content: @fa-var-percent; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-gitlab:before { content: @fa-var-gitlab; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-wpbeginner:before { content: @fa-var-wpbeginner; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-wpforms:before { content: @fa-var-wpforms; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-envira:before { content: @fa-var-envira; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-universal-access:before { content: @fa-var-universal-access; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-wheelchair-alt:before { content: @fa-var-wheelchair-alt; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-question-circle-o:before { content: @fa-var-question-circle-o; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-blind:before { content: @fa-var-blind; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-audio-description:before { content: @fa-var-audio-description; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-volume-control-phone:before { content: @fa-var-volume-control-phone; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-braille:before { content: @fa-var-braille; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-assistive-listening-systems:before { content: @fa-var-assistive-listening-systems; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-asl-interpreting:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-american-sign-language-interpreting:before { content: @fa-var-american-sign-language-interpreting; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-deafness:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-hard-of-hearing:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-deaf:before { content: @fa-var-deaf; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-glide:before { content: @fa-var-glide; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-glide-g:before { content: @fa-var-glide-g; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-signing:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-sign-language:before { content: @fa-var-sign-language; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-low-vision:before { content: @fa-var-low-vision; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-viadeo:before { content: @fa-var-viadeo; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-viadeo-square:before { content: @fa-var-viadeo-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-snapchat:before { content: @fa-var-snapchat; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-snapchat-ghost:before { content: @fa-var-snapchat-ghost; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-snapchat-square:before { content: @fa-var-snapchat-square; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-pied-piper:before { content: @fa-var-pied-piper; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-first-order:before { content: @fa-var-first-order; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-yoast:before { content: @fa-var-yoast; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-themeisle:before { content: @fa-var-themeisle; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-google-plus-circle:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-google-plus-official:before { content: @fa-var-google-plus-official; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-fa:before, +.@{fa-css-prefix}-font-awesome:before { content: @fa-var-font-awesome; } diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/larger.less b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/larger.less new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c9d6467 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/larger.less @@ -0,0 +1,13 @@ +// Icon Sizes +// ------------------------- + +/* makes the font 33% larger relative to the icon container */ +.@{fa-css-prefix}-lg { + font-size: (4em / 3); + line-height: (3em / 4); + vertical-align: -15%; +} +.@{fa-css-prefix}-2x { font-size: 2em; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-3x { font-size: 3em; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-4x { font-size: 4em; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-5x { font-size: 5em; } diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/list.less b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/list.less new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0b44038 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/list.less @@ -0,0 +1,19 @@ +// List Icons +// ------------------------- + +.@{fa-css-prefix}-ul { + padding-left: 0; + margin-left: @fa-li-width; + list-style-type: none; + > li { position: relative; } +} +.@{fa-css-prefix}-li { + position: absolute; + left: -@fa-li-width; + width: @fa-li-width; + top: (2em / 14); + text-align: center; + &.@{fa-css-prefix}-lg { + left: (-@fa-li-width + (4em / 14)); + } +} diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/mixins.less b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/mixins.less new file mode 100644 index 0000000..beef231 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/mixins.less @@ -0,0 +1,60 @@ +// Mixins +// -------------------------- + +.fa-icon() { + display: inline-block; + font: normal normal normal @fa-font-size-base/@fa-line-height-base FontAwesome; // shortening font declaration + font-size: inherit; // can't have font-size inherit on line above, so need to override + text-rendering: auto; // optimizelegibility throws things off #1094 + -webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; + -moz-osx-font-smoothing: grayscale; + +} + +.fa-icon-rotate(@degrees, @rotation) { + -ms-filter: "progid:DXImageTransform.Microsoft.BasicImage(rotation=@{rotation})"; + -webkit-transform: rotate(@degrees); + -ms-transform: rotate(@degrees); + transform: rotate(@degrees); +} + +.fa-icon-flip(@horiz, @vert, @rotation) { + -ms-filter: "progid:DXImageTransform.Microsoft.BasicImage(rotation=@{rotation}, mirror=1)"; + -webkit-transform: scale(@horiz, @vert); + -ms-transform: scale(@horiz, @vert); + transform: scale(@horiz, @vert); +} + + +// Only display content to screen readers. A la Bootstrap 4. +// +// See: http://a11yproject.com/posts/how-to-hide-content/ + +.sr-only() { + position: absolute; + width: 1px; + height: 1px; + padding: 0; + margin: -1px; + overflow: hidden; + clip: rect(0,0,0,0); + border: 0; +} + +// Use in conjunction with .sr-only to only display content when it's focused. +// +// Useful for "Skip to main content" links; see http://www.w3.org/TR/2013/NOTE-WCAG20-TECHS-20130905/G1 +// +// Credit: HTML5 Boilerplate + +.sr-only-focusable() { + &:active, + &:focus { + position: static; + width: auto; + height: auto; + margin: 0; + overflow: visible; + clip: auto; + } +} diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/path.less b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/path.less new file mode 100644 index 0000000..835be41 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/path.less @@ -0,0 +1,15 @@ +/* FONT PATH + * -------------------------- */ + +@font-face { + font-family: 'FontAwesome'; + src: url('@{fa-font-path}/fontawesome-webfont.eot?v=@{fa-version}'); + src: url('@{fa-font-path}/fontawesome-webfont.eot?#iefix&v=@{fa-version}') format('embedded-opentype'), + url('@{fa-font-path}/fontawesome-webfont.woff2?v=@{fa-version}') format('woff2'), + url('@{fa-font-path}/fontawesome-webfont.woff?v=@{fa-version}') format('woff'), + url('@{fa-font-path}/fontawesome-webfont.ttf?v=@{fa-version}') format('truetype'), + url('@{fa-font-path}/fontawesome-webfont.svg?v=@{fa-version}#fontawesomeregular') format('svg'); + // src: url('@{fa-font-path}/FontAwesome.otf') format('opentype'); // used when developing fonts + font-weight: normal; + font-style: normal; +} diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/rotated-flipped.less b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/rotated-flipped.less new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f6ba814 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/rotated-flipped.less @@ -0,0 +1,20 @@ +// Rotated & Flipped Icons +// ------------------------- + +.@{fa-css-prefix}-rotate-90 { .fa-icon-rotate(90deg, 1); } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-rotate-180 { .fa-icon-rotate(180deg, 2); } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-rotate-270 { .fa-icon-rotate(270deg, 3); } + +.@{fa-css-prefix}-flip-horizontal { .fa-icon-flip(-1, 1, 0); } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-flip-vertical { .fa-icon-flip(1, -1, 2); } + +// Hook for IE8-9 +// ------------------------- + +:root .@{fa-css-prefix}-rotate-90, +:root .@{fa-css-prefix}-rotate-180, +:root .@{fa-css-prefix}-rotate-270, +:root .@{fa-css-prefix}-flip-horizontal, +:root .@{fa-css-prefix}-flip-vertical { + filter: none; +} diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/screen-reader.less b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/screen-reader.less new file mode 100644 index 0000000..11c1881 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/screen-reader.less @@ -0,0 +1,5 @@ +// Screen Readers +// ------------------------- + +.sr-only { .sr-only(); } +.sr-only-focusable { .sr-only-focusable(); } diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/stacked.less b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/stacked.less new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fc53fb0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/stacked.less @@ -0,0 +1,20 @@ +// Stacked Icons +// ------------------------- + +.@{fa-css-prefix}-stack { + position: relative; + display: inline-block; + width: 2em; + height: 2em; + line-height: 2em; + vertical-align: middle; +} +.@{fa-css-prefix}-stack-1x, .@{fa-css-prefix}-stack-2x { + position: absolute; + left: 0; + width: 100%; + text-align: center; +} +.@{fa-css-prefix}-stack-1x { line-height: inherit; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-stack-2x { font-size: 2em; } +.@{fa-css-prefix}-inverse { color: @fa-inverse; } diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/variables.less b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/variables.less new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2b33819 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/less/variables.less @@ -0,0 +1,744 @@ +// Variables +// -------------------------- + +@fa-font-path: "../fonts"; +@fa-font-size-base: 14px; +@fa-line-height-base: 1; +//@fa-font-path: "//netdna.bootstrapcdn.com/font-awesome/4.6.3/fonts"; // for referencing Bootstrap CDN font files directly +@fa-css-prefix: fa; +@fa-version: "4.6.3"; +@fa-border-color: #eee; +@fa-inverse: #fff; +@fa-li-width: (30em / 14); + +@fa-var-500px: "\f26e"; +@fa-var-adjust: "\f042"; +@fa-var-adn: "\f170"; +@fa-var-align-center: "\f037"; +@fa-var-align-justify: "\f039"; +@fa-var-align-left: "\f036"; +@fa-var-align-right: "\f038"; +@fa-var-amazon: "\f270"; +@fa-var-ambulance: "\f0f9"; +@fa-var-american-sign-language-interpreting: "\f2a3"; +@fa-var-anchor: "\f13d"; +@fa-var-android: "\f17b"; +@fa-var-angellist: "\f209"; +@fa-var-angle-double-down: "\f103"; +@fa-var-angle-double-left: "\f100"; +@fa-var-angle-double-right: "\f101"; +@fa-var-angle-double-up: "\f102"; +@fa-var-angle-down: "\f107"; +@fa-var-angle-left: "\f104"; +@fa-var-angle-right: "\f105"; +@fa-var-angle-up: "\f106"; +@fa-var-apple: "\f179"; +@fa-var-archive: "\f187"; +@fa-var-area-chart: "\f1fe"; +@fa-var-arrow-circle-down: "\f0ab"; +@fa-var-arrow-circle-left: "\f0a8"; +@fa-var-arrow-circle-o-down: "\f01a"; +@fa-var-arrow-circle-o-left: "\f190"; +@fa-var-arrow-circle-o-right: "\f18e"; +@fa-var-arrow-circle-o-up: "\f01b"; +@fa-var-arrow-circle-right: "\f0a9"; +@fa-var-arrow-circle-up: "\f0aa"; +@fa-var-arrow-down: "\f063"; +@fa-var-arrow-left: "\f060"; +@fa-var-arrow-right: "\f061"; +@fa-var-arrow-up: "\f062"; +@fa-var-arrows: "\f047"; +@fa-var-arrows-alt: "\f0b2"; +@fa-var-arrows-h: "\f07e"; +@fa-var-arrows-v: "\f07d"; +@fa-var-asl-interpreting: "\f2a3"; +@fa-var-assistive-listening-systems: "\f2a2"; +@fa-var-asterisk: "\f069"; +@fa-var-at: "\f1fa"; +@fa-var-audio-description: "\f29e"; +@fa-var-automobile: "\f1b9"; +@fa-var-backward: "\f04a"; +@fa-var-balance-scale: "\f24e"; +@fa-var-ban: "\f05e"; +@fa-var-bank: "\f19c"; +@fa-var-bar-chart: "\f080"; +@fa-var-bar-chart-o: "\f080"; +@fa-var-barcode: "\f02a"; +@fa-var-bars: "\f0c9"; +@fa-var-battery-0: "\f244"; +@fa-var-battery-1: "\f243"; +@fa-var-battery-2: "\f242"; +@fa-var-battery-3: "\f241"; +@fa-var-battery-4: "\f240"; +@fa-var-battery-empty: "\f244"; +@fa-var-battery-full: "\f240"; +@fa-var-battery-half: "\f242"; +@fa-var-battery-quarter: "\f243"; +@fa-var-battery-three-quarters: "\f241"; +@fa-var-bed: "\f236"; +@fa-var-beer: "\f0fc"; +@fa-var-behance: "\f1b4"; +@fa-var-behance-square: "\f1b5"; +@fa-var-bell: "\f0f3"; +@fa-var-bell-o: "\f0a2"; +@fa-var-bell-slash: "\f1f6"; +@fa-var-bell-slash-o: "\f1f7"; +@fa-var-bicycle: "\f206"; +@fa-var-binoculars: "\f1e5"; +@fa-var-birthday-cake: "\f1fd"; +@fa-var-bitbucket: "\f171"; +@fa-var-bitbucket-square: "\f172"; +@fa-var-bitcoin: "\f15a"; +@fa-var-black-tie: "\f27e"; +@fa-var-blind: "\f29d"; +@fa-var-bluetooth: "\f293"; +@fa-var-bluetooth-b: "\f294"; +@fa-var-bold: "\f032"; +@fa-var-bolt: "\f0e7"; +@fa-var-bomb: "\f1e2"; +@fa-var-book: "\f02d"; +@fa-var-bookmark: "\f02e"; +@fa-var-bookmark-o: "\f097"; +@fa-var-braille: "\f2a1"; +@fa-var-briefcase: "\f0b1"; +@fa-var-btc: "\f15a"; +@fa-var-bug: "\f188"; +@fa-var-building: "\f1ad"; +@fa-var-building-o: "\f0f7"; +@fa-var-bullhorn: "\f0a1"; +@fa-var-bullseye: "\f140"; +@fa-var-bus: "\f207"; +@fa-var-buysellads: "\f20d"; +@fa-var-cab: "\f1ba"; +@fa-var-calculator: "\f1ec"; +@fa-var-calendar: "\f073"; +@fa-var-calendar-check-o: "\f274"; +@fa-var-calendar-minus-o: "\f272"; +@fa-var-calendar-o: "\f133"; +@fa-var-calendar-plus-o: "\f271"; +@fa-var-calendar-times-o: "\f273"; +@fa-var-camera: "\f030"; +@fa-var-camera-retro: "\f083"; +@fa-var-car: "\f1b9"; +@fa-var-caret-down: "\f0d7"; +@fa-var-caret-left: "\f0d9"; +@fa-var-caret-right: "\f0da"; +@fa-var-caret-square-o-down: "\f150"; +@fa-var-caret-square-o-left: "\f191"; +@fa-var-caret-square-o-right: "\f152"; +@fa-var-caret-square-o-up: "\f151"; +@fa-var-caret-up: "\f0d8"; +@fa-var-cart-arrow-down: "\f218"; +@fa-var-cart-plus: "\f217"; +@fa-var-cc: "\f20a"; +@fa-var-cc-amex: "\f1f3"; +@fa-var-cc-diners-club: "\f24c"; +@fa-var-cc-discover: "\f1f2"; +@fa-var-cc-jcb: "\f24b"; +@fa-var-cc-mastercard: "\f1f1"; +@fa-var-cc-paypal: "\f1f4"; +@fa-var-cc-stripe: "\f1f5"; +@fa-var-cc-visa: "\f1f0"; +@fa-var-certificate: "\f0a3"; +@fa-var-chain: "\f0c1"; +@fa-var-chain-broken: "\f127"; +@fa-var-check: "\f00c"; +@fa-var-check-circle: "\f058"; +@fa-var-check-circle-o: "\f05d"; +@fa-var-check-square: "\f14a"; +@fa-var-check-square-o: "\f046"; +@fa-var-chevron-circle-down: "\f13a"; +@fa-var-chevron-circle-left: "\f137"; +@fa-var-chevron-circle-right: "\f138"; +@fa-var-chevron-circle-up: "\f139"; +@fa-var-chevron-down: "\f078"; +@fa-var-chevron-left: "\f053"; +@fa-var-chevron-right: "\f054"; +@fa-var-chevron-up: "\f077"; +@fa-var-child: "\f1ae"; +@fa-var-chrome: "\f268"; +@fa-var-circle: "\f111"; +@fa-var-circle-o: "\f10c"; +@fa-var-circle-o-notch: "\f1ce"; +@fa-var-circle-thin: "\f1db"; +@fa-var-clipboard: "\f0ea"; +@fa-var-clock-o: "\f017"; +@fa-var-clone: "\f24d"; +@fa-var-close: "\f00d"; +@fa-var-cloud: "\f0c2"; +@fa-var-cloud-download: "\f0ed"; +@fa-var-cloud-upload: "\f0ee"; +@fa-var-cny: "\f157"; +@fa-var-code: "\f121"; +@fa-var-code-fork: "\f126"; +@fa-var-codepen: "\f1cb"; +@fa-var-codiepie: "\f284"; +@fa-var-coffee: "\f0f4"; +@fa-var-cog: "\f013"; +@fa-var-cogs: "\f085"; +@fa-var-columns: "\f0db"; +@fa-var-comment: "\f075"; +@fa-var-comment-o: "\f0e5"; +@fa-var-commenting: "\f27a"; +@fa-var-commenting-o: "\f27b"; +@fa-var-comments: "\f086"; +@fa-var-comments-o: "\f0e6"; +@fa-var-compass: "\f14e"; +@fa-var-compress: "\f066"; +@fa-var-connectdevelop: "\f20e"; +@fa-var-contao: "\f26d"; +@fa-var-copy: "\f0c5"; +@fa-var-copyright: "\f1f9"; +@fa-var-creative-commons: "\f25e"; +@fa-var-credit-card: "\f09d"; +@fa-var-credit-card-alt: "\f283"; +@fa-var-crop: "\f125"; +@fa-var-crosshairs: "\f05b"; +@fa-var-css3: "\f13c"; +@fa-var-cube: "\f1b2"; +@fa-var-cubes: "\f1b3"; +@fa-var-cut: "\f0c4"; +@fa-var-cutlery: "\f0f5"; +@fa-var-dashboard: "\f0e4"; +@fa-var-dashcube: "\f210"; +@fa-var-database: "\f1c0"; +@fa-var-deaf: "\f2a4"; +@fa-var-deafness: "\f2a4"; +@fa-var-dedent: "\f03b"; +@fa-var-delicious: "\f1a5"; +@fa-var-desktop: "\f108"; +@fa-var-deviantart: "\f1bd"; +@fa-var-diamond: "\f219"; +@fa-var-digg: "\f1a6"; +@fa-var-dollar: "\f155"; +@fa-var-dot-circle-o: "\f192"; +@fa-var-download: "\f019"; +@fa-var-dribbble: "\f17d"; +@fa-var-dropbox: "\f16b"; +@fa-var-drupal: "\f1a9"; +@fa-var-edge: "\f282"; +@fa-var-edit: "\f044"; +@fa-var-eject: "\f052"; +@fa-var-ellipsis-h: "\f141"; +@fa-var-ellipsis-v: "\f142"; +@fa-var-empire: "\f1d1"; +@fa-var-envelope: "\f0e0"; +@fa-var-envelope-o: "\f003"; +@fa-var-envelope-square: "\f199"; +@fa-var-envira: "\f299"; +@fa-var-eraser: "\f12d"; +@fa-var-eur: "\f153"; +@fa-var-euro: "\f153"; +@fa-var-exchange: "\f0ec"; +@fa-var-exclamation: "\f12a"; +@fa-var-exclamation-circle: "\f06a"; +@fa-var-exclamation-triangle: "\f071"; +@fa-var-expand: "\f065"; +@fa-var-expeditedssl: "\f23e"; +@fa-var-external-link: "\f08e"; +@fa-var-external-link-square: "\f14c"; +@fa-var-eye: "\f06e"; +@fa-var-eye-slash: "\f070"; +@fa-var-eyedropper: "\f1fb"; +@fa-var-fa: "\f2b4"; +@fa-var-facebook: "\f09a"; +@fa-var-facebook-f: "\f09a"; +@fa-var-facebook-official: "\f230"; +@fa-var-facebook-square: "\f082"; +@fa-var-fast-backward: "\f049"; +@fa-var-fast-forward: "\f050"; +@fa-var-fax: "\f1ac"; +@fa-var-feed: "\f09e"; +@fa-var-female: "\f182"; +@fa-var-fighter-jet: "\f0fb"; +@fa-var-file: "\f15b"; +@fa-var-file-archive-o: "\f1c6"; +@fa-var-file-audio-o: "\f1c7"; +@fa-var-file-code-o: "\f1c9"; +@fa-var-file-excel-o: "\f1c3"; +@fa-var-file-image-o: "\f1c5"; +@fa-var-file-movie-o: "\f1c8"; +@fa-var-file-o: "\f016"; +@fa-var-file-pdf-o: "\f1c1"; +@fa-var-file-photo-o: "\f1c5"; +@fa-var-file-picture-o: "\f1c5"; +@fa-var-file-powerpoint-o: "\f1c4"; +@fa-var-file-sound-o: "\f1c7"; +@fa-var-file-text: "\f15c"; +@fa-var-file-text-o: "\f0f6"; +@fa-var-file-video-o: "\f1c8"; +@fa-var-file-word-o: "\f1c2"; +@fa-var-file-zip-o: "\f1c6"; +@fa-var-files-o: "\f0c5"; +@fa-var-film: "\f008"; +@fa-var-filter: "\f0b0"; +@fa-var-fire: "\f06d"; +@fa-var-fire-extinguisher: "\f134"; +@fa-var-firefox: "\f269"; +@fa-var-first-order: "\f2b0"; +@fa-var-flag: "\f024"; +@fa-var-flag-checkered: "\f11e"; +@fa-var-flag-o: "\f11d"; +@fa-var-flash: "\f0e7"; +@fa-var-flask: "\f0c3"; +@fa-var-flickr: "\f16e"; +@fa-var-floppy-o: "\f0c7"; +@fa-var-folder: "\f07b"; +@fa-var-folder-o: "\f114"; +@fa-var-folder-open: "\f07c"; +@fa-var-folder-open-o: "\f115"; +@fa-var-font: "\f031"; +@fa-var-font-awesome: "\f2b4"; +@fa-var-fonticons: "\f280"; +@fa-var-fort-awesome: "\f286"; +@fa-var-forumbee: "\f211"; +@fa-var-forward: "\f04e"; +@fa-var-foursquare: "\f180"; +@fa-var-frown-o: "\f119"; +@fa-var-futbol-o: "\f1e3"; +@fa-var-gamepad: "\f11b"; +@fa-var-gavel: "\f0e3"; +@fa-var-gbp: "\f154"; +@fa-var-ge: "\f1d1"; +@fa-var-gear: "\f013"; +@fa-var-gears: "\f085"; +@fa-var-genderless: "\f22d"; +@fa-var-get-pocket: "\f265"; +@fa-var-gg: "\f260"; +@fa-var-gg-circle: "\f261"; +@fa-var-gift: "\f06b"; +@fa-var-git: "\f1d3"; +@fa-var-git-square: "\f1d2"; +@fa-var-github: "\f09b"; +@fa-var-github-alt: "\f113"; +@fa-var-github-square: "\f092"; +@fa-var-gitlab: "\f296"; +@fa-var-gittip: "\f184"; +@fa-var-glass: "\f000"; +@fa-var-glide: "\f2a5"; +@fa-var-glide-g: "\f2a6"; +@fa-var-globe: "\f0ac"; +@fa-var-google: "\f1a0"; +@fa-var-google-plus: "\f0d5"; +@fa-var-google-plus-circle: "\f2b3"; +@fa-var-google-plus-official: "\f2b3"; +@fa-var-google-plus-square: "\f0d4"; +@fa-var-google-wallet: "\f1ee"; +@fa-var-graduation-cap: "\f19d"; +@fa-var-gratipay: "\f184"; +@fa-var-group: "\f0c0"; +@fa-var-h-square: "\f0fd"; +@fa-var-hacker-news: "\f1d4"; +@fa-var-hand-grab-o: "\f255"; +@fa-var-hand-lizard-o: "\f258"; +@fa-var-hand-o-down: "\f0a7"; +@fa-var-hand-o-left: "\f0a5"; +@fa-var-hand-o-right: "\f0a4"; +@fa-var-hand-o-up: "\f0a6"; +@fa-var-hand-paper-o: "\f256"; +@fa-var-hand-peace-o: "\f25b"; +@fa-var-hand-pointer-o: "\f25a"; +@fa-var-hand-rock-o: "\f255"; +@fa-var-hand-scissors-o: "\f257"; +@fa-var-hand-spock-o: "\f259"; +@fa-var-hand-stop-o: "\f256"; +@fa-var-hard-of-hearing: "\f2a4"; +@fa-var-hashtag: "\f292"; +@fa-var-hdd-o: "\f0a0"; +@fa-var-header: "\f1dc"; +@fa-var-headphones: "\f025"; +@fa-var-heart: "\f004"; +@fa-var-heart-o: "\f08a"; +@fa-var-heartbeat: "\f21e"; +@fa-var-history: "\f1da"; +@fa-var-home: "\f015"; +@fa-var-hospital-o: "\f0f8"; +@fa-var-hotel: "\f236"; +@fa-var-hourglass: "\f254"; +@fa-var-hourglass-1: "\f251"; +@fa-var-hourglass-2: "\f252"; +@fa-var-hourglass-3: "\f253"; +@fa-var-hourglass-end: "\f253"; +@fa-var-hourglass-half: "\f252"; +@fa-var-hourglass-o: "\f250"; +@fa-var-hourglass-start: "\f251"; +@fa-var-houzz: "\f27c"; +@fa-var-html5: "\f13b"; +@fa-var-i-cursor: "\f246"; +@fa-var-ils: "\f20b"; +@fa-var-image: "\f03e"; +@fa-var-inbox: "\f01c"; +@fa-var-indent: "\f03c"; +@fa-var-industry: "\f275"; +@fa-var-info: "\f129"; +@fa-var-info-circle: "\f05a"; +@fa-var-inr: "\f156"; +@fa-var-instagram: "\f16d"; +@fa-var-institution: "\f19c"; +@fa-var-internet-explorer: "\f26b"; +@fa-var-intersex: "\f224"; +@fa-var-ioxhost: "\f208"; +@fa-var-italic: "\f033"; +@fa-var-joomla: "\f1aa"; +@fa-var-jpy: "\f157"; +@fa-var-jsfiddle: "\f1cc"; +@fa-var-key: "\f084"; +@fa-var-keyboard-o: "\f11c"; +@fa-var-krw: "\f159"; +@fa-var-language: "\f1ab"; +@fa-var-laptop: "\f109"; +@fa-var-lastfm: "\f202"; +@fa-var-lastfm-square: "\f203"; +@fa-var-leaf: "\f06c"; +@fa-var-leanpub: "\f212"; +@fa-var-legal: "\f0e3"; +@fa-var-lemon-o: "\f094"; +@fa-var-level-down: "\f149"; +@fa-var-level-up: "\f148"; +@fa-var-life-bouy: "\f1cd"; +@fa-var-life-buoy: "\f1cd"; +@fa-var-life-ring: "\f1cd"; +@fa-var-life-saver: "\f1cd"; +@fa-var-lightbulb-o: "\f0eb"; +@fa-var-line-chart: "\f201"; +@fa-var-link: "\f0c1"; +@fa-var-linkedin: "\f0e1"; +@fa-var-linkedin-square: "\f08c"; +@fa-var-linux: "\f17c"; +@fa-var-list: "\f03a"; +@fa-var-list-alt: "\f022"; +@fa-var-list-ol: "\f0cb"; +@fa-var-list-ul: "\f0ca"; +@fa-var-location-arrow: "\f124"; +@fa-var-lock: "\f023"; +@fa-var-long-arrow-down: "\f175"; +@fa-var-long-arrow-left: "\f177"; +@fa-var-long-arrow-right: "\f178"; +@fa-var-long-arrow-up: "\f176"; +@fa-var-low-vision: "\f2a8"; +@fa-var-magic: "\f0d0"; +@fa-var-magnet: "\f076"; +@fa-var-mail-forward: "\f064"; +@fa-var-mail-reply: "\f112"; +@fa-var-mail-reply-all: "\f122"; +@fa-var-male: "\f183"; +@fa-var-map: "\f279"; +@fa-var-map-marker: "\f041"; +@fa-var-map-o: "\f278"; +@fa-var-map-pin: "\f276"; +@fa-var-map-signs: "\f277"; +@fa-var-mars: "\f222"; +@fa-var-mars-double: "\f227"; +@fa-var-mars-stroke: "\f229"; +@fa-var-mars-stroke-h: "\f22b"; +@fa-var-mars-stroke-v: "\f22a"; +@fa-var-maxcdn: "\f136"; +@fa-var-meanpath: "\f20c"; +@fa-var-medium: "\f23a"; +@fa-var-medkit: "\f0fa"; +@fa-var-meh-o: "\f11a"; +@fa-var-mercury: "\f223"; +@fa-var-microphone: "\f130"; +@fa-var-microphone-slash: "\f131"; +@fa-var-minus: "\f068"; +@fa-var-minus-circle: "\f056"; +@fa-var-minus-square: "\f146"; +@fa-var-minus-square-o: "\f147"; +@fa-var-mixcloud: "\f289"; +@fa-var-mobile: "\f10b"; +@fa-var-mobile-phone: "\f10b"; +@fa-var-modx: "\f285"; +@fa-var-money: "\f0d6"; +@fa-var-moon-o: "\f186"; +@fa-var-mortar-board: "\f19d"; +@fa-var-motorcycle: "\f21c"; +@fa-var-mouse-pointer: "\f245"; +@fa-var-music: "\f001"; +@fa-var-navicon: "\f0c9"; +@fa-var-neuter: "\f22c"; +@fa-var-newspaper-o: "\f1ea"; +@fa-var-object-group: "\f247"; +@fa-var-object-ungroup: "\f248"; +@fa-var-odnoklassniki: "\f263"; +@fa-var-odnoklassniki-square: "\f264"; +@fa-var-opencart: "\f23d"; +@fa-var-openid: "\f19b"; +@fa-var-opera: "\f26a"; +@fa-var-optin-monster: "\f23c"; +@fa-var-outdent: "\f03b"; +@fa-var-pagelines: "\f18c"; +@fa-var-paint-brush: "\f1fc"; +@fa-var-paper-plane: "\f1d8"; +@fa-var-paper-plane-o: "\f1d9"; +@fa-var-paperclip: "\f0c6"; +@fa-var-paragraph: "\f1dd"; +@fa-var-paste: "\f0ea"; +@fa-var-pause: "\f04c"; +@fa-var-pause-circle: "\f28b"; +@fa-var-pause-circle-o: "\f28c"; +@fa-var-paw: "\f1b0"; +@fa-var-paypal: "\f1ed"; +@fa-var-pencil: "\f040"; +@fa-var-pencil-square: "\f14b"; +@fa-var-pencil-square-o: "\f044"; +@fa-var-percent: "\f295"; +@fa-var-phone: "\f095"; +@fa-var-phone-square: "\f098"; +@fa-var-photo: "\f03e"; +@fa-var-picture-o: "\f03e"; +@fa-var-pie-chart: "\f200"; +@fa-var-pied-piper: "\f2ae"; +@fa-var-pied-piper-alt: "\f1a8"; +@fa-var-pied-piper-pp: "\f1a7"; +@fa-var-pinterest: "\f0d2"; +@fa-var-pinterest-p: "\f231"; +@fa-var-pinterest-square: "\f0d3"; +@fa-var-plane: "\f072"; +@fa-var-play: "\f04b"; +@fa-var-play-circle: "\f144"; +@fa-var-play-circle-o: "\f01d"; +@fa-var-plug: "\f1e6"; +@fa-var-plus: "\f067"; +@fa-var-plus-circle: "\f055"; +@fa-var-plus-square: "\f0fe"; +@fa-var-plus-square-o: "\f196"; +@fa-var-power-off: "\f011"; +@fa-var-print: "\f02f"; +@fa-var-product-hunt: "\f288"; +@fa-var-puzzle-piece: "\f12e"; +@fa-var-qq: "\f1d6"; +@fa-var-qrcode: "\f029"; +@fa-var-question: "\f128"; +@fa-var-question-circle: "\f059"; +@fa-var-question-circle-o: "\f29c"; +@fa-var-quote-left: "\f10d"; +@fa-var-quote-right: "\f10e"; +@fa-var-ra: "\f1d0"; +@fa-var-random: "\f074"; +@fa-var-rebel: "\f1d0"; +@fa-var-recycle: "\f1b8"; +@fa-var-reddit: "\f1a1"; +@fa-var-reddit-alien: "\f281"; +@fa-var-reddit-square: "\f1a2"; +@fa-var-refresh: "\f021"; +@fa-var-registered: "\f25d"; +@fa-var-remove: "\f00d"; +@fa-var-renren: "\f18b"; +@fa-var-reorder: "\f0c9"; +@fa-var-repeat: "\f01e"; +@fa-var-reply: "\f112"; +@fa-var-reply-all: "\f122"; +@fa-var-resistance: "\f1d0"; +@fa-var-retweet: "\f079"; +@fa-var-rmb: "\f157"; +@fa-var-road: "\f018"; +@fa-var-rocket: "\f135"; +@fa-var-rotate-left: "\f0e2"; +@fa-var-rotate-right: "\f01e"; +@fa-var-rouble: "\f158"; +@fa-var-rss: "\f09e"; +@fa-var-rss-square: "\f143"; +@fa-var-rub: "\f158"; +@fa-var-ruble: "\f158"; +@fa-var-rupee: "\f156"; +@fa-var-safari: "\f267"; +@fa-var-save: "\f0c7"; +@fa-var-scissors: "\f0c4"; +@fa-var-scribd: "\f28a"; +@fa-var-search: "\f002"; +@fa-var-search-minus: "\f010"; +@fa-var-search-plus: "\f00e"; +@fa-var-sellsy: "\f213"; +@fa-var-send: "\f1d8"; +@fa-var-send-o: "\f1d9"; +@fa-var-server: "\f233"; +@fa-var-share: "\f064"; +@fa-var-share-alt: "\f1e0"; +@fa-var-share-alt-square: "\f1e1"; +@fa-var-share-square: "\f14d"; +@fa-var-share-square-o: "\f045"; +@fa-var-shekel: "\f20b"; +@fa-var-sheqel: "\f20b"; +@fa-var-shield: "\f132"; +@fa-var-ship: "\f21a"; +@fa-var-shirtsinbulk: "\f214"; +@fa-var-shopping-bag: "\f290"; +@fa-var-shopping-basket: "\f291"; +@fa-var-shopping-cart: "\f07a"; +@fa-var-sign-in: "\f090"; +@fa-var-sign-language: "\f2a7"; +@fa-var-sign-out: "\f08b"; +@fa-var-signal: "\f012"; +@fa-var-signing: "\f2a7"; +@fa-var-simplybuilt: "\f215"; +@fa-var-sitemap: "\f0e8"; +@fa-var-skyatlas: "\f216"; +@fa-var-skype: "\f17e"; +@fa-var-slack: "\f198"; +@fa-var-sliders: "\f1de"; +@fa-var-slideshare: "\f1e7"; +@fa-var-smile-o: "\f118"; +@fa-var-snapchat: "\f2ab"; +@fa-var-snapchat-ghost: "\f2ac"; +@fa-var-snapchat-square: "\f2ad"; +@fa-var-soccer-ball-o: "\f1e3"; +@fa-var-sort: "\f0dc"; +@fa-var-sort-alpha-asc: "\f15d"; +@fa-var-sort-alpha-desc: "\f15e"; +@fa-var-sort-amount-asc: "\f160"; +@fa-var-sort-amount-desc: "\f161"; +@fa-var-sort-asc: "\f0de"; +@fa-var-sort-desc: "\f0dd"; +@fa-var-sort-down: "\f0dd"; +@fa-var-sort-numeric-asc: "\f162"; +@fa-var-sort-numeric-desc: "\f163"; +@fa-var-sort-up: "\f0de"; +@fa-var-soundcloud: "\f1be"; +@fa-var-space-shuttle: "\f197"; +@fa-var-spinner: "\f110"; +@fa-var-spoon: "\f1b1"; +@fa-var-spotify: "\f1bc"; +@fa-var-square: "\f0c8"; +@fa-var-square-o: "\f096"; +@fa-var-stack-exchange: "\f18d"; +@fa-var-stack-overflow: "\f16c"; +@fa-var-star: "\f005"; +@fa-var-star-half: "\f089"; +@fa-var-star-half-empty: "\f123"; +@fa-var-star-half-full: "\f123"; +@fa-var-star-half-o: "\f123"; +@fa-var-star-o: "\f006"; +@fa-var-steam: "\f1b6"; +@fa-var-steam-square: "\f1b7"; +@fa-var-step-backward: "\f048"; +@fa-var-step-forward: "\f051"; +@fa-var-stethoscope: "\f0f1"; +@fa-var-sticky-note: "\f249"; +@fa-var-sticky-note-o: "\f24a"; +@fa-var-stop: "\f04d"; +@fa-var-stop-circle: "\f28d"; +@fa-var-stop-circle-o: "\f28e"; +@fa-var-street-view: "\f21d"; +@fa-var-strikethrough: "\f0cc"; +@fa-var-stumbleupon: "\f1a4"; +@fa-var-stumbleupon-circle: "\f1a3"; +@fa-var-subscript: "\f12c"; +@fa-var-subway: "\f239"; +@fa-var-suitcase: "\f0f2"; +@fa-var-sun-o: "\f185"; +@fa-var-superscript: "\f12b"; +@fa-var-support: "\f1cd"; +@fa-var-table: "\f0ce"; +@fa-var-tablet: "\f10a"; +@fa-var-tachometer: "\f0e4"; +@fa-var-tag: "\f02b"; +@fa-var-tags: "\f02c"; +@fa-var-tasks: "\f0ae"; +@fa-var-taxi: "\f1ba"; +@fa-var-television: "\f26c"; +@fa-var-tencent-weibo: "\f1d5"; +@fa-var-terminal: "\f120"; +@fa-var-text-height: "\f034"; +@fa-var-text-width: "\f035"; +@fa-var-th: "\f00a"; +@fa-var-th-large: "\f009"; +@fa-var-th-list: "\f00b"; +@fa-var-themeisle: "\f2b2"; +@fa-var-thumb-tack: "\f08d"; +@fa-var-thumbs-down: "\f165"; +@fa-var-thumbs-o-down: "\f088"; +@fa-var-thumbs-o-up: "\f087"; +@fa-var-thumbs-up: "\f164"; +@fa-var-ticket: "\f145"; +@fa-var-times: "\f00d"; +@fa-var-times-circle: "\f057"; +@fa-var-times-circle-o: "\f05c"; +@fa-var-tint: "\f043"; +@fa-var-toggle-down: "\f150"; +@fa-var-toggle-left: "\f191"; +@fa-var-toggle-off: "\f204"; +@fa-var-toggle-on: "\f205"; +@fa-var-toggle-right: "\f152"; +@fa-var-toggle-up: "\f151"; +@fa-var-trademark: "\f25c"; +@fa-var-train: "\f238"; +@fa-var-transgender: "\f224"; +@fa-var-transgender-alt: "\f225"; +@fa-var-trash: "\f1f8"; +@fa-var-trash-o: "\f014"; +@fa-var-tree: "\f1bb"; +@fa-var-trello: "\f181"; +@fa-var-tripadvisor: "\f262"; +@fa-var-trophy: "\f091"; +@fa-var-truck: "\f0d1"; +@fa-var-try: "\f195"; +@fa-var-tty: "\f1e4"; +@fa-var-tumblr: "\f173"; +@fa-var-tumblr-square: "\f174"; +@fa-var-turkish-lira: "\f195"; +@fa-var-tv: "\f26c"; +@fa-var-twitch: "\f1e8"; +@fa-var-twitter: "\f099"; +@fa-var-twitter-square: "\f081"; +@fa-var-umbrella: "\f0e9"; +@fa-var-underline: "\f0cd"; +@fa-var-undo: "\f0e2"; +@fa-var-universal-access: "\f29a"; +@fa-var-university: "\f19c"; +@fa-var-unlink: "\f127"; +@fa-var-unlock: "\f09c"; +@fa-var-unlock-alt: "\f13e"; +@fa-var-unsorted: "\f0dc"; +@fa-var-upload: "\f093"; +@fa-var-usb: "\f287"; +@fa-var-usd: "\f155"; +@fa-var-user: "\f007"; +@fa-var-user-md: "\f0f0"; +@fa-var-user-plus: "\f234"; +@fa-var-user-secret: "\f21b"; +@fa-var-user-times: "\f235"; +@fa-var-users: "\f0c0"; +@fa-var-venus: "\f221"; +@fa-var-venus-double: "\f226"; +@fa-var-venus-mars: "\f228"; +@fa-var-viacoin: "\f237"; +@fa-var-viadeo: "\f2a9"; +@fa-var-viadeo-square: "\f2aa"; +@fa-var-video-camera: "\f03d"; +@fa-var-vimeo: "\f27d"; +@fa-var-vimeo-square: "\f194"; +@fa-var-vine: "\f1ca"; +@fa-var-vk: "\f189"; +@fa-var-volume-control-phone: "\f2a0"; +@fa-var-volume-down: "\f027"; +@fa-var-volume-off: "\f026"; +@fa-var-volume-up: "\f028"; +@fa-var-warning: "\f071"; +@fa-var-wechat: "\f1d7"; +@fa-var-weibo: "\f18a"; +@fa-var-weixin: "\f1d7"; +@fa-var-whatsapp: "\f232"; +@fa-var-wheelchair: "\f193"; +@fa-var-wheelchair-alt: "\f29b"; +@fa-var-wifi: "\f1eb"; +@fa-var-wikipedia-w: "\f266"; +@fa-var-windows: "\f17a"; +@fa-var-won: "\f159"; +@fa-var-wordpress: "\f19a"; +@fa-var-wpbeginner: "\f297"; +@fa-var-wpforms: "\f298"; +@fa-var-wrench: "\f0ad"; +@fa-var-xing: "\f168"; +@fa-var-xing-square: "\f169"; +@fa-var-y-combinator: "\f23b"; +@fa-var-y-combinator-square: "\f1d4"; +@fa-var-yahoo: "\f19e"; +@fa-var-yc: "\f23b"; +@fa-var-yc-square: "\f1d4"; +@fa-var-yelp: "\f1e9"; +@fa-var-yen: "\f157"; +@fa-var-yoast: "\f2b1"; +@fa-var-youtube: "\f167"; +@fa-var-youtube-play: "\f16a"; +@fa-var-youtube-square: "\f166"; + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_animated.scss b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_animated.scss new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8a020db --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_animated.scss @@ -0,0 +1,34 @@ +// Spinning Icons +// -------------------------- + +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-spin { + -webkit-animation: fa-spin 2s infinite linear; + animation: fa-spin 2s infinite linear; +} + +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-pulse { + -webkit-animation: fa-spin 1s infinite steps(8); + animation: fa-spin 1s infinite steps(8); +} + +@-webkit-keyframes fa-spin { + 0% { + -webkit-transform: rotate(0deg); + transform: rotate(0deg); + } + 100% { + -webkit-transform: rotate(359deg); + transform: rotate(359deg); + } +} + +@keyframes fa-spin { + 0% { + -webkit-transform: rotate(0deg); + transform: rotate(0deg); + } + 100% { + -webkit-transform: rotate(359deg); + transform: rotate(359deg); + } +} diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_bordered-pulled.scss b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_bordered-pulled.scss new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d4b85a0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_bordered-pulled.scss @@ -0,0 +1,25 @@ +// Bordered & Pulled +// ------------------------- + +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-border { + padding: .2em .25em .15em; + border: solid .08em $fa-border-color; + border-radius: .1em; +} + +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-pull-left { float: left; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-pull-right { float: right; } + +.#{$fa-css-prefix} { + &.#{$fa-css-prefix}-pull-left { margin-right: .3em; } + &.#{$fa-css-prefix}-pull-right { margin-left: .3em; } +} + +/* Deprecated as of 4.4.0 */ +.pull-right { float: right; } +.pull-left { float: left; } + +.#{$fa-css-prefix} { + &.pull-left { margin-right: .3em; } + &.pull-right { margin-left: .3em; } +} diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_core.scss b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_core.scss new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7425ef8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_core.scss @@ -0,0 +1,12 @@ +// Base Class Definition +// ------------------------- + +.#{$fa-css-prefix} { + display: inline-block; + font: normal normal normal #{$fa-font-size-base}/#{$fa-line-height-base} FontAwesome; // shortening font declaration + font-size: inherit; // can't have font-size inherit on line above, so need to override + text-rendering: auto; // optimizelegibility throws things off #1094 + -webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; + -moz-osx-font-smoothing: grayscale; + +} diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_fixed-width.scss b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_fixed-width.scss new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b221c98 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_fixed-width.scss @@ -0,0 +1,6 @@ +// Fixed Width Icons +// ------------------------- +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-fw { + width: (18em / 14); + text-align: center; +} diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_icons.scss b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_icons.scss new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2944344 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_icons.scss @@ -0,0 +1,733 @@ +/* Font Awesome uses the Unicode Private Use Area (PUA) to ensure screen + readers do not read off random characters that represent icons */ + +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-glass:before { content: $fa-var-glass; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-music:before { content: $fa-var-music; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-search:before { content: $fa-var-search; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-envelope-o:before { content: $fa-var-envelope-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-heart:before { content: $fa-var-heart; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-star:before { content: $fa-var-star; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-star-o:before { content: $fa-var-star-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-user:before { content: $fa-var-user; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-film:before { content: $fa-var-film; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-th-large:before { content: $fa-var-th-large; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-th:before { content: $fa-var-th; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-th-list:before { content: $fa-var-th-list; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-check:before { content: $fa-var-check; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-remove:before, +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-close:before, +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-times:before { content: $fa-var-times; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-search-plus:before { content: $fa-var-search-plus; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-search-minus:before { content: $fa-var-search-minus; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-power-off:before { content: $fa-var-power-off; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-signal:before { content: $fa-var-signal; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-gear:before, +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-cog:before { content: $fa-var-cog; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-trash-o:before { content: $fa-var-trash-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-home:before { content: $fa-var-home; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-file-o:before { content: $fa-var-file-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-clock-o:before { content: $fa-var-clock-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-road:before { content: $fa-var-road; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-download:before { content: $fa-var-download; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-arrow-circle-o-down:before { content: $fa-var-arrow-circle-o-down; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-arrow-circle-o-up:before { content: $fa-var-arrow-circle-o-up; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-inbox:before { content: $fa-var-inbox; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-play-circle-o:before { content: $fa-var-play-circle-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-rotate-right:before, +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-repeat:before { content: $fa-var-repeat; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-refresh:before { content: $fa-var-refresh; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-list-alt:before { content: $fa-var-list-alt; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-lock:before { content: $fa-var-lock; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-flag:before { content: $fa-var-flag; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-headphones:before { content: $fa-var-headphones; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-volume-off:before { content: $fa-var-volume-off; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-volume-down:before { content: $fa-var-volume-down; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-volume-up:before { content: $fa-var-volume-up; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-qrcode:before { content: $fa-var-qrcode; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-barcode:before { content: $fa-var-barcode; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-tag:before { content: $fa-var-tag; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-tags:before { content: $fa-var-tags; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-book:before { content: $fa-var-book; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-bookmark:before { content: $fa-var-bookmark; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-print:before { content: $fa-var-print; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-camera:before { content: $fa-var-camera; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-font:before { content: $fa-var-font; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-bold:before { content: $fa-var-bold; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-italic:before { content: $fa-var-italic; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-text-height:before { content: $fa-var-text-height; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-text-width:before { content: $fa-var-text-width; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-align-left:before { content: $fa-var-align-left; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-align-center:before { content: $fa-var-align-center; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-align-right:before { content: $fa-var-align-right; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-align-justify:before { content: $fa-var-align-justify; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-list:before { content: $fa-var-list; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-dedent:before, +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-outdent:before { content: $fa-var-outdent; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-indent:before { content: $fa-var-indent; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-video-camera:before { content: $fa-var-video-camera; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-photo:before, +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-image:before, +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-picture-o:before { content: $fa-var-picture-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-pencil:before { content: $fa-var-pencil; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-map-marker:before { content: $fa-var-map-marker; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-adjust:before { content: $fa-var-adjust; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-tint:before { content: $fa-var-tint; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-edit:before, +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-pencil-square-o:before { content: $fa-var-pencil-square-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-share-square-o:before { content: $fa-var-share-square-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-check-square-o:before { content: $fa-var-check-square-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-arrows:before { content: $fa-var-arrows; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-step-backward:before { content: $fa-var-step-backward; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-fast-backward:before { content: $fa-var-fast-backward; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-backward:before { content: $fa-var-backward; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-play:before { content: $fa-var-play; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-pause:before { content: $fa-var-pause; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-stop:before { content: $fa-var-stop; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-forward:before { content: $fa-var-forward; 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} +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-hourglass-3:before, +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-hourglass-end:before { content: $fa-var-hourglass-end; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-hourglass:before { content: $fa-var-hourglass; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-hand-grab-o:before, +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-hand-rock-o:before { content: $fa-var-hand-rock-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-hand-stop-o:before, +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-hand-paper-o:before { content: $fa-var-hand-paper-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-hand-scissors-o:before { content: $fa-var-hand-scissors-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-hand-lizard-o:before { content: $fa-var-hand-lizard-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-hand-spock-o:before { content: $fa-var-hand-spock-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-hand-pointer-o:before { content: $fa-var-hand-pointer-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-hand-peace-o:before { content: $fa-var-hand-peace-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-trademark:before { content: $fa-var-trademark; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-registered:before { content: $fa-var-registered; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-creative-commons:before { content: $fa-var-creative-commons; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-gg:before { content: $fa-var-gg; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-gg-circle:before { content: $fa-var-gg-circle; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-tripadvisor:before { content: $fa-var-tripadvisor; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-odnoklassniki:before { content: $fa-var-odnoklassniki; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-odnoklassniki-square:before { content: $fa-var-odnoklassniki-square; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-get-pocket:before { content: $fa-var-get-pocket; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-wikipedia-w:before { content: $fa-var-wikipedia-w; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-safari:before { content: $fa-var-safari; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-chrome:before { content: $fa-var-chrome; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-firefox:before { content: $fa-var-firefox; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-opera:before { content: $fa-var-opera; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-internet-explorer:before { content: $fa-var-internet-explorer; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-tv:before, +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-television:before { content: $fa-var-television; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-contao:before { content: $fa-var-contao; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-500px:before { content: $fa-var-500px; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-amazon:before { content: $fa-var-amazon; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-calendar-plus-o:before { content: $fa-var-calendar-plus-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-calendar-minus-o:before { content: $fa-var-calendar-minus-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-calendar-times-o:before { content: $fa-var-calendar-times-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-calendar-check-o:before { content: $fa-var-calendar-check-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-industry:before { content: $fa-var-industry; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-map-pin:before { content: $fa-var-map-pin; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-map-signs:before { content: $fa-var-map-signs; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-map-o:before { content: $fa-var-map-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-map:before { content: $fa-var-map; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-commenting:before { content: $fa-var-commenting; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-commenting-o:before { content: $fa-var-commenting-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-houzz:before { content: $fa-var-houzz; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-vimeo:before { content: $fa-var-vimeo; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-black-tie:before { content: $fa-var-black-tie; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-fonticons:before { content: $fa-var-fonticons; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-reddit-alien:before { content: $fa-var-reddit-alien; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-edge:before { content: $fa-var-edge; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-credit-card-alt:before { content: $fa-var-credit-card-alt; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-codiepie:before { content: $fa-var-codiepie; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-modx:before { content: $fa-var-modx; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-fort-awesome:before { content: $fa-var-fort-awesome; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-usb:before { content: $fa-var-usb; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-product-hunt:before { content: $fa-var-product-hunt; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-mixcloud:before { content: $fa-var-mixcloud; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-scribd:before { content: $fa-var-scribd; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-pause-circle:before { content: $fa-var-pause-circle; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-pause-circle-o:before { content: $fa-var-pause-circle-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-stop-circle:before { content: $fa-var-stop-circle; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-stop-circle-o:before { content: $fa-var-stop-circle-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-shopping-bag:before { content: $fa-var-shopping-bag; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-shopping-basket:before { content: $fa-var-shopping-basket; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-hashtag:before { content: $fa-var-hashtag; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-bluetooth:before { content: $fa-var-bluetooth; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-bluetooth-b:before { content: $fa-var-bluetooth-b; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-percent:before { content: $fa-var-percent; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-gitlab:before { content: $fa-var-gitlab; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-wpbeginner:before { content: $fa-var-wpbeginner; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-wpforms:before { content: $fa-var-wpforms; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-envira:before { content: $fa-var-envira; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-universal-access:before { content: $fa-var-universal-access; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-wheelchair-alt:before { content: $fa-var-wheelchair-alt; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-question-circle-o:before { content: $fa-var-question-circle-o; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-blind:before { content: $fa-var-blind; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-audio-description:before { content: $fa-var-audio-description; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-volume-control-phone:before { content: $fa-var-volume-control-phone; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-braille:before { content: $fa-var-braille; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-assistive-listening-systems:before { content: $fa-var-assistive-listening-systems; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-asl-interpreting:before, +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-american-sign-language-interpreting:before { content: $fa-var-american-sign-language-interpreting; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-deafness:before, +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-hard-of-hearing:before, +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-deaf:before { content: $fa-var-deaf; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-glide:before { content: $fa-var-glide; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-glide-g:before { content: $fa-var-glide-g; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-signing:before, +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-sign-language:before { content: $fa-var-sign-language; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-low-vision:before { content: $fa-var-low-vision; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-viadeo:before { content: $fa-var-viadeo; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-viadeo-square:before { content: $fa-var-viadeo-square; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-snapchat:before { content: $fa-var-snapchat; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-snapchat-ghost:before { content: $fa-var-snapchat-ghost; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-snapchat-square:before { content: $fa-var-snapchat-square; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-pied-piper:before { content: $fa-var-pied-piper; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-first-order:before { content: $fa-var-first-order; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-yoast:before { content: $fa-var-yoast; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-themeisle:before { content: $fa-var-themeisle; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-google-plus-circle:before, +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-google-plus-official:before { content: $fa-var-google-plus-official; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-fa:before, +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-font-awesome:before { content: $fa-var-font-awesome; } diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_larger.scss b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_larger.scss new file mode 100644 index 0000000..41e9a81 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_larger.scss @@ -0,0 +1,13 @@ +// Icon Sizes +// ------------------------- + +/* makes the font 33% larger relative to the icon container */ +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-lg { + font-size: (4em / 3); + line-height: (3em / 4); + vertical-align: -15%; +} +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-2x { font-size: 2em; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-3x { font-size: 3em; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-4x { font-size: 4em; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-5x { font-size: 5em; } diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_list.scss b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_list.scss new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7d1e4d5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_list.scss @@ -0,0 +1,19 @@ +// List Icons +// ------------------------- + +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-ul { + padding-left: 0; + margin-left: $fa-li-width; + list-style-type: none; + > li { position: relative; } +} +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-li { + position: absolute; + left: -$fa-li-width; + width: $fa-li-width; + top: (2em / 14); + text-align: center; + &.#{$fa-css-prefix}-lg { + left: -$fa-li-width + (4em / 14); + } +} diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_mixins.scss b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_mixins.scss new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c3bbd57 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_mixins.scss @@ -0,0 +1,60 @@ +// Mixins +// -------------------------- + +@mixin fa-icon() { + display: inline-block; + font: normal normal normal #{$fa-font-size-base}/#{$fa-line-height-base} FontAwesome; // shortening font declaration + font-size: inherit; // can't have font-size inherit on line above, so need to override + text-rendering: auto; // optimizelegibility throws things off #1094 + -webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; + -moz-osx-font-smoothing: grayscale; + +} + +@mixin fa-icon-rotate($degrees, $rotation) { + -ms-filter: "progid:DXImageTransform.Microsoft.BasicImage(rotation=#{$rotation})"; + -webkit-transform: rotate($degrees); + -ms-transform: rotate($degrees); + transform: rotate($degrees); +} + +@mixin fa-icon-flip($horiz, $vert, $rotation) { + -ms-filter: "progid:DXImageTransform.Microsoft.BasicImage(rotation=#{$rotation}, mirror=1)"; + -webkit-transform: scale($horiz, $vert); + -ms-transform: scale($horiz, $vert); + transform: scale($horiz, $vert); +} + + +// Only display content to screen readers. A la Bootstrap 4. +// +// See: http://a11yproject.com/posts/how-to-hide-content/ + +@mixin sr-only { + position: absolute; + width: 1px; + height: 1px; + padding: 0; + margin: -1px; + overflow: hidden; + clip: rect(0,0,0,0); + border: 0; +} + +// Use in conjunction with .sr-only to only display content when it's focused. +// +// Useful for "Skip to main content" links; see http://www.w3.org/TR/2013/NOTE-WCAG20-TECHS-20130905/G1 +// +// Credit: HTML5 Boilerplate + +@mixin sr-only-focusable { + &:active, + &:focus { + position: static; + width: auto; + height: auto; + margin: 0; + overflow: visible; + clip: auto; + } +} diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_path.scss b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_path.scss new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bb457c2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_path.scss @@ -0,0 +1,15 @@ +/* FONT PATH + * -------------------------- */ + +@font-face { + font-family: 'FontAwesome'; + src: url('#{$fa-font-path}/fontawesome-webfont.eot?v=#{$fa-version}'); + src: url('#{$fa-font-path}/fontawesome-webfont.eot?#iefix&v=#{$fa-version}') format('embedded-opentype'), + url('#{$fa-font-path}/fontawesome-webfont.woff2?v=#{$fa-version}') format('woff2'), + url('#{$fa-font-path}/fontawesome-webfont.woff?v=#{$fa-version}') format('woff'), + url('#{$fa-font-path}/fontawesome-webfont.ttf?v=#{$fa-version}') format('truetype'), + url('#{$fa-font-path}/fontawesome-webfont.svg?v=#{$fa-version}#fontawesomeregular') format('svg'); +// src: url('#{$fa-font-path}/FontAwesome.otf') format('opentype'); // used when developing fonts + font-weight: normal; + font-style: normal; +} diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_rotated-flipped.scss b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_rotated-flipped.scss new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a3558fd --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_rotated-flipped.scss @@ -0,0 +1,20 @@ +// Rotated & Flipped Icons +// ------------------------- + +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-rotate-90 { @include fa-icon-rotate(90deg, 1); } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-rotate-180 { @include fa-icon-rotate(180deg, 2); } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-rotate-270 { @include fa-icon-rotate(270deg, 3); } + +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-flip-horizontal { @include fa-icon-flip(-1, 1, 0); } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-flip-vertical { @include fa-icon-flip(1, -1, 2); } + +// Hook for IE8-9 +// ------------------------- + +:root .#{$fa-css-prefix}-rotate-90, +:root .#{$fa-css-prefix}-rotate-180, +:root .#{$fa-css-prefix}-rotate-270, +:root .#{$fa-css-prefix}-flip-horizontal, +:root .#{$fa-css-prefix}-flip-vertical { + filter: none; +} diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_screen-reader.scss b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_screen-reader.scss new file mode 100644 index 0000000..637426f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_screen-reader.scss @@ -0,0 +1,5 @@ +// Screen Readers +// ------------------------- + +.sr-only { @include sr-only(); } +.sr-only-focusable { @include sr-only-focusable(); } diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_stacked.scss b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_stacked.scss new file mode 100644 index 0000000..aef7403 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_stacked.scss @@ -0,0 +1,20 @@ +// Stacked Icons +// ------------------------- + +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-stack { + position: relative; + display: inline-block; + width: 2em; + height: 2em; + line-height: 2em; + vertical-align: middle; +} +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-stack-1x, .#{$fa-css-prefix}-stack-2x { + position: absolute; + left: 0; + width: 100%; + text-align: center; +} +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-stack-1x { line-height: inherit; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-stack-2x { font-size: 2em; } +.#{$fa-css-prefix}-inverse { color: $fa-inverse; } diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_variables.scss b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_variables.scss new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a5a89ef --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/_variables.scss @@ -0,0 +1,744 @@ +// Variables +// -------------------------- + +$fa-font-path: "../fonts" !default; +$fa-font-size-base: 14px !default; +$fa-line-height-base: 1 !default; +//$fa-font-path: "//netdna.bootstrapcdn.com/font-awesome/4.6.3/fonts" !default; // for referencing Bootstrap CDN font files directly +$fa-css-prefix: fa !default; +$fa-version: "4.6.3" !default; +$fa-border-color: #eee !default; +$fa-inverse: #fff !default; +$fa-li-width: (30em / 14) !default; + +$fa-var-500px: "\f26e"; +$fa-var-adjust: "\f042"; +$fa-var-adn: "\f170"; +$fa-var-align-center: "\f037"; +$fa-var-align-justify: "\f039"; +$fa-var-align-left: "\f036"; +$fa-var-align-right: "\f038"; +$fa-var-amazon: "\f270"; +$fa-var-ambulance: "\f0f9"; +$fa-var-american-sign-language-interpreting: "\f2a3"; +$fa-var-anchor: "\f13d"; +$fa-var-android: "\f17b"; +$fa-var-angellist: "\f209"; +$fa-var-angle-double-down: "\f103"; +$fa-var-angle-double-left: "\f100"; +$fa-var-angle-double-right: "\f101"; +$fa-var-angle-double-up: "\f102"; +$fa-var-angle-down: "\f107"; +$fa-var-angle-left: "\f104"; +$fa-var-angle-right: "\f105"; +$fa-var-angle-up: "\f106"; +$fa-var-apple: "\f179"; +$fa-var-archive: "\f187"; +$fa-var-area-chart: "\f1fe"; +$fa-var-arrow-circle-down: "\f0ab"; +$fa-var-arrow-circle-left: "\f0a8"; +$fa-var-arrow-circle-o-down: "\f01a"; +$fa-var-arrow-circle-o-left: "\f190"; +$fa-var-arrow-circle-o-right: "\f18e"; +$fa-var-arrow-circle-o-up: "\f01b"; +$fa-var-arrow-circle-right: "\f0a9"; +$fa-var-arrow-circle-up: "\f0aa"; +$fa-var-arrow-down: "\f063"; +$fa-var-arrow-left: "\f060"; +$fa-var-arrow-right: "\f061"; +$fa-var-arrow-up: "\f062"; +$fa-var-arrows: "\f047"; +$fa-var-arrows-alt: "\f0b2"; +$fa-var-arrows-h: "\f07e"; +$fa-var-arrows-v: "\f07d"; +$fa-var-asl-interpreting: "\f2a3"; +$fa-var-assistive-listening-systems: "\f2a2"; +$fa-var-asterisk: "\f069"; +$fa-var-at: "\f1fa"; +$fa-var-audio-description: "\f29e"; +$fa-var-automobile: "\f1b9"; +$fa-var-backward: "\f04a"; +$fa-var-balance-scale: "\f24e"; +$fa-var-ban: "\f05e"; +$fa-var-bank: "\f19c"; +$fa-var-bar-chart: "\f080"; +$fa-var-bar-chart-o: "\f080"; +$fa-var-barcode: "\f02a"; +$fa-var-bars: "\f0c9"; +$fa-var-battery-0: "\f244"; +$fa-var-battery-1: "\f243"; +$fa-var-battery-2: "\f242"; +$fa-var-battery-3: "\f241"; +$fa-var-battery-4: "\f240"; +$fa-var-battery-empty: "\f244"; +$fa-var-battery-full: "\f240"; +$fa-var-battery-half: "\f242"; +$fa-var-battery-quarter: "\f243"; +$fa-var-battery-three-quarters: "\f241"; +$fa-var-bed: "\f236"; +$fa-var-beer: "\f0fc"; +$fa-var-behance: "\f1b4"; +$fa-var-behance-square: "\f1b5"; +$fa-var-bell: "\f0f3"; +$fa-var-bell-o: "\f0a2"; +$fa-var-bell-slash: "\f1f6"; +$fa-var-bell-slash-o: "\f1f7"; +$fa-var-bicycle: "\f206"; +$fa-var-binoculars: "\f1e5"; +$fa-var-birthday-cake: "\f1fd"; +$fa-var-bitbucket: "\f171"; +$fa-var-bitbucket-square: "\f172"; +$fa-var-bitcoin: "\f15a"; +$fa-var-black-tie: "\f27e"; +$fa-var-blind: "\f29d"; +$fa-var-bluetooth: "\f293"; +$fa-var-bluetooth-b: "\f294"; +$fa-var-bold: "\f032"; +$fa-var-bolt: "\f0e7"; +$fa-var-bomb: "\f1e2"; +$fa-var-book: "\f02d"; +$fa-var-bookmark: "\f02e"; +$fa-var-bookmark-o: "\f097"; +$fa-var-braille: "\f2a1"; +$fa-var-briefcase: "\f0b1"; +$fa-var-btc: "\f15a"; +$fa-var-bug: "\f188"; +$fa-var-building: "\f1ad"; +$fa-var-building-o: "\f0f7"; +$fa-var-bullhorn: "\f0a1"; +$fa-var-bullseye: "\f140"; +$fa-var-bus: "\f207"; +$fa-var-buysellads: "\f20d"; +$fa-var-cab: "\f1ba"; +$fa-var-calculator: "\f1ec"; +$fa-var-calendar: "\f073"; +$fa-var-calendar-check-o: "\f274"; +$fa-var-calendar-minus-o: "\f272"; +$fa-var-calendar-o: "\f133"; +$fa-var-calendar-plus-o: "\f271"; +$fa-var-calendar-times-o: "\f273"; +$fa-var-camera: "\f030"; +$fa-var-camera-retro: "\f083"; +$fa-var-car: "\f1b9"; +$fa-var-caret-down: "\f0d7"; +$fa-var-caret-left: "\f0d9"; +$fa-var-caret-right: "\f0da"; +$fa-var-caret-square-o-down: "\f150"; +$fa-var-caret-square-o-left: "\f191"; +$fa-var-caret-square-o-right: "\f152"; +$fa-var-caret-square-o-up: "\f151"; +$fa-var-caret-up: "\f0d8"; +$fa-var-cart-arrow-down: "\f218"; +$fa-var-cart-plus: "\f217"; +$fa-var-cc: "\f20a"; +$fa-var-cc-amex: "\f1f3"; +$fa-var-cc-diners-club: "\f24c"; +$fa-var-cc-discover: "\f1f2"; +$fa-var-cc-jcb: "\f24b"; +$fa-var-cc-mastercard: "\f1f1"; +$fa-var-cc-paypal: "\f1f4"; +$fa-var-cc-stripe: "\f1f5"; +$fa-var-cc-visa: "\f1f0"; +$fa-var-certificate: "\f0a3"; +$fa-var-chain: "\f0c1"; +$fa-var-chain-broken: "\f127"; +$fa-var-check: "\f00c"; +$fa-var-check-circle: "\f058"; +$fa-var-check-circle-o: "\f05d"; +$fa-var-check-square: "\f14a"; +$fa-var-check-square-o: "\f046"; +$fa-var-chevron-circle-down: "\f13a"; +$fa-var-chevron-circle-left: "\f137"; +$fa-var-chevron-circle-right: "\f138"; +$fa-var-chevron-circle-up: "\f139"; +$fa-var-chevron-down: "\f078"; +$fa-var-chevron-left: "\f053"; +$fa-var-chevron-right: "\f054"; +$fa-var-chevron-up: "\f077"; +$fa-var-child: "\f1ae"; +$fa-var-chrome: "\f268"; +$fa-var-circle: "\f111"; +$fa-var-circle-o: "\f10c"; +$fa-var-circle-o-notch: "\f1ce"; +$fa-var-circle-thin: "\f1db"; +$fa-var-clipboard: "\f0ea"; +$fa-var-clock-o: "\f017"; +$fa-var-clone: "\f24d"; +$fa-var-close: "\f00d"; +$fa-var-cloud: "\f0c2"; +$fa-var-cloud-download: "\f0ed"; +$fa-var-cloud-upload: "\f0ee"; +$fa-var-cny: "\f157"; +$fa-var-code: "\f121"; +$fa-var-code-fork: "\f126"; +$fa-var-codepen: "\f1cb"; +$fa-var-codiepie: "\f284"; +$fa-var-coffee: "\f0f4"; +$fa-var-cog: "\f013"; +$fa-var-cogs: "\f085"; +$fa-var-columns: "\f0db"; +$fa-var-comment: "\f075"; +$fa-var-comment-o: "\f0e5"; +$fa-var-commenting: "\f27a"; +$fa-var-commenting-o: "\f27b"; +$fa-var-comments: "\f086"; +$fa-var-comments-o: "\f0e6"; +$fa-var-compass: "\f14e"; +$fa-var-compress: "\f066"; +$fa-var-connectdevelop: "\f20e"; +$fa-var-contao: "\f26d"; +$fa-var-copy: "\f0c5"; +$fa-var-copyright: "\f1f9"; +$fa-var-creative-commons: "\f25e"; +$fa-var-credit-card: "\f09d"; +$fa-var-credit-card-alt: "\f283"; +$fa-var-crop: "\f125"; +$fa-var-crosshairs: "\f05b"; +$fa-var-css3: "\f13c"; +$fa-var-cube: "\f1b2"; +$fa-var-cubes: "\f1b3"; +$fa-var-cut: "\f0c4"; +$fa-var-cutlery: "\f0f5"; +$fa-var-dashboard: "\f0e4"; +$fa-var-dashcube: "\f210"; +$fa-var-database: "\f1c0"; +$fa-var-deaf: "\f2a4"; +$fa-var-deafness: "\f2a4"; +$fa-var-dedent: "\f03b"; +$fa-var-delicious: "\f1a5"; +$fa-var-desktop: "\f108"; +$fa-var-deviantart: "\f1bd"; +$fa-var-diamond: "\f219"; +$fa-var-digg: "\f1a6"; +$fa-var-dollar: "\f155"; +$fa-var-dot-circle-o: "\f192"; +$fa-var-download: "\f019"; +$fa-var-dribbble: "\f17d"; +$fa-var-dropbox: "\f16b"; +$fa-var-drupal: "\f1a9"; +$fa-var-edge: "\f282"; +$fa-var-edit: "\f044"; +$fa-var-eject: "\f052"; +$fa-var-ellipsis-h: "\f141"; +$fa-var-ellipsis-v: "\f142"; +$fa-var-empire: "\f1d1"; +$fa-var-envelope: "\f0e0"; +$fa-var-envelope-o: "\f003"; +$fa-var-envelope-square: "\f199"; +$fa-var-envira: "\f299"; +$fa-var-eraser: "\f12d"; +$fa-var-eur: "\f153"; +$fa-var-euro: "\f153"; +$fa-var-exchange: "\f0ec"; +$fa-var-exclamation: "\f12a"; +$fa-var-exclamation-circle: "\f06a"; +$fa-var-exclamation-triangle: "\f071"; +$fa-var-expand: "\f065"; +$fa-var-expeditedssl: "\f23e"; +$fa-var-external-link: "\f08e"; +$fa-var-external-link-square: "\f14c"; +$fa-var-eye: "\f06e"; +$fa-var-eye-slash: "\f070"; +$fa-var-eyedropper: "\f1fb"; +$fa-var-fa: "\f2b4"; +$fa-var-facebook: "\f09a"; +$fa-var-facebook-f: "\f09a"; +$fa-var-facebook-official: "\f230"; +$fa-var-facebook-square: "\f082"; +$fa-var-fast-backward: "\f049"; +$fa-var-fast-forward: "\f050"; +$fa-var-fax: "\f1ac"; +$fa-var-feed: "\f09e"; +$fa-var-female: "\f182"; +$fa-var-fighter-jet: "\f0fb"; +$fa-var-file: "\f15b"; +$fa-var-file-archive-o: "\f1c6"; +$fa-var-file-audio-o: "\f1c7"; +$fa-var-file-code-o: "\f1c9"; +$fa-var-file-excel-o: "\f1c3"; +$fa-var-file-image-o: "\f1c5"; +$fa-var-file-movie-o: "\f1c8"; +$fa-var-file-o: "\f016"; +$fa-var-file-pdf-o: "\f1c1"; +$fa-var-file-photo-o: "\f1c5"; +$fa-var-file-picture-o: "\f1c5"; +$fa-var-file-powerpoint-o: "\f1c4"; +$fa-var-file-sound-o: "\f1c7"; +$fa-var-file-text: "\f15c"; +$fa-var-file-text-o: "\f0f6"; +$fa-var-file-video-o: "\f1c8"; +$fa-var-file-word-o: "\f1c2"; +$fa-var-file-zip-o: "\f1c6"; +$fa-var-files-o: "\f0c5"; +$fa-var-film: "\f008"; +$fa-var-filter: "\f0b0"; +$fa-var-fire: "\f06d"; +$fa-var-fire-extinguisher: "\f134"; +$fa-var-firefox: "\f269"; +$fa-var-first-order: "\f2b0"; +$fa-var-flag: "\f024"; +$fa-var-flag-checkered: "\f11e"; +$fa-var-flag-o: "\f11d"; +$fa-var-flash: "\f0e7"; +$fa-var-flask: "\f0c3"; +$fa-var-flickr: "\f16e"; +$fa-var-floppy-o: "\f0c7"; +$fa-var-folder: "\f07b"; +$fa-var-folder-o: "\f114"; +$fa-var-folder-open: "\f07c"; +$fa-var-folder-open-o: "\f115"; +$fa-var-font: "\f031"; +$fa-var-font-awesome: "\f2b4"; +$fa-var-fonticons: "\f280"; +$fa-var-fort-awesome: "\f286"; +$fa-var-forumbee: "\f211"; +$fa-var-forward: "\f04e"; +$fa-var-foursquare: "\f180"; +$fa-var-frown-o: "\f119"; +$fa-var-futbol-o: "\f1e3"; +$fa-var-gamepad: "\f11b"; +$fa-var-gavel: "\f0e3"; +$fa-var-gbp: "\f154"; +$fa-var-ge: "\f1d1"; +$fa-var-gear: "\f013"; +$fa-var-gears: "\f085"; +$fa-var-genderless: "\f22d"; +$fa-var-get-pocket: "\f265"; +$fa-var-gg: "\f260"; +$fa-var-gg-circle: "\f261"; +$fa-var-gift: "\f06b"; +$fa-var-git: "\f1d3"; +$fa-var-git-square: "\f1d2"; +$fa-var-github: "\f09b"; +$fa-var-github-alt: "\f113"; +$fa-var-github-square: "\f092"; +$fa-var-gitlab: "\f296"; +$fa-var-gittip: "\f184"; +$fa-var-glass: "\f000"; +$fa-var-glide: "\f2a5"; +$fa-var-glide-g: "\f2a6"; +$fa-var-globe: "\f0ac"; +$fa-var-google: "\f1a0"; +$fa-var-google-plus: "\f0d5"; +$fa-var-google-plus-circle: "\f2b3"; +$fa-var-google-plus-official: "\f2b3"; +$fa-var-google-plus-square: "\f0d4"; +$fa-var-google-wallet: "\f1ee"; +$fa-var-graduation-cap: "\f19d"; +$fa-var-gratipay: "\f184"; +$fa-var-group: "\f0c0"; +$fa-var-h-square: "\f0fd"; +$fa-var-hacker-news: "\f1d4"; +$fa-var-hand-grab-o: "\f255"; +$fa-var-hand-lizard-o: "\f258"; +$fa-var-hand-o-down: "\f0a7"; +$fa-var-hand-o-left: "\f0a5"; +$fa-var-hand-o-right: "\f0a4"; +$fa-var-hand-o-up: "\f0a6"; +$fa-var-hand-paper-o: "\f256"; +$fa-var-hand-peace-o: "\f25b"; +$fa-var-hand-pointer-o: "\f25a"; +$fa-var-hand-rock-o: "\f255"; +$fa-var-hand-scissors-o: "\f257"; +$fa-var-hand-spock-o: "\f259"; +$fa-var-hand-stop-o: "\f256"; +$fa-var-hard-of-hearing: "\f2a4"; +$fa-var-hashtag: "\f292"; +$fa-var-hdd-o: "\f0a0"; +$fa-var-header: "\f1dc"; +$fa-var-headphones: "\f025"; +$fa-var-heart: "\f004"; +$fa-var-heart-o: "\f08a"; +$fa-var-heartbeat: "\f21e"; +$fa-var-history: "\f1da"; +$fa-var-home: "\f015"; +$fa-var-hospital-o: "\f0f8"; +$fa-var-hotel: "\f236"; +$fa-var-hourglass: "\f254"; +$fa-var-hourglass-1: "\f251"; +$fa-var-hourglass-2: "\f252"; +$fa-var-hourglass-3: "\f253"; +$fa-var-hourglass-end: "\f253"; +$fa-var-hourglass-half: "\f252"; +$fa-var-hourglass-o: "\f250"; +$fa-var-hourglass-start: "\f251"; +$fa-var-houzz: "\f27c"; +$fa-var-html5: "\f13b"; +$fa-var-i-cursor: "\f246"; +$fa-var-ils: "\f20b"; +$fa-var-image: "\f03e"; +$fa-var-inbox: "\f01c"; +$fa-var-indent: "\f03c"; +$fa-var-industry: "\f275"; +$fa-var-info: "\f129"; +$fa-var-info-circle: "\f05a"; +$fa-var-inr: "\f156"; +$fa-var-instagram: "\f16d"; +$fa-var-institution: "\f19c"; +$fa-var-internet-explorer: "\f26b"; +$fa-var-intersex: "\f224"; +$fa-var-ioxhost: "\f208"; +$fa-var-italic: "\f033"; +$fa-var-joomla: "\f1aa"; +$fa-var-jpy: "\f157"; +$fa-var-jsfiddle: "\f1cc"; +$fa-var-key: "\f084"; +$fa-var-keyboard-o: "\f11c"; +$fa-var-krw: "\f159"; +$fa-var-language: "\f1ab"; +$fa-var-laptop: "\f109"; +$fa-var-lastfm: "\f202"; +$fa-var-lastfm-square: "\f203"; +$fa-var-leaf: "\f06c"; +$fa-var-leanpub: "\f212"; +$fa-var-legal: "\f0e3"; +$fa-var-lemon-o: "\f094"; +$fa-var-level-down: "\f149"; +$fa-var-level-up: "\f148"; +$fa-var-life-bouy: "\f1cd"; +$fa-var-life-buoy: "\f1cd"; +$fa-var-life-ring: "\f1cd"; +$fa-var-life-saver: "\f1cd"; +$fa-var-lightbulb-o: "\f0eb"; +$fa-var-line-chart: "\f201"; +$fa-var-link: "\f0c1"; +$fa-var-linkedin: "\f0e1"; +$fa-var-linkedin-square: "\f08c"; +$fa-var-linux: "\f17c"; +$fa-var-list: "\f03a"; +$fa-var-list-alt: "\f022"; +$fa-var-list-ol: "\f0cb"; +$fa-var-list-ul: "\f0ca"; +$fa-var-location-arrow: "\f124"; +$fa-var-lock: "\f023"; +$fa-var-long-arrow-down: "\f175"; +$fa-var-long-arrow-left: "\f177"; +$fa-var-long-arrow-right: "\f178"; +$fa-var-long-arrow-up: "\f176"; +$fa-var-low-vision: "\f2a8"; +$fa-var-magic: "\f0d0"; +$fa-var-magnet: "\f076"; +$fa-var-mail-forward: "\f064"; +$fa-var-mail-reply: "\f112"; +$fa-var-mail-reply-all: "\f122"; +$fa-var-male: "\f183"; +$fa-var-map: "\f279"; +$fa-var-map-marker: "\f041"; +$fa-var-map-o: "\f278"; +$fa-var-map-pin: "\f276"; +$fa-var-map-signs: "\f277"; +$fa-var-mars: "\f222"; +$fa-var-mars-double: "\f227"; +$fa-var-mars-stroke: "\f229"; +$fa-var-mars-stroke-h: "\f22b"; +$fa-var-mars-stroke-v: "\f22a"; +$fa-var-maxcdn: "\f136"; +$fa-var-meanpath: "\f20c"; +$fa-var-medium: "\f23a"; +$fa-var-medkit: "\f0fa"; +$fa-var-meh-o: "\f11a"; +$fa-var-mercury: "\f223"; +$fa-var-microphone: "\f130"; +$fa-var-microphone-slash: "\f131"; +$fa-var-minus: "\f068"; +$fa-var-minus-circle: "\f056"; +$fa-var-minus-square: "\f146"; +$fa-var-minus-square-o: "\f147"; +$fa-var-mixcloud: "\f289"; +$fa-var-mobile: "\f10b"; +$fa-var-mobile-phone: "\f10b"; +$fa-var-modx: "\f285"; +$fa-var-money: "\f0d6"; +$fa-var-moon-o: "\f186"; +$fa-var-mortar-board: "\f19d"; +$fa-var-motorcycle: "\f21c"; +$fa-var-mouse-pointer: "\f245"; +$fa-var-music: "\f001"; +$fa-var-navicon: "\f0c9"; +$fa-var-neuter: "\f22c"; +$fa-var-newspaper-o: "\f1ea"; +$fa-var-object-group: "\f247"; +$fa-var-object-ungroup: "\f248"; +$fa-var-odnoklassniki: "\f263"; +$fa-var-odnoklassniki-square: "\f264"; +$fa-var-opencart: "\f23d"; +$fa-var-openid: "\f19b"; +$fa-var-opera: "\f26a"; +$fa-var-optin-monster: "\f23c"; +$fa-var-outdent: "\f03b"; +$fa-var-pagelines: "\f18c"; +$fa-var-paint-brush: "\f1fc"; +$fa-var-paper-plane: "\f1d8"; +$fa-var-paper-plane-o: "\f1d9"; +$fa-var-paperclip: "\f0c6"; +$fa-var-paragraph: "\f1dd"; +$fa-var-paste: "\f0ea"; +$fa-var-pause: "\f04c"; +$fa-var-pause-circle: "\f28b"; +$fa-var-pause-circle-o: "\f28c"; +$fa-var-paw: "\f1b0"; +$fa-var-paypal: "\f1ed"; +$fa-var-pencil: "\f040"; +$fa-var-pencil-square: "\f14b"; +$fa-var-pencil-square-o: "\f044"; +$fa-var-percent: "\f295"; +$fa-var-phone: "\f095"; +$fa-var-phone-square: "\f098"; +$fa-var-photo: "\f03e"; +$fa-var-picture-o: "\f03e"; +$fa-var-pie-chart: "\f200"; +$fa-var-pied-piper: "\f2ae"; +$fa-var-pied-piper-alt: "\f1a8"; +$fa-var-pied-piper-pp: "\f1a7"; +$fa-var-pinterest: "\f0d2"; +$fa-var-pinterest-p: "\f231"; +$fa-var-pinterest-square: "\f0d3"; +$fa-var-plane: "\f072"; +$fa-var-play: "\f04b"; +$fa-var-play-circle: "\f144"; +$fa-var-play-circle-o: "\f01d"; +$fa-var-plug: "\f1e6"; +$fa-var-plus: "\f067"; +$fa-var-plus-circle: "\f055"; +$fa-var-plus-square: "\f0fe"; +$fa-var-plus-square-o: "\f196"; +$fa-var-power-off: "\f011"; +$fa-var-print: "\f02f"; +$fa-var-product-hunt: "\f288"; +$fa-var-puzzle-piece: "\f12e"; +$fa-var-qq: "\f1d6"; +$fa-var-qrcode: "\f029"; +$fa-var-question: "\f128"; +$fa-var-question-circle: "\f059"; +$fa-var-question-circle-o: "\f29c"; +$fa-var-quote-left: "\f10d"; +$fa-var-quote-right: "\f10e"; +$fa-var-ra: "\f1d0"; +$fa-var-random: "\f074"; +$fa-var-rebel: "\f1d0"; +$fa-var-recycle: "\f1b8"; +$fa-var-reddit: "\f1a1"; +$fa-var-reddit-alien: "\f281"; +$fa-var-reddit-square: "\f1a2"; +$fa-var-refresh: "\f021"; +$fa-var-registered: "\f25d"; +$fa-var-remove: "\f00d"; +$fa-var-renren: "\f18b"; +$fa-var-reorder: "\f0c9"; +$fa-var-repeat: "\f01e"; +$fa-var-reply: "\f112"; +$fa-var-reply-all: "\f122"; +$fa-var-resistance: "\f1d0"; +$fa-var-retweet: "\f079"; +$fa-var-rmb: "\f157"; +$fa-var-road: "\f018"; +$fa-var-rocket: "\f135"; +$fa-var-rotate-left: "\f0e2"; +$fa-var-rotate-right: "\f01e"; +$fa-var-rouble: "\f158"; +$fa-var-rss: "\f09e"; +$fa-var-rss-square: "\f143"; +$fa-var-rub: "\f158"; +$fa-var-ruble: "\f158"; +$fa-var-rupee: "\f156"; +$fa-var-safari: "\f267"; +$fa-var-save: "\f0c7"; +$fa-var-scissors: "\f0c4"; +$fa-var-scribd: "\f28a"; +$fa-var-search: "\f002"; +$fa-var-search-minus: "\f010"; +$fa-var-search-plus: "\f00e"; +$fa-var-sellsy: "\f213"; +$fa-var-send: "\f1d8"; +$fa-var-send-o: "\f1d9"; +$fa-var-server: "\f233"; +$fa-var-share: "\f064"; +$fa-var-share-alt: "\f1e0"; +$fa-var-share-alt-square: "\f1e1"; +$fa-var-share-square: "\f14d"; +$fa-var-share-square-o: "\f045"; +$fa-var-shekel: "\f20b"; +$fa-var-sheqel: "\f20b"; +$fa-var-shield: "\f132"; +$fa-var-ship: "\f21a"; +$fa-var-shirtsinbulk: "\f214"; +$fa-var-shopping-bag: "\f290"; +$fa-var-shopping-basket: "\f291"; +$fa-var-shopping-cart: "\f07a"; +$fa-var-sign-in: "\f090"; +$fa-var-sign-language: "\f2a7"; +$fa-var-sign-out: "\f08b"; +$fa-var-signal: "\f012"; +$fa-var-signing: "\f2a7"; +$fa-var-simplybuilt: "\f215"; +$fa-var-sitemap: "\f0e8"; +$fa-var-skyatlas: "\f216"; +$fa-var-skype: "\f17e"; +$fa-var-slack: "\f198"; +$fa-var-sliders: "\f1de"; +$fa-var-slideshare: "\f1e7"; +$fa-var-smile-o: "\f118"; +$fa-var-snapchat: "\f2ab"; +$fa-var-snapchat-ghost: "\f2ac"; +$fa-var-snapchat-square: "\f2ad"; +$fa-var-soccer-ball-o: "\f1e3"; +$fa-var-sort: "\f0dc"; +$fa-var-sort-alpha-asc: "\f15d"; +$fa-var-sort-alpha-desc: "\f15e"; +$fa-var-sort-amount-asc: "\f160"; +$fa-var-sort-amount-desc: "\f161"; +$fa-var-sort-asc: "\f0de"; +$fa-var-sort-desc: "\f0dd"; +$fa-var-sort-down: "\f0dd"; +$fa-var-sort-numeric-asc: "\f162"; +$fa-var-sort-numeric-desc: "\f163"; +$fa-var-sort-up: "\f0de"; +$fa-var-soundcloud: "\f1be"; +$fa-var-space-shuttle: "\f197"; +$fa-var-spinner: "\f110"; +$fa-var-spoon: "\f1b1"; +$fa-var-spotify: "\f1bc"; +$fa-var-square: "\f0c8"; +$fa-var-square-o: "\f096"; +$fa-var-stack-exchange: "\f18d"; +$fa-var-stack-overflow: "\f16c"; +$fa-var-star: "\f005"; +$fa-var-star-half: "\f089"; +$fa-var-star-half-empty: "\f123"; +$fa-var-star-half-full: "\f123"; +$fa-var-star-half-o: "\f123"; +$fa-var-star-o: "\f006"; +$fa-var-steam: "\f1b6"; +$fa-var-steam-square: "\f1b7"; +$fa-var-step-backward: "\f048"; +$fa-var-step-forward: "\f051"; +$fa-var-stethoscope: "\f0f1"; +$fa-var-sticky-note: "\f249"; +$fa-var-sticky-note-o: "\f24a"; +$fa-var-stop: "\f04d"; +$fa-var-stop-circle: "\f28d"; +$fa-var-stop-circle-o: "\f28e"; +$fa-var-street-view: "\f21d"; +$fa-var-strikethrough: "\f0cc"; +$fa-var-stumbleupon: "\f1a4"; +$fa-var-stumbleupon-circle: "\f1a3"; +$fa-var-subscript: "\f12c"; +$fa-var-subway: "\f239"; +$fa-var-suitcase: "\f0f2"; +$fa-var-sun-o: "\f185"; +$fa-var-superscript: "\f12b"; +$fa-var-support: "\f1cd"; +$fa-var-table: "\f0ce"; +$fa-var-tablet: "\f10a"; +$fa-var-tachometer: "\f0e4"; +$fa-var-tag: "\f02b"; +$fa-var-tags: "\f02c"; +$fa-var-tasks: "\f0ae"; +$fa-var-taxi: "\f1ba"; +$fa-var-television: "\f26c"; +$fa-var-tencent-weibo: "\f1d5"; +$fa-var-terminal: "\f120"; +$fa-var-text-height: "\f034"; +$fa-var-text-width: "\f035"; +$fa-var-th: "\f00a"; +$fa-var-th-large: "\f009"; +$fa-var-th-list: "\f00b"; +$fa-var-themeisle: "\f2b2"; +$fa-var-thumb-tack: "\f08d"; +$fa-var-thumbs-down: "\f165"; +$fa-var-thumbs-o-down: "\f088"; +$fa-var-thumbs-o-up: "\f087"; +$fa-var-thumbs-up: "\f164"; +$fa-var-ticket: "\f145"; +$fa-var-times: "\f00d"; +$fa-var-times-circle: "\f057"; +$fa-var-times-circle-o: "\f05c"; +$fa-var-tint: "\f043"; +$fa-var-toggle-down: "\f150"; +$fa-var-toggle-left: "\f191"; +$fa-var-toggle-off: "\f204"; +$fa-var-toggle-on: "\f205"; +$fa-var-toggle-right: "\f152"; +$fa-var-toggle-up: "\f151"; +$fa-var-trademark: "\f25c"; +$fa-var-train: "\f238"; +$fa-var-transgender: "\f224"; +$fa-var-transgender-alt: "\f225"; +$fa-var-trash: "\f1f8"; +$fa-var-trash-o: "\f014"; +$fa-var-tree: "\f1bb"; +$fa-var-trello: "\f181"; +$fa-var-tripadvisor: "\f262"; +$fa-var-trophy: "\f091"; +$fa-var-truck: "\f0d1"; +$fa-var-try: "\f195"; +$fa-var-tty: "\f1e4"; +$fa-var-tumblr: "\f173"; +$fa-var-tumblr-square: "\f174"; +$fa-var-turkish-lira: "\f195"; +$fa-var-tv: "\f26c"; +$fa-var-twitch: "\f1e8"; +$fa-var-twitter: "\f099"; +$fa-var-twitter-square: "\f081"; +$fa-var-umbrella: "\f0e9"; +$fa-var-underline: "\f0cd"; +$fa-var-undo: "\f0e2"; +$fa-var-universal-access: "\f29a"; +$fa-var-university: "\f19c"; +$fa-var-unlink: "\f127"; +$fa-var-unlock: "\f09c"; +$fa-var-unlock-alt: "\f13e"; +$fa-var-unsorted: "\f0dc"; +$fa-var-upload: "\f093"; +$fa-var-usb: "\f287"; +$fa-var-usd: "\f155"; +$fa-var-user: "\f007"; +$fa-var-user-md: "\f0f0"; +$fa-var-user-plus: "\f234"; +$fa-var-user-secret: "\f21b"; +$fa-var-user-times: "\f235"; +$fa-var-users: "\f0c0"; +$fa-var-venus: "\f221"; +$fa-var-venus-double: "\f226"; +$fa-var-venus-mars: "\f228"; +$fa-var-viacoin: "\f237"; +$fa-var-viadeo: "\f2a9"; +$fa-var-viadeo-square: "\f2aa"; +$fa-var-video-camera: "\f03d"; +$fa-var-vimeo: "\f27d"; +$fa-var-vimeo-square: "\f194"; +$fa-var-vine: "\f1ca"; +$fa-var-vk: "\f189"; +$fa-var-volume-control-phone: "\f2a0"; +$fa-var-volume-down: "\f027"; +$fa-var-volume-off: "\f026"; +$fa-var-volume-up: "\f028"; +$fa-var-warning: "\f071"; +$fa-var-wechat: "\f1d7"; +$fa-var-weibo: "\f18a"; +$fa-var-weixin: "\f1d7"; +$fa-var-whatsapp: "\f232"; +$fa-var-wheelchair: "\f193"; +$fa-var-wheelchair-alt: "\f29b"; +$fa-var-wifi: "\f1eb"; +$fa-var-wikipedia-w: "\f266"; +$fa-var-windows: "\f17a"; +$fa-var-won: "\f159"; +$fa-var-wordpress: "\f19a"; +$fa-var-wpbeginner: "\f297"; +$fa-var-wpforms: "\f298"; +$fa-var-wrench: "\f0ad"; +$fa-var-xing: "\f168"; +$fa-var-xing-square: "\f169"; +$fa-var-y-combinator: "\f23b"; +$fa-var-y-combinator-square: "\f1d4"; +$fa-var-yahoo: "\f19e"; +$fa-var-yc: "\f23b"; +$fa-var-yc-square: "\f1d4"; +$fa-var-yelp: "\f1e9"; +$fa-var-yen: "\f157"; +$fa-var-yoast: "\f2b1"; +$fa-var-youtube: "\f167"; +$fa-var-youtube-play: "\f16a"; +$fa-var-youtube-square: "\f166"; + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/font-awesome.scss b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/font-awesome.scss new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2308b14 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/fonts/font_awesome/scss/font-awesome.scss @@ -0,0 +1,18 @@ +/*! + * Font Awesome 4.6.3 by @davegandy - http://fontawesome.io - @fontawesome + * License - http://fontawesome.io/license (Font: SIL OFL 1.1, CSS: MIT License) + */ + +@import "variables"; +@import "mixins"; +@import "path"; +@import "core"; +@import "larger"; +@import "fixed-width"; +@import "list"; +@import "bordered-pulled"; +@import "animated"; +@import "rotated-flipped"; +@import "stacked"; +@import "icons"; +@import "screen-reader"; diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..37f023f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/house-demo/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,240 @@ + + + + + + + +412 Holman Ave | Luxagraf + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    412 Holman Ave For Sale

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    For Sale: 412 Holman Ave, Athens GA

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    Share this Post

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      Normaltown Style

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      Nestled in the heart of Normaltown, 412 Holman puts you within easy walking distance of all that Normaltown has to offer -- coffeeshops, bakeries, restaurants, groceries, pubs, pizza, and more. You're also only three blocks from the UGA bus line and four from the city bus.

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      Bishop Park

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      Just two blocks down the street is Bishop Park with everything from soccer fields to tennis courts to gymnastics classes for kids. There's also a nice track for running and tk.

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      V8 - 318 Poly Engine

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      The 318 engine is widely considered to be one of the best engines ever built. Bulletproof is the word most often associated with it. Best of all, you can walk into any NAPA today and find every part you could ever want for it.

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    Exterior

    Sitting on a fully fenced .26 acre lot, 412 Holamn features large front and back yards, with ample shade provided by Pine and Oak trees. There's also a garden on the south (sunny) side of the house that has rough 250 sq ft of developed beds. We've grown everything from heirloom tomatoes to okra using the permaculture garden method known as hugelkultur (basically a way to garden without watering, see link for more info)

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    Interior

    The interior was all original when we bought it in 2013, and while it was beautiful, it was also in need of some updating to make it a clean happy place again. We gutted it down to the frame, installed insulation, ran a lot of new wiring, put new wall panels on, a new ceiling, new floor, and had all the seats reupholstered.

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    Kitchen

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    Bedroom

    Bathroom

    Bunk Beds

    Another ingenious design from the 60s. The backrest of the couch pulls out and up to hook onto rings in the ceiling, creating a bunk bed. The result is comfortable single bed sized sleeping for two. The top bunk has been tested to comfortably hold at least 200 pounds. When flipped down you’d never know it was there.

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    Flip Seat

    318ci V-8 Engine

    Storage

    Awnings

    Awnings are one of those things that you don’t give much thought to unless you don’t have them—then you wish you had them every single time you are outside. Ours are original Zip-Dee awnings, leaders in the industry still today. Perfect condition.

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    Ladder

    The ladder, and the roof railings, were another addition built by the original owner. The man was a talented welder. It’s a flawless design, matching the curves of the Travco perfectly. Compared to the mish-mash of ugly square ladders found on other Travcos—if they have anything at all—this is a thing of beauty.

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    Solar

    We added 300 Watts of Renogy Solar Panels to the roof. These are wired through a 40amp converter, and from there to two Trojan batteries. The end result is that you never have to worry about power.

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    Bumper Box

    The front bumper is a highlight of this bus. The original owner built this in the early 70s, along with a few other owners. They are a rare addition, but widely coveted in the Travco community. They do double duty as a window washing platform, and as a park bench.

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    Air Conditioner

    The air conditioner is a 13,000 BTU unit, and new in 2014. It is tucked away on the floor of the pantry cabinet and vented outdoors. The ducting leads to the back bedroom, the living area, and to the front seating. This unit completely eliminated the need for a big roof unit that hangs down and takes away interior headroom.

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    Propane

    Two 30-pound propane tanks reside in their own outdoor vented cabinet. They are plumbed to a switch that let’s you flip between tanks. There is also a twenty-foot hose for outdoor use with a gas grill. New in 2014 and up to current U.S. safety standards.

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    Hot Water Heater

    The hot water heater has been used almost daily for the past two years. Works flawlessly. Remove the cover with two twist tabs, push the button, and light. In three minutes you’ll have hot water at any temperature you like.

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    Random Goodness

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La(a,b){var c=n(b.createElement(a)).appendTo(b.body),d=n.css(c[0],"display");return c.detach(),d}function Ma(a){var b=d,c=Ka[a];return c||(c=La(a,b),"none"!==c&&c||(Ja=(Ja||n(" + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/02/everything-all-time.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/02/everything-all-time.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..373bc81 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/02/everything-all-time.html @@ -0,0 +1,347 @@ + + + + + Everything All The Time - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Everything All The Time

    + +
    +
    +

    Los Angeles, California, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    We’ll collect the moments one by one
    I guess that’s how the future’s done — Leslie Fiest
    + +

    A while back a friend of mine who I hadn’t spoken to in quite a while rang me up. At some point we got to talking of age and memory and time. We were speaking of time passing, of the curious moment we both find ourselves in now — trying to adjust to what I at least can safely call the middle of my life — certainly no longer the beginning. And then my friend said, “remember me as I was when you met me.”

    +

    Window I laughed. Now the time my friend refers to, when we met, I would have been twenty-five or twenty-six. Personally I would just as soon forget nearly anything and everything I did when I was twenty-five as I’m sure it was largely ridiculous and immature. For that matter I should probably forget what I did yesterday as I’m fairly certain it wasn’t a whole lot better.

    +

    I don’t know if I’m just overly paranoid but when I call up memories in the dark hours of the Beaujolais-soaked pre-dawn, I get mainly a collection of mildly amusing, occasionally painful series of embarrassments, misunderstandings and general wrong-place wrong-time sort of moments.

    +

    Five and TenWhich isn’t to imply that my life is a British sitcom, just that I’m not in a hurry to re-live any of it. And I don’t think my friend is either. No my friend was not expressing a desire to rewind as it were, but rather acknowledging that since we rarely see each other these days we must necessarily exist mainly as memories.

    +

    There’s an inevitable sadness to that realization.

    +

    A few days later I was testing a piece of photo software for my day job at Wired and I happened to run across an image from roughly that time of my life. I don’t know for sure if it’s the oldest picture I have, but I’ve always thought of it as the first picture I took of my friend.

    +

    There was a strange disconnect though, as I stared at my friend’s image and my own frozen in pixels. For all we like to think that photograph’s record, they don’t. Kodak was wrong, photographs don’t capture memories they just provide thin little links to them; time passes and memory continues to add impressions and in the end what you have is just one piece of a collage of memories which, taken out of context, as a photograph must be, becomes a distortion, something you no longer recognize as your friend.

    +

    The image in question has a strange yellow glow, distorted toward orange by the blunt sensor of the old Canon, I know the lamb’s wool sweater my friend is wearing is pale minty green but in the picture it looks almost ochre, the walls seem to have been lifted from some smoke stained Parisian bar, my friend and I are slightly out of focus, my jittery arm extends away from my side, but our smiles are not forced.

    +

    Slowly, after staring at the picture for a while, my attention drifted away and other un-photographed moments arose, my own green sweater, darker than my friend’s, wet from dripping awnings as I walked in the rain one night in Vienna, the crystal chandelier in the cafe, sausage and purple cabbage on white china plates. And then to another memory driving across central Utah, the roads winding on narrow fluted mesa tops, the rough hewn wood planks of a tiny general store where I once bought steak and potatoes, the forest campground where the smell of steak sizzled over flames filled my lungs and in the fading light of a sun disappearing over the Wasatch mountains I took another photograph, which is on this very page, the eyeball in the tree that continues to haunt me.

    +

    At perhaps the simplest level remembering is merely reconstructing the past in the present, but there is no continuous motion of memory through time as there is in the present, we do not recall events in the order they happened, but rather by the things that link them. Memories stack up at crazy angles like a card house that topples before the pinnacle is reached, the final card laid, the final card lies forever out of reach, beyond tomorrow.

    +

    MeIn many ways time has nothing to do with memory, save to act as a marker. Time is the space between memories, it lives in the shadows, runs down between and fills the cracks.

    +

    When we do try to introduce time into our memories we often have to stop and think — now when did that happen? The memory, the reconstruction of the past in the present happens unaided but it often bounces here and there joining with other memories linked by smell, taste, sound and more, but almost never by time. Placing a memory at a specific moment in time rarely comes as easily, we rely on context, the shirt you’re wearing, the hat your friend has on or maybe the length of your hair.

    +

    Perhaps we let time slip from memory because it isn’t necessary, perhaps time only matters in the present. But even then we do our best to ignore it. Our escape from time, the trick we use to ignore its passage on the average day is that it moves just slow enough that we don’t notice it except in larger chunks.

    +

    I recently came across someone who subverted that though. Imagine your life displayed in a time lapse film. The very thought of it is intimidating, almost unimaginable. Well have a look at Noah Kalina’s YouTube montage (embedded below). For six years Noah took a picture of himself every day. Personally I find Noah’s video collage to be one of the most beautiful and truly frightening things I’ve ever seen, which probably explains why it’s one of the most watched movies on YouTube.

    +

    Each photograph on its own is mundane, hardly worth comment, but in rapid succession they stitch together and form a thread of time moving through life, and even though we watch Noah pass through six years in three minutes, as you watch his face becomes after a while only a thin veil between our own reflection in the screen and time screaming past.

    + + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/02/everything-all-time.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/02/everything-all-time.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..925684f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/02/everything-all-time.txt @@ -0,0 +1,40 @@ +Everything All The Time +======================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 03 February 2007 + +
    We'll collect the moments one by one
    I guess that's how the future's done — Leslie Fiest
    + +A while back a friend of mine who I hadn’t spoken to in quite a while rang me up. At some point we got to talking of age and memory and time. We were speaking of time passing, of the curious moment we both find ourselves in now — trying to adjust to what I at least can safely call the middle of my life — certainly no longer the beginning. And then my friend said, “remember me as I was when you met me.” + +Window I laughed. Now the time my friend refers to, when we met, I would have been twenty-five or twenty-six. Personally I would just as soon forget nearly anything and everything I did when I was twenty-five as I’m sure it was largely ridiculous and immature. For that matter I should probably forget what I did yesterday as I’m fairly certain it wasn’t a whole lot better. + +I don’t know if I’m just overly paranoid but when I call up memories in the dark hours of the Beaujolais-soaked pre-dawn, I get mainly a collection of mildly amusing, occasionally painful series of embarrassments, misunderstandings and general wrong-place wrong-time sort of moments. + +Five and TenWhich isn’t to imply that my life is a British sitcom, just that I’m not in a hurry to re-live any of it. And I don’t think my friend is either. No my friend was not expressing a desire to rewind as it were, but rather acknowledging that since we rarely see each other these days we must necessarily exist mainly as memories. + +There’s an inevitable sadness to that realization. + +A few days later I was testing a piece of photo software for my day job at Wired and I happened to run across an image from roughly that time of my life. I don’t know for sure if it’s the oldest picture I have, but I’ve always thought of it as the first picture I took of my friend. + +There was a strange disconnect though, as I stared at my friend’s image and my own frozen in pixels. For all we like to think that photograph’s record, they don’t. Kodak was wrong, photographs don’t capture memories they just provide thin little links to them; time passes and memory continues to add impressions and in the end what you have is just one piece of a collage of memories which, taken out of context, as a photograph must be, becomes a distortion, something you no longer recognize as your friend. + +The image in question has a strange yellow glow, distorted toward orange by the blunt sensor of the old Canon, I know the lamb’s wool sweater my friend is wearing is pale minty green but in the picture it looks almost ochre, the walls seem to have been lifted from some smoke stained Parisian bar, my friend and I are slightly out of focus, my jittery arm extends away from my side, but our smiles are not forced. + +Slowly, after staring at the picture for a while, my attention drifted away and other un-photographed moments arose, my own green sweater, darker than my friend’s, wet from dripping awnings as I walked in the rain one night in Vienna, the crystal chandelier in the cafe, sausage and purple cabbage on white china plates. And then to another memory driving across central Utah, the roads winding on narrow fluted mesa tops, the rough hewn wood planks of a tiny general store where I once bought steak and potatoes, the forest campground where the smell of steak sizzled over flames filled my lungs and in the fading light of a sun disappearing over the Wasatch mountains I took another photograph, which is on this very page, the eyeball in the tree that continues to haunt me. + +At perhaps the simplest level remembering is merely reconstructing the past in the present, but there is no continuous motion of memory through time as there is in the present, we do not recall events in the order they happened, but rather by the things that link them. Memories stack up at crazy angles like a card house that topples before the pinnacle is reached, the final card laid, the final card lies forever out of reach, beyond tomorrow. + +MeIn many ways time has nothing to do with memory, save to act as a marker. Time is the space between memories, it lives in the shadows, runs down between and fills the cracks. + +When we do try to introduce time into our memories we often have to stop and think — now when did that happen? The memory, the reconstruction of the past in the present happens unaided but it often bounces here and there joining with other memories linked by smell, taste, sound and more, but almost never by time. Placing a memory at a specific moment in time rarely comes as easily, we rely on context, the shirt you’re wearing, the hat your friend has on or maybe the length of your hair. + +Perhaps we let time slip from memory because it isn’t necessary, perhaps time only matters in the present. But even then we do our best to ignore it. Our escape from time, the trick we use to ignore its passage on the average day is that it moves just slow enough that we don’t notice it except in larger chunks. + +I recently came across someone who subverted that though. Imagine your life displayed in a time lapse film. The very thought of it is intimidating, almost unimaginable. Well have a look at Noah Kalina’s YouTube montage (embedded below). For six years Noah took a picture of himself every day. Personally I find Noah’s video collage to be one of the most beautiful and truly frightening things I’ve ever seen, which probably explains why it’s one of the most watched movies on YouTube. + +Each photograph on its own is mundane, hardly worth comment, but in rapid succession they stitch together and form a thread of time moving through life, and even though we watch Noah pass through six years in three minutes, as you watch his face becomes after a while only a thin veil between our own reflection in the screen and time screaming past. + +
    diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/02/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/02/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5dbdc80 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/02/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,104 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: February 2007

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/03/goodbye-mother-and-cove.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/03/goodbye-mother-and-cove.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b73ef7e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/03/goodbye-mother-and-cove.amp @@ -0,0 +1,177 @@ + + + + + + +Goodbye to the Mother and the Cove + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Goodbye to the Mother and the Cove

    + + + +
    +
    +

    Earlier today I was driving up Santa Monica Blvd, stuck in traffic actually, more like parked on Santa Monica Blvd, staring up a very strange cloud that had been hanging over the west side all afternoon looking a bit like the clouds in Independence Day that show up just before the alien ships emerge from behind them, when it occurred to me that I was leaving Los Angeles again.

    +

    + It's strange how you can plan something, go through all the motions of making it happen without ever really understanding what you're doing. I've been doing this for the better part of three years now. I realized recently that I have no real idea how I came to be here.

    +

    All I can do is trace the timeline like a boring history professor: my girlfriend dumped me, which in turn inspired me to quit the job I had at the time (which I hated anyway) and then I drove to Athens GA because it was the last sane moment I could think of, but I ran into a friend who was recently back from Asia so I decided to go to Asia. I didn't have much money and I didn't want to work. So I came out here to Los Angeles and started building websites for a friend of a friend. By the end of summer I had enough money to go on my trip. So I left, traveled around Asia for nine months and returned here to Los Angeles. Then I got a job writing for Wired from a friend.

    +

    I will never exactly understand how getting dumped and quitting what was arguably a good job in spite of the fact that I hated it, somehow managed to get me to a better place, but it did. I don't even know why I bother to tell you these things, except perhaps as a way of expressing my gratitude to all my friends because if we back up and look at all the key plot points in the last three years of my life, none of them are the result of my talents or skills, they were all gifts handed to me by friends, very good friends, friends I wish I could do more for, friends I will miss very much now that I am leaving.

    +

    I don't really know where I am going, but I'll be sure to send some postcards along the way and when I raise a glass it will be, as Bukowski wrote -- to all my friends.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/03/goodbye-mother-and-cove.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/03/goodbye-mother-and-cove.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..50de0a7 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/03/goodbye-mother-and-cove.html @@ -0,0 +1,333 @@ + + + + + Goodbye To The Mother And The Cove - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Goodbye to the Mother and the Cove

    + +
    +
    +

    Los Angeles, California, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Earlier today I was driving up Santa Monica Blvd, stuck in traffic actually, more like parked on Santa Monica Blvd, staring up a very strange cloud that had been hanging over the west side all afternoon looking a bit like the clouds in Independence Day that show up just before the alien ships emerge from behind them, when it occurred to me that I was leaving Los Angeles again.

    +

    +clouds over Santa Monica It’s strange how you can plan something, go through all the motions of making it happen without ever really understanding what you’re doing. I’ve been doing this for the better part of three years now. I realized recently that I have no real idea how I came to be here.

    +

    All I can do is trace the timeline like a boring history professor: my girlfriend dumped me, which in turn inspired me to quit the job I had at the time (which I hated anyway) and then I drove to Athens GA because it was the last sane moment I could think of, but I ran into a friend who was recently back from Asia so I decided to go to Asia. I didn’t have much money and I didn’t want to work. So I came out here to Los Angeles and started building websites for a friend of a friend. By the end of summer I had enough money to go on my trip. So I left, traveled around Asia for nine months and returned here to Los Angeles. Then I got a job writing for Wired from a friend.

    +

    I will never exactly understand how getting dumped and quitting what was arguably a good job in spite of the fact that I hated it, somehow managed to get me to a better place, but it did. I don’t even know why I bother to tell you these things, except perhaps as a way of expressing my gratitude to all my friends because if we back up and look at all the key plot points in the last three years of my life, none of them are the result of my talents or skills, they were all gifts handed to me by friends, very good friends, friends I wish I could do more for, friends I will miss very much now that I am leaving.

    +

    I don’t really know where I am going, but I’ll be sure to send some postcards along the way and when I raise a glass it will be, as Bukowski wrote — to all my friends.

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/03/goodbye-mother-and-cove.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/03/goodbye-mother-and-cove.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..79ffdeb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/03/goodbye-mother-and-cove.txt @@ -0,0 +1,17 @@ +Goodbye to the Mother and the Cove +================================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 01 March 2007 + +Earlier today I was driving up Santa Monica Blvd, stuck in traffic actually, more like parked on Santa Monica Blvd, staring up a very strange cloud that had been hanging over the west side all afternoon looking a bit like the clouds in Independence Day that show up just before the alien ships emerge from behind them, when it occurred to me that I was leaving Los Angeles again. + + +clouds over Santa Monica It's strange how you can plan something, go through all the motions of making it happen without ever really understanding what you're doing. I've been doing this for the better part of three years now. I realized recently that I have no real idea how I came to be here. + +All I can do is trace the timeline like a boring history professor: my girlfriend dumped me, which in turn inspired me to quit the job I had at the time (which I hated anyway) and then I drove to Athens GA because it was the last sane moment I could think of, but I ran into a friend who was recently back from Asia so I decided to go to Asia. I didn't have much money and I didn't want to work. So I came out here to Los Angeles and started building websites for a friend of a friend. By the end of summer I had enough money to go on my trip. So I left, traveled around Asia for nine months and returned here to Los Angeles. Then I got a job writing for Wired from a friend. + +I will never exactly understand how getting dumped and quitting what was arguably a good job in spite of the fact that I hated it, somehow managed to get me to a better place, but it did. I don't even know why I bother to tell you these things, except perhaps as a way of expressing my gratitude to all my friends because if we back up and look at all the key plot points in the last three years of my life, none of them are the result of my talents or skills, they were all gifts handed to me by friends, very good friends, friends I wish I could do more for, friends I will miss very much now that I am leaving. + +I don't really know where I am going, but I'll be sure to send some postcards along the way and when I raise a glass it will be, as Bukowski wrote -- to all my friends. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/03/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/03/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ce61617 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/03/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,104 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: March 2007

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/being-there.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/being-there.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ba266b2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/being-there.amp @@ -0,0 +1,197 @@ + + + + + + +Being There + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Being There

    + + + +
    +
    +

    Myrtle Beach does not exist.

    +

    Myrtle Beach is in fact a copy of a place that does not exist.

    +

    Nearly everything in Myrtle Beach is a paltry derivative of some original form. For instance, most of the country has golf courses, in Myrtle Beach there are endless rows of putt-putt courses complete with sewage treatment blue waterfalls and variety of kitschy themes.

    +

    And where most towns attempt to draw in big name musical acts for their tourist venues, Myrtle Beach is content with impersonators, which can be found on any given night at any number of lounge venues hacking through pastiches of everything from Prince and Justin Timberlake, to a mock Grand Ol' Opry. + +But I refer to Myrtle Beach as a copy of a place that doesn't exist because on some level Myrtle Beach is just an imitation Vegas. But Las Vegas has already begun its transformation from imitator of itself to imitator of the world. Just consider the themed hotel resorts -- The Venetian with its canals, The Luxor with its Egyptian theme and of course New York-New York -- all of which are geared toward recreating aspects of other places together in one easy to reach spot.

    +

    Call it real-world virtual tourism.

    +

    The cynical take, for those of us that enjoy traveling to the actual destinations, is "hey, it keeps the annoying tourists out of the real locations." And while I refuse to wholly give in to that notion, I nevertheless admit its appeal.

    +

    It is tempting for travelers to sit back and criticize your typical American, British or German on holiday (since those are in my experience the greatest offenders in this category) as if the traveler had somehow earned the right to be there -- by virtue of, let's face it, our own invented self-superiority -- which simply isn't true.

    +

    When I was younger I saw a movie, The Man From Snowy River which is set in Australia and involves a sort of feud between high country and low country dwellers (among other things). Both sides are snobs toward the other, the low country folk are rich and land holding while the inhabitants of the high country are mainly poor, but work the actual land -- a fairly typical dichotomy in the western world circa 1900.

    +

    In the film Kirk Douglas plays an old wizened high country dweller who at one point tells the young protagonist, who is caught between the two worlds, "you have to earn the right to live up here."

    +

    And that's a tempting philosophy to cling to, but it has some problems. For one thing, at what point have you earned the right to live there? Who decides what is necessary to earn the right to live there? And the list goes on.

    +

    Still, anyone who's been up to the top of an Angkor Wat temple to watch the sun set knows the appeal of the notion that perhaps, just to cut down on the crowds you understand, perhaps there ought to be some sort of trial in which you have to earn the right to be there. Everyone but you and I of course.

    +

    However, despite recognizing the inherent hypocrisy in the notion of earning the right to be anywhere, there is, I believe, a fundamental difference between a tourist for whom Myrtle Beach is an appealing destination, and, well, the rest of us.

    +

    "Traveler" is the suitably generic term I use to distinguish those who are not simply tourists passing through in air-con comfort. But the real difference between a tourist and traveler is philosophical.

    +

    A tourist attempts to see a destination much in the way we watch an enjoyable television program -- peacefully and without too great of discomfort. Their philosophy (as I understand it from observing them) is to actually see a destination with their own eyes, rather than simply watch or read of it.

    +

    These individuals recognize that just watching Rick Steves' thirty minute tours on PBS is not the same as actually walking through the Piazza San Marco in Venice -- but that's as far as they are willing to go. God forbid the air-con fail or the drinks lack ice. +For this sort of approach to travel (and let me just say that I don't think everyone on a package tour is necessarily that shallow) the imitation destinations like Myrtle Beach or Las Vegas are ideal.

    +

    The images dancing before your eyes are after all, at least on some level, virtual.

    +

    Thus the tourist's expectations are largely met in a virtual destination -- very little danger, the water is drinkable, the sights damn near the same and there's ice in the drinks.

    +

    On the other hand, travelers don't generally seem to be content with just seeing. There is a more full frontal approach if you will.

    +

    And for those that enjoy small children throwing up on them on crowded buses, accept dysentery as part of price to be paid for the joy of the foreign and who welcome the dodgy food, the suspect ice, the insects, the garbage, the poverty and all the other experiences which, for better or worse make up world travel, there still remains, well, the world.Which is why there's an international airport near you -- even in Myrtle Beach.

    +

    [None of the above photos are mine, click individual images for details]

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/being-there.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/being-there.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e7253fa --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/being-there.html @@ -0,0 +1,350 @@ + + + + + Being There - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Being There

    + +
    +
    +

    Myrtle Beach Airport, South Carolina, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Myrtle Beach does not exist.

    +

    Myrtle Beach is in fact a copy of a place that does not exist.

    +

    Nearly everything in Myrtle Beach is a paltry derivative of some original form. For instance, most of the country has golf courses, in Myrtle Beach there are endless rows of putt-putt courses complete with sewage treatment blue waterfalls and variety of kitschy themes.

    +

    Myrtle Beach, SC Spring Break 2007, image by Curtis and Eric, flickr CCAnd where most towns attempt to draw in big name musical acts for their tourist venues, Myrtle Beach is content with impersonators, which can be found on any given night at any number of lounge venues hacking through pastiches of everything from Prince and Justin Timberlake, to a mock Grand Ol’ Opry. + +Myrtle Beach, SC putt puttBut I refer to Myrtle Beach as a copy of a place that doesn’t exist because on some level Myrtle Beach is just an imitation Vegas. But Las Vegas has already begun its transformation from imitator of itself to imitator of the world. Just consider the themed hotel resorts — The Venetian with its canals, The Luxor with its Egyptian theme and of course New York-New York — all of which are geared toward recreating aspects of other places together in one easy to reach spot.

    +

    Call it real-world virtual tourism.

    +

    The cynical take, for those of us that enjoy traveling to the actual destinations, is “hey, it keeps the annoying tourists out of the real locations.” And while I refuse to wholly give in to that notion, I nevertheless admit its appeal.

    +

    It is tempting for travelers to sit back and criticize your typical American, British or German on holidayGondola at the Venetian - Las Vegas (since those are in my experience the greatest offenders in this category) as if the traveler had somehow earned the right to be there — by virtue of, let’s face it, our own invented self-superiority — which simply isn’t true.

    +

    When I was younger I saw a movie, The Man From Snowy River which is set in Australia and involves a sort of feud between high country and low country dwellers (among other things). Both sides are snobs toward the other, the low country folk are rich and land holding while the inhabitants of the high country are mainly poor, but work the actual land — a fairly typical dichotomy in the western world circa 1900.

    +

    In the film Kirk Douglas plays an old wizened high country dweller who at one point tells the young protagonist, who is caught between the two worlds, “you have to earn the right to live up here.”

    +

    And that’s a tempting philosophy to cling to, but it has some problems. For one thing, at what point have you earned the right to live there? Who decides what is necessary to earn the right to live there? And the list goes on.

    +

    Still, anyone who’s been up to the top of an Angkor Wat temple to watch the sun set knows the appeal of the notion that perhaps, just to cut down on the crowds you understand, perhaps there ought to be some sort of trial in which you have to earn the right to be there. Everyone but you and I of course.

    +

    However, despite recognizing the inherent hypocrisy in the notion of earning the right to be anywhere, there is, I believe, a fundamental difference between a tourist for whom Myrtle Beach is an appealing destination, and, well, the rest of us.

    +

    “Traveler” is the suitably generic term I use to distinguish those who are not simply tourists passing through in air-con comfort. But the real difference between a tourist and traveler is philosophical.

    +

    A tourist attempts to see a destination much in the way we watch an enjoyable television program — peacefully and without too great of discomfort. Their philosophy (as I understand it from observing them) is to actually see a destination with their own eyes, rather than simply watch or read of it.

    +

    These individuals recognize that just watching Rick Steves’ thirty minute tours on PBS is not the same as actually walking through the Piazza San Marco in Venice — but that’s as far as they are willing to go. God forbid the air-con fail or the drinks lack ice. +Piazza San MarcoFor this sort of approach to travel (and let me just say that I don’t think everyone on a package tour is necessarily that shallow) the imitation destinations like Myrtle Beach or Las Vegas are ideal.

    +

    The images dancing before your eyes are after all, at least on some level, virtual.

    +

    Thus the tourist’s expectations are largely met in a virtual destination — very little danger, the water is drinkable, the sights damn near the same and there’s ice in the drinks.

    +

    On the other hand, travelers don’t generally seem to be content with just seeing. There is a more full frontal approach if you will.

    +

    And for those that enjoy small children throwing up on them on crowded buses, accept dysentery as part of price to be paid for the joy of the foreign and who welcome the dodgy food, the suspect ice, the insects, the garbage, the poverty and all the other experiences which, for better or worse make up world travel, there still remains, well, the world.Which is why there’s an international airport near you — even in Myrtle Beach.

    +

    [None of the above photos are mine, click individual images for details]

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/being-there.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/being-there.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..23c8a3b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/being-there.txt @@ -0,0 +1,49 @@ +Being There +=========== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 17 June 2007 + +Myrtle Beach does not exist. + +Myrtle Beach is in fact a copy of a place that does not exist. + +Nearly everything in Myrtle Beach is a paltry derivative of some original form. For instance, most of the country has golf courses, in Myrtle Beach there are endless rows of putt-putt courses complete with sewage treatment blue waterfalls and variety of kitschy themes. + +Myrtle Beach, SC Spring Break 2007, image by Curtis and Eric, flickr CCAnd where most towns attempt to draw in big name musical acts for their tourist venues, Myrtle Beach is content with impersonators, which can be found on any given night at any number of lounge venues hacking through pastiches of everything from Prince and Justin Timberlake, to a mock Grand Ol' Opry. + +Myrtle Beach, SC putt puttBut I refer to Myrtle Beach as a copy of a place that doesn't exist because on some level Myrtle Beach is just an imitation Vegas. But Las Vegas has already begun its transformation from imitator of itself to imitator of the world. Just consider the themed hotel resorts -- The Venetian with its canals, The Luxor with its Egyptian theme and of course New York-New York -- all of which are geared toward recreating aspects of other places together in one easy to reach spot. + +Call it real-world virtual tourism. + +The cynical take, for those of us that enjoy traveling to the actual destinations, is "hey, it keeps the annoying tourists out of the real locations." And while I refuse to wholly give in to that notion, I nevertheless admit its appeal. + +It is tempting for travelers to sit back and criticize your typical American, British or German on holidayGondola at the Venetian - Las Vegas (since those are in my experience the greatest offenders in this category) as if the traveler had somehow earned the right to be there -- by virtue of, let's face it, our own invented self-superiority -- which simply isn't true. + +When I was younger I saw a movie, The Man From Snowy River which is set in Australia and involves a sort of feud between high country and low country dwellers (among other things). Both sides are snobs toward the other, the low country folk are rich and land holding while the inhabitants of the high country are mainly poor, but work the actual land -- a fairly typical dichotomy in the western world circa 1900. + +In the film Kirk Douglas plays an old wizened high country dweller who at one point tells the young protagonist, who is caught between the two worlds, "you have to earn the right to live up here." + +And that's a tempting philosophy to cling to, but it has some problems. For one thing, at what point have you earned the right to live there? Who decides what is necessary to earn the right to live there? And the list goes on. + +Still, anyone who's been up to the top of an Angkor Wat temple to watch the sun set knows the appeal of the notion that perhaps, just to cut down on the crowds you understand, perhaps there ought to be some sort of trial in which you have to earn the right to be there. Everyone but you and I of course. + +However, despite recognizing the inherent hypocrisy in the notion of earning the right to be anywhere, there is, I believe, a fundamental difference between a tourist for whom Myrtle Beach is an appealing destination, and, well, the rest of us. + +"Traveler" is the suitably generic term I use to distinguish those who are not simply tourists passing through in air-con comfort. But the real difference between a tourist and traveler is philosophical. + +A tourist attempts to see a destination much in the way we watch an enjoyable television program -- peacefully and without too great of discomfort. Their philosophy (as I understand it from observing them) is to actually *see* a destination with their own eyes, rather than simply watch or read of it. + +These individuals recognize that just watching Rick Steves' thirty minute tours on PBS is not the same as actually walking through the Piazza San Marco in Venice -- but that's as far as they are willing to go. God forbid the air-con fail or the drinks lack ice. +Piazza San MarcoFor this sort of approach to travel (and let me just say that I don't think everyone on a package tour is necessarily that shallow) the imitation destinations like Myrtle Beach or Las Vegas are ideal. + +The images dancing before your eyes are after all, at least on some level, virtual. + +Thus the tourist's expectations are largely met in a virtual destination -- very little danger, the water is drinkable, the sights damn near the same and there's ice in the drinks. + +On the other hand, travelers don't generally seem to be content with just seeing. There is a more full frontal approach if you will. + +And for those that enjoy small children throwing up on them on crowded buses, accept dysentery as part of price to be paid for the joy of the foreign and who welcome the dodgy food, the suspect ice, the insects, the garbage, the poverty and all the other experiences which, for better or worse make up world travel, there still remains, well, the world.Which is why there's an international airport near you -- even in Myrtle Beach. + +[None of the above photos are mine, click individual images for details] diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..06f20d5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,107 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: June 2007

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/sailing-through.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/sailing-through.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7facb70 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/sailing-through.amp @@ -0,0 +1,189 @@ + + + + + + +Sailing Through + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Sailing Through

    + + + +
    +
    +

    It was the middle of the afternoon, we having settled in to watch a bit of the Blues Brothers -- afternoon films being my favorite form of procrastination -- when, just after Belushi remarks that the modern American mall "has everything", the screen blacked out to the sound of bleating sirens and a message began to scroll across the screen in a dull white Arial-derived font -- something about severe thunderstorms.

    +

    +

    We decide to go for a walk. The sun feels like a curse that's been hanging over you since birth. Not a cloud in the sky.

    +

    And so it goes. Here in Charleston, SC. The rumors are true. I moved back to the south, Athens GA to be exact -- more on that later. But I hate staying in one place for too long, so after a month or two in Athens I headed up to Charleston to visit a friend.

    +

    The south is curious place. If you've never been here I couldn't hope to explain it, but it's not so much a place as an approach. A way of getting somewhere more than anywhere specific. Perhaps even a wrong turn.

    +

    Here's what we know for sure: Californian is not the south. Texas is also not the south. Charleston throws seersucker suits in the mix, but hey, nothing's perfect.

    +

    There was a piece in the New York Times a while back that argued that the South begins not at the Mason-Dixon line, as history would have us believe, but where the restaurants switch over to sweetened tea. But most Times writers have never left Manhattan and won't recognize the South even when they're dipped in tar and run out of it. The truth is the South begins and ends wherever you can find Duke's Mayonnaise on the shelves of your local grocer.

    +

    There's mayonnaise. And then there's Duke's. Even at the baseball game there's Duke's.

    +

    But it was the heat that started it. Thunderstorms and heat.

    +

    Apparently the Charleston emergency broadcast system has never heard the story on the boy who cried wolf. Or they just didn't walk away with much. Not only is there not a cloud in the sky, there was a tropical depression big enough to have a name that didn't warrant any alerts when it blew through yesterday.

    +

    It seems safe to assume that the local elements of FEMA are run by the same type of highly qualified individuals that staff the higher government offices of this strange, confused land.

    +

    I first came to Charleston about a month ago, I've come and gone twice since then. The weather was mild when I first arrived, an onshore breeze to rattle the Palmetto leaves, tufts of cloud hanging over the sea. We lay on our backs floating in the brine and watching the sun arc the sky.

    +

    One weekend we wandered the shipping yards ogling the tall ships, a festival of them, blown in on favorable winds you might say. We failed, despite our best efforts, to be shanghaied off into the ocean, pressed into five months before the mast on our way back to Italy.

    +

    A kind of wanderlust seizes me whenever I am near boats -- the world was, after all, discovered by men and women of the sea. And I don't mean those Spaniards with their metal helmets, I mean the much older explorers departing from east on dugout canoes with spears for fishing and courage of a sort that they took with them to their graves. They reached the islands -- Hawaii, Tahiti, Fiji and so many more -- before their European counterparts had even consider the mast, let alone pressed anyone into service before it.

    +

    Failing kidnapping, we turned to tequila and night-swimming, always a heady and dangerous mix, but we pulled through in spite of the hiccups.

    +

    It took me nine years to get here. I enjoyed them. Every bit of them. Stay tuned.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/sailing-through.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/sailing-through.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6ae5b54 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/sailing-through.html @@ -0,0 +1,343 @@ + + + + + Sailing Through - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Sailing Through

    + +
    +
    +

    Charleston, South Carolina, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    It was the middle of the afternoon, we having settled in to watch a bit of the Blues Brothers — afternoon films being my favorite form of procrastination — when, just after Belushi remarks that the modern American mall “has everything”, the screen blacked out to the sound of bleating sirens and a message began to scroll across the screen in a dull white Arial-derived font — something about severe thunderstorms.

    +

    +

    sunset over the marshWe decide to go for a walk. The sun feels like a curse that’s been hanging over you since birth. Not a cloud in the sky.

    +

    And so it goes. Here in Charleston, SC. The rumors are true. I moved back to the south, Athens GA to be exact — more on that later. But I hate staying in one place for too long, so after a month or two in Athens I headed up to Charleston to visit a friend.

    +

    The south is curious place. If you’ve never been here I couldn’t hope to explain it, but it’s not so much a place as an approach. A way of getting somewhere more than anywhere specific. Perhaps even a wrong turn.

    +

    Here’s what we know for sure: Californian is not the south. Texas is also not the south. Charleston throws seersucker suits in the mix, but hey, nothing’s perfect.

    +

    duke's mayonnaiseThere was a piece in the New York Times a while back that argued that the South begins not at the Mason-Dixon line, as history would have us believe, but where the restaurants switch over to sweetened tea. But most Times writers have never left Manhattan and won’t recognize the South even when they’re dipped in tar and run out of it. The truth is the South begins and ends wherever you can find Duke’s Mayonnaise on the shelves of your local grocer.

    +

    There’s mayonnaise. And then there’s Duke’s. Even at the baseball game there’s Duke’s.

    +

    But it was the heat that started it. Thunderstorms and heat.

    +

    Apparently the Charleston emergency broadcast system has never heard the story on the boy who cried wolf. Or they just didn’t walk away with much. Not only is there not a cloud in the sky, there was a tropical depression big enough to have a name that didn’t warrant any alerts when it blew through yesterday.

    +

    It seems safe to assume that the local elements of FEMA are run by the same type of highly qualified individuals that staff the higher government offices of this strange, confused land.

    +

    I first came to Charleston about a month ago, I’ve come and gone twice since then. The weather was mild when I first arrived, an onshore breeze to rattle the Palmetto leaves, tufts of cloud hanging over the sea. We lay on our backs floating in the brine and watching the sun arc the sky.

    +

    One weekend we wandered the shipping yards ogling the tall ships, a festival of them, blown in on favorable winds you might say. We failed, despite our best efforts, to be shanghaied off into the ocean, pressed into five months before the mast on our way back to Italy.

    +

    tall ships festivalA kind of wanderlust seizes me whenever I am near boats — the world was, after all, discovered by men and women of the sea. And I don’t mean those Spaniards with their metal helmets, I mean the much older explorers departing from east on dugout canoes with spears for fishing and courage of a sort that they took with them to their graves. They reached the islands — Hawaii, Tahiti, Fiji and so many more — before their European counterparts had even consider the mast, let alone pressed anyone into service before it.

    +

    Failing kidnapping, we turned to tequila and night-swimming, always a heady and dangerous mix, but we pulled through in spite of the hiccups.

    +

    It took me nine years to get here. I enjoyed them. Every bit of them. Stay tuned.

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/sailing-through.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/sailing-through.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2474a9b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/sailing-through.txt @@ -0,0 +1,38 @@ +Sailing Through +=============== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Friday, 15 June 2007 + +It was the middle of the afternoon, we having settled in to watch a bit of the Blues Brothers -- afternoon films being my favorite form of procrastination -- when, just after Belushi remarks that the modern American mall "has everything", the screen blacked out to the sound of bleating sirens and a message began to scroll across the screen in a dull white Arial-derived font -- something about severe thunderstorms. + + + +sunset over the marshWe decide to go for a walk. The sun feels like a curse that's been hanging over you since birth. Not a cloud in the sky. + +And so it goes. Here in Charleston, SC. The rumors are true. I moved back to the south, Athens GA to be exact -- more on that later. But I hate staying in one place for too long, so after a month or two in Athens I headed up to Charleston to visit a friend. + +The south is curious place. If you've never been here I couldn't hope to explain it, but it's not so much a place as an approach. A way of getting somewhere more than anywhere specific. Perhaps even a wrong turn. + +Here's what we know for sure: Californian is not the south. Texas is also not the south. Charleston throws seersucker suits in the mix, but hey, nothing's perfect. + +duke's mayonnaiseThere was a piece in the New York Times a while back that argued that the South begins not at the Mason-Dixon line, as history would have us believe, but where the restaurants switch over to sweetened tea. But most Times writers have never left Manhattan and won't recognize the South even when they're dipped in tar and run out of it. The truth is the South begins and ends wherever you can find Duke's Mayonnaise on the shelves of your local grocer. + +There's mayonnaise. And then there's Duke's. Even at the baseball game there's Duke's. + +But it was the heat that started it. Thunderstorms and heat. + +Apparently the Charleston emergency broadcast system has never heard the story on the boy who cried wolf. Or they just didn't walk away with much. Not only is there not a cloud in the sky, there was a tropical depression big enough to have a name that didn't warrant any alerts when it blew through yesterday. + +It seems safe to assume that the local elements of FEMA are run by the same type of highly qualified individuals that staff the higher government offices of this strange, confused land. + +I first came to Charleston about a month ago, I've come and gone twice since then. The weather was mild when I first arrived, an onshore breeze to rattle the Palmetto leaves, tufts of cloud hanging over the sea. We lay on our backs floating in the brine and watching the sun arc the sky. + +One weekend we wandered the shipping yards ogling the tall ships, a festival of them, blown in on favorable winds you might say. We failed, despite our best efforts, to be shanghaied off into the ocean, pressed into five months before the mast on our way back to Italy. + +tall ships festivalA kind of wanderlust seizes me whenever I am near boats -- the world was, after all, discovered by men and women of the sea. And I don't mean those Spaniards with their metal helmets, I mean the much older explorers departing from east on dugout canoes with spears for fishing and courage of a sort that they took with them to their graves. They reached the islands -- Hawaii, Tahiti, Fiji and so many more -- before their European counterparts had even consider the mast, let alone pressed anyone into service before it. + +Failing kidnapping, we turned to tequila and night-swimming, always a heady and dangerous mix, but we pulled through in spite of the hiccups. + +It took me nine years to get here. I enjoyed them. Every bit of them. Stay tuned. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/07/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/07/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6704093 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/07/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,104 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: July 2007

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/07/other-ocean.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/07/other-ocean.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c11fcb3 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/07/other-ocean.amp @@ -0,0 +1,190 @@ + + + + + + +On The Other Ocean + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    On The Other Ocean

    + + + +
    +
    +

    Consider for a moment if your house were tilted 30 degrees to the left. Imagine how this would complicate seemingly ordinary activities -- like say walking. Now throw in a bouncing motion that lifts the floor five or six feet up and down in a seesaw-like motion on a perpendicular axis to the 30 degree tilt -- if you're lucky, if you're not it's somewhat more like riding a seesaw that's attached to a merry-go-round which is missing a few bolts. Now Imagine it's night and throw in a healthy downpour for good measure -- that's sailing.

    +

    +For many this results in vomiting, tears and some cribbed lines about horror from Joseph Conrad's Heart Of Darkness. For others though, like for instance, my uncle, this is the sort of thing that brings out the famous Cheshire Cat grin. Some might attribute this to the general belief that if you're a bit unhinged in the first place, then you aren't going to really hit your stride until the world around you starts to come a bit unglued.

    +

    I'll be the first to admit that I've never really sailed in conditions like that, but I hope to someday and perhaps that makes me unhinged a bit myself.

    +

    But let's back up a minute. Make it daylight and get rid of the rain. That's more akin to the conditions on a windy day off the California coastline, which is where I am at the moment. Which is a good thing because my uncle isn't on this boat and while my father is good sailor, I don't know that he would relish the above scenario with the same sort of gusto it holds in abstract for me.

    +

    And I'm no ace sailor. I understand the basic mechanisms of a boat -- anyone who's sat on a plane contemplating the wind-induced lift of the wing understands, whether they realize it or not, the basic physics of the modern sail, which is essentially a wing turned on its side.

    +

    I can tie knots and I know most the terms the nautical world insists on using like port, starboard, fore, aft, stern, bow, mainsheet, traveler and whatnot.

    +

    More important though, I seem to have an instinctive feel for that point of sail which maximizes the available wind (at least that what the more skilled sailors I've been out with tell me, for all I know they're just flattering my ego).

    +

    However, it's this last tidbit that means I rarely get the wheel on these week-long trips my family has been taking for the last decade or so. I rarely get the wheel because when I do I frequently fall off whatever course we happen to be on in favor of the best wind.

    +

    If you're looking to go somewhere specific in a boat, I'm not really your man. If on the other hand you just want to lean the boat over as far as possible and try to exceed the designated hull speed without flipping it, I might be able to help.

    +

    Regular readers will know I'm not all that good at reaching specific destinations on land either, I tend to get lured off course by all manner of fascinating distractions. I don't really travel -- despite what it might say at the top of this site, -- I just kind of wander about.

    +

    Which is why it's typically my father who gets us from Newport Harbor to Santa Catalina Island -- if, as occasionally happens, we have a favorable wind that coincides with our course, then I sail, but most of the time I lie on deck in the sun contemplating the sea — watching the occasional blue whale meander by.

    +

    But my favorite time on the water is twilight. It may just be something that happens in California, but twilight on the sea produces a much deeper red, warm light that hangs around for much longer than its land-loving counterpart.

    +

    Unless you're trying to get somewhere in a hurry, you're typically either moored or anchored come night and while the sea does calm somewhat, depending on the night you might find yourself bobbing about a good bit. And there is very little I know of that will reinforce your own speck-like insignificance quicker than lying here up the bobbing V-berth staring out the companionway hatch at the mast pitching about the stars.

    +

    At the end of the day our tiny cork existences float, bouncing and dancing in an ocean so colossal it's nearly impossible to fathom.

    +

    And yet as I lie here with a thousand thought racing through my head, it also seems that our lives contain immense significance as well -- we contain so much within us as to outstrip even the vastness of the universe we inhabit.

    +

    The largest thing is contained within the smallest thing as the Tao says, we are tiny corks with giant hopes and dreams. Sometimes they play out as we wish and sometimes they do not. As Kurt Vonnegutt was fond of writing, -- And so it goes.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/07/other-ocean.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/07/other-ocean.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..823db52 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/07/other-ocean.html @@ -0,0 +1,344 @@ + + + + + On The Other Ocean - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    On The Other Ocean

    + +
    +
    +

    Catalina Island, California, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Consider for a moment if your house were tilted 30 degrees to the left. Imagine how this would complicate seemingly ordinary activities — like say walking. Now throw in a bouncing motion that lifts the floor five or six feet up and down in a seesaw-like motion on a perpendicular axis to the 30 degree tilt — if you’re lucky, if you’re not it’s somewhat more like riding a seesaw that’s attached to a merry-go-round which is missing a few bolts. Now Imagine it’s night and throw in a healthy downpour for good measure — that’s sailing.

    +

    +Clouds, Santa Catalina IslandFor many this results in vomiting, tears and some cribbed lines about horror from Joseph Conrad’s Heart Of Darkness. For others though, like for instance, my uncle, this is the sort of thing that brings out the famous Cheshire Cat grin. Some might attribute this to the general belief that if you’re a bit unhinged in the first place, then you aren’t going to really hit your stride until the world around you starts to come a bit unglued.

    +

    I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve never really sailed in conditions like that, but I hope to someday and perhaps that makes me unhinged a bit myself.

    +

    But let’s back up a minute. Make it daylight and get rid of the rain. That’s more akin to the conditions on a windy day off the California coastline, which is where I am at the moment. Which is a good thing because my uncle isn’t on this boat and while my father is good sailor, I don’t know that he would relish the above scenario with the same sort of gusto it holds in abstract for me.

    +

    And I’m no ace sailor. I understand the basic mechanisms of a boat — anyone who’s sat on a plane contemplating the wind-induced lift of the wing understands, whether they realize it or not, the basic physics of the modern sail, which is essentially a wing turned on its side.

    +

    I can tie knots and I know most the terms the nautical world insists on using like port, starboard, fore, aft, stern, bow, mainsheet, traveler and whatnot.

    +

    More important though, I seem to have an instinctive feel for that point of sail which maximizes the available wind (at least that what the more skilled sailors I’ve been out with tell me, for all I know they’re just flattering my ego).

    +

    blue whaleHowever, it’s this last tidbit that means I rarely get the wheel on these week-long trips my family has been taking for the last decade or so. I rarely get the wheel because when I do I frequently fall off whatever course we happen to be on in favor of the best wind.

    +

    If you’re looking to go somewhere specific in a boat, I’m not really your man. If on the other hand you just want to lean the boat over as far as possible and try to exceed the designated hull speed without flipping it, I might be able to help.

    +

    Regular readers will know I’m not all that good at reaching specific destinations on land either, I tend to get lured off course by all manner of fascinating distractions. I don’t really travel — despite what it might say at the top of this site, — I just kind of wander about.

    +

    Which is why it’s typically my father who gets us from Newport Harbor to Santa Catalina Island — if, as occasionally happens, we have a favorable wind that coincides with our course, then I sail, but most of the time I lie on deck in the sun contemplating the sea — watching the occasional blue whale meander by.

    +

    twilight at seaBut my favorite time on the water is twilight. It may just be something that happens in California, but twilight on the sea produces a much deeper red, warm light that hangs around for much longer than its land-loving counterpart.

    +

    Unless you’re trying to get somewhere in a hurry, you’re typically either moored or anchored come night and while the sea does calm somewhat, depending on the night you might find yourself bobbing about a good bit. And there is very little I know of that will reinforce your own speck-like insignificance quicker than lying here up the bobbing V-berth staring out the companionway hatch at the mast pitching about the stars.

    +

    At the end of the day our tiny cork existences float, bouncing and dancing in an ocean so colossal it’s nearly impossible to fathom.

    +

    And yet as I lie here with a thousand thought racing through my head, it also seems that our lives contain immense significance as well — we contain so much within us as to outstrip even the vastness of the universe we inhabit.

    +

    The largest thing is contained within the smallest thing as the Tao says, we are tiny corks with giant hopes and dreams. Sometimes they play out as we wish and sometimes they do not. As Kurt Vonnegutt was fond of writing, — And so it goes.

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/07/other-ocean.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/07/other-ocean.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b93297f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/07/other-ocean.txt @@ -0,0 +1,39 @@ +On The Other Ocean +================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 23 July 2007 + +Consider for a moment if your house were tilted 30 degrees to the left. Imagine how this would complicate seemingly ordinary activities -- like say walking. Now throw in a bouncing motion that lifts the floor five or six feet up and down in a seesaw-like motion on a perpendicular axis to the 30 degree tilt -- if you're lucky, if you're not it's somewhat more like riding a seesaw that's attached to a merry-go-round which is missing a few bolts. Now Imagine it's night and throw in a healthy downpour for good measure -- that's sailing. + + +Clouds, Santa Catalina IslandFor many this results in vomiting, tears and some cribbed lines about horror from Joseph Conrad's Heart Of Darkness. For others though, like for instance, my uncle, this is the sort of thing that brings out the famous Cheshire Cat grin. Some might attribute this to the general belief that if you're a bit unhinged in the first place, then you aren't going to really hit your stride until the world around you starts to come a bit unglued. + +I'll be the first to admit that I've never really sailed in conditions like that, but I hope to someday and perhaps that makes me unhinged a bit myself. + +But let's back up a minute. Make it daylight and get rid of the rain. That's more akin to the conditions on a windy day off the California coastline, which is where I am at the moment. Which is a good thing because my uncle isn't on this boat and while my father is good sailor, I don't know that he would relish the above scenario with the same sort of gusto it holds in abstract for me. + +And I'm no ace sailor. I understand the basic mechanisms of a boat -- anyone who's sat on a plane contemplating the wind-induced lift of the wing understands, whether they realize it or not, the basic physics of the modern sail, which is essentially a wing turned on its side. + +I can tie knots and I know most the terms the nautical world insists on using like port, starboard, fore, aft, stern, bow, mainsheet, traveler and whatnot. + +More important though, I seem to have an instinctive feel for that point of sail which maximizes the available wind (at least that what the more skilled sailors I've been out with tell me, for all I know they're just flattering my ego). + +blue whaleHowever, it's this last tidbit that means I rarely get the wheel on these week-long trips my family has been taking for the last decade or so. I rarely get the wheel because when I do I frequently fall off whatever course we happen to be on in favor of the best wind. + +If you're looking to go somewhere specific in a boat, I'm not really your man. If on the other hand you just want to lean the boat over as far as possible and try to exceed the designated hull speed without flipping it, I might be able to help. + +Regular readers will know I'm not all that good at reaching specific destinations on land either, I tend to get lured off course by all manner of fascinating distractions. I don't really travel -- despite what it might say at the top of this site, -- I just kind of wander about. + +Which is why it's typically my father who gets us from Newport Harbor to Santa Catalina Island -- if, as occasionally happens, we have a favorable wind that coincides with our course, then I sail, but most of the time I lie on deck in the sun contemplating the sea — watching the occasional blue whale meander by. + +twilight at seaBut my favorite time on the water is twilight. It may just be something that happens in California, but twilight on the sea produces a much deeper red, warm light that hangs around for much longer than its land-loving counterpart. + +Unless you're trying to get somewhere in a hurry, you're typically either moored or anchored come night and while the sea does calm somewhat, depending on the night you might find yourself bobbing about a good bit. And there is very little I know of that will reinforce your own speck-like insignificance quicker than lying here up the bobbing V-berth staring out the companionway hatch at the mast pitching about the stars. + +At the end of the day our tiny cork existences float, bouncing and dancing in an ocean so colossal it's nearly impossible to fathom. + +And yet as I lie here with a thousand thought racing through my head, it also seems that our lives contain immense significance as well -- we contain so much within us as to outstrip even the vastness of the universe we inhabit. + +The largest thing is contained within the smallest thing as the Tao says, we are tiny corks with giant hopes and dreams. Sometimes they play out as we wish and sometimes they do not. As Kurt Vonnegutt was fond of writing, -- And so it goes. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/11/fall.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/11/fall.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8078704 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/11/fall.amp @@ -0,0 +1,179 @@ + + + + + + +Fall + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Fall

    + + + +
    +
    +

    The trees are in full technicolor swing. The land is slowly dying, and not just because it's Fall [1], we're also in the middle of a prolonged drought -- this year being one of the worst -- but this year the leaves are opting for a James Dean-style, leave-a-good-looking-corpse exit. If you're a leaf and you've got to go, do it with class.

    +

    +

    Out my back door is a spectrum ranging from ochre to vermillion with all the middle hues as well, burnt sienna, tawny cinnamon, sorrel, ginger, puse and more nestled among the staid green of those that refuse to give and the more russet and mahogany tones of indifferent Oak trees. It's the beech and maple that really turn though. Almost makes you think of a certain Rush song, but we won't go there.

    +

    Perhaps it's a result of growing up in Los Angeles, but Fall never ceases to amaze me and I feel a bit bad for those who don't get to experience it every year. When I worked at the restaurant in Northampton we used to mock the leaf peepers, but we understood why they came.

    +

    It's part of the trade off I guess. My Los Angeles friends aren't running their heater and still wearing a sweater. It gets cold here, not as cold as New England, but certainly colder than coastal California. But I'll take the cold in exchange for some tangible markers of the passing seasons, the passing time, lest it simple blur together and slip away invisibly.

    +

    Just bear in mind that only part of it is passing. As a friend of mine used to say, the leaves fall for the tree every year, but the tree will never fall for the leaves.

    +

    1. 1. To my English friends who will insist on Autumn. I have it on reasonably good authority that Fall is actually proper Queen's English that fell out of fashion in the UK near the end of the last century. I intend to bring it back because Autumn reminds me of bad paperback romance novels. ↩

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/11/fall.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/11/fall.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dd7562d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/11/fall.html @@ -0,0 +1,386 @@ + + + + + Fall - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Fall

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The trees are in full technicolor swing. The land is slowly dying, and not just because it’s Fall [1], we’re also in the middle of a prolonged drought — this year being one of the worst — but this year the leaves are opting for a James Dean-style, leave-a-good-looking-corpse exit. If you’re a leaf and you’ve got to go, do it with class.

    +

    +

    Fall colors Athens GAOut my back door is a spectrum ranging from ochre to vermillion with all the middle hues as well tucked among the staid green of those that refuse to give and the more russet and mahogany tones of indifferent Oak trees. It’s the beech and maple that really turn though. Almost makes you think of a certain Rush song, but we won’t go there.

    +

    Fall colors Athens GAPerhaps it’s a result of growing up in Los Angeles, but Fall never ceases to amaze me and I feel a bit bad for those who don’t get to experience it every year. When I worked at the restaurant in Northampton we used to mock the leaf peepers, but we understood why they came.

    +

    It’s part of the trade off I guess. My Los Angeles friends aren’t running their heater and still wearing a sweater. It gets cold here, not as cold as New England, but certainly colder than coastal California. But I’ll take the cold in exchange for some tangible markers of the passing seasons, the passing time, lest it simple blur together and slip away invisibly.

    +

    Just bear in mind that only part of it is passing. As a friend of mine used to say, the leaves fall for the tree every year, but the tree will never fall for the leaves.

    +

    1. 1. To my English friends who will insist on Autumn. I have it on reasonably good authority that Fall is actually proper Queen’s English that fell out of fashion in the UK near the end of the last century. I intend to bring it back because Autumn reminds me of bad paperback romance novels. ↩

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/11/fall.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/11/fall.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b69ba21 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/11/fall.txt @@ -0,0 +1,20 @@ +Fall +==== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 14 November 2007 + +The trees are in full technicolor swing. The land is slowly dying, and not just because it's Fall [1], we're also in the middle of a prolonged drought -- this year being one of the worst -- but this year the leaves are opting for a James Dean-style, leave-a-good-looking-corpse exit. If you're a leaf and you've got to go, do it with class. + + + +Fall colors Athens GAOut my back door is a spectrum ranging from ochre to vermillion with all the middle hues as well tucked among the staid green of those that refuse to give and the more russet and mahogany tones of indifferent Oak trees. It's the beech and maple that really turn though. Almost makes you think of a certain Rush song, but we won't go there. + +Fall colors Athens GAPerhaps it's a result of growing up in Los Angeles, but Fall never ceases to amaze me and I feel a bit bad for those who don't get to experience it every year. When I worked at the restaurant in Northampton we used to mock the leaf peepers, but we understood why they came. + +It's part of the trade off I guess. My Los Angeles friends aren't running their heater and still wearing a sweater. It gets cold here, not as cold as New England, but certainly colder than coastal California. But I'll take the cold in exchange for some tangible markers of the passing seasons, the passing time, lest it simple blur together and slip away invisibly. + +Just bear in mind that only part of it is passing. As a friend of mine used to say, the leaves fall for the tree every year, but the tree will never fall for the leaves. + +

    1. 1. To my English friends who will insist on Autumn. I have it on reasonably good authority that Fall is actually proper Queen's English that fell out of fashion in the UK near the end of the last century. I intend to bring it back because Autumn reminds me of bad paperback romance novels. ↩

    diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/11/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/11/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fd08030 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/11/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,104 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: November 2007

    +
      +
    • Fall + +
      • +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a4566fb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,152 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    2007, on luxagraf

    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/01/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/01/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e69b246 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/01/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,95 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: January 2008

    +
      +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/03/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/03/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..912a2ac --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/03/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,104 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: March 2008

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/03/ring-bells.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/03/ring-bells.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6e2df23 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/03/ring-bells.amp @@ -0,0 +1,191 @@ + + + + + + +Ring The Bells + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Ring The Bells

    + + + +
    +
    +

    We landed in Managua about eight in the evening, walked outside the airport and smoked a cigarette (I know, terrible, I started smoking again), surveying the taxi drivers all clamoring for jacked up fares from the new arrivals. Eventually we gave up and paid our own jacked up fare to get to a decent guesthouse picked randomly out of the Lonely Planet.

    +

    +Managua is a medium sized city, neither the best nor the worst I've been in, but there didn't seem to be much worth seeing, and we only had two weeks to spare so we hightailed it south to Granada at six the next morning.

    +

    The slow, or ordinario, bus proved to just fine and got us to Granada in an hour or so. We were way too early to check in anywhere, but we stopped by a guesthouse (The Bearded Monkey, rating: B-), reserved a room and stashed our bags before heading out to explore the city.

    +

    Granada is famed for its Colonial-era architecture and colorful buildings; it even has the UNESCO World Heritage site stamp of approval. We wandered the streets, taking in the riotous paint jobs and admiring the fantastically massive, ornately carved wooden doors. Behind most of these doorways are fantastic courtyards, lushly planted and beautifully landscaped (judging by the few that were open).

    +

    We stopped by a Church that was holding services and Corrinne was hesitant to go in, but having marched right in to so many Buddhist temples (at the urging of the locals I might add) I decided to do the same with the Catholics, come hell or high water as it were.

    +

    It turned out to that no one seemed to care, or perhaps the tourist-saturated nature of their town has led to an acquiescence that masquerades as acceptance. A very friendly priest of some kind stopped us on our way out and insisted that we go up in the recently restored bell tower to have a look at the city from on high.

    +

    As it turned out, it was the best thing we did in Granada and, for whatever reason, no one seems to do it (or at least no one we talked to). Which isn't to slight Granada, it's definitely worth a day, but there isn't a whole lot to it. Unless you're really into horse drawn carriage tours.

    +

    We paid a nominal fee -- which ostensibly goes toward further restoration efforts since the church dates from the 1600s and could use a bit of work -- and then went up the narrowest, steepest, circular concrete staircase that I've ever encountered. It had a low railing and circled up four stories worth of precipitous dropoffs before you hit solid ground. Never mind the cracks in the stairs, this is earthquake country. It happens.

    +

    At the top you have a great 360 degree view of the city, which becomes an endless sea of mottled pink, orange and brown hues -- terra cotta roof tiles stretching from the shores of Lago Nicaragua all the way back toward the hills. Oh and there's some bells. Bells that quite clearly get rung from below, and, judging by the size, it would be best to not be around when someone yanks the rope. Thankfully no one did and we spent half and hour or more admiring the city and trying to decide if Ometepe, the towering volcano in the distance, half shrouded in the hazy of the lake, was really belching thin gray wisps of smoke. Inconclusive. It certainly looked like it was though.

    +

    After admiring the views for a while, the idea of lounging in one the aforementioned courtyards kept coming up. Eventually we gave in and headed back to the guesthouse to do the one thing I'm really good at at doing -- nothing. And by nothing I mean napping in hammocks, sipping Tona, reading, checking out the German guy's EeePC (pathetic: Wired technology writer sees first EeePC laptop in Nicaraguan guesthouse), talking about whether or not our house would work with a courtyard and otherwise dodging the heat of the day.

    +

    We went out for a late lunch and had another explore around the market area, down a few back alleys, past another very 17th century-looking church, through a game of baseball happening in the middle of the street and finally looped back to the church and climbed up the bell tower again to watch the sunset.

    +

    I'm not quite sure what the occasion was, other than a Sunday (could have been a wedding perhaps, this time I decided not to intrude), but the church was in full swing with some extremely morose, gothic-tinged music thundering out of the cathedral hall and punctuated by a man in front of the church launching volleys of giant fireworks, seemingly in time with the music. The effect was like being in a bad Francis Ford Coppola movie (like the Godfather), but the fireworks sounded more like mortar shells than percussion.

    +

    Back up the scary stone staircase I sat down and closed my eyes for a minute and imagined what the same scene would have looked like twenty years ago when the explosions really would have been mortars. After all, that's what American's think of when they think of Nicaragua: war, death, suffering. Certainly all part of Nicaragua's past, but you'd never know it today. Today it's just fireworks and fugues.

    +

    After the sun set we wandered back over to Parque Colón, the central plaza that anchors the layout of the town and serves as its central hub. We sat down to the side of the park and watched the locals go about their business, enjoying the last few hours of the weekend.

    +

    Eventually we headed back the guesthouse to grab some dinner and a few beers.

    +

    The next morning we were the first bus headed south.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/03/ring-bells.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/03/ring-bells.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..69758a6 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/03/ring-bells.html @@ -0,0 +1,344 @@ + + + + + Ring The Bells - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Ring The Bells

    + +
    +
    +

    Granada, Nicaragua

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    We landed in Managua about eight in the evening, walked outside the airport and smoked a cigarette (I know, terrible, I started smoking again), surveying the taxi drivers all clamoring for jacked up fares from the new arrivals. Eventually we gave up and paid our own jacked up fare to get to a decent guesthouse picked randomly out of the Lonely Planet.

    +

    +Granada StreetManagua is a medium sized city, neither the best nor the worst I’ve been in, but there didn’t seem to be much worth seeing, and we only had two weeks to spare so we hightailed it south to Granada at six the next morning.

    +

    The slow, or ordinario, bus proved to just fine and got us to Granada in an hour or so. We were way too early to check in anywhere, but we stopped by a guesthouse (The Bearded Monkey, rating: B-), reserved a room and stashed our bags before heading out to explore the city.

    +

    Granada is famed for its Colonial-era architecture and colorful buildings; it even has the UNESCO World Heritage site stamp of approval. We wandered the streets, taking in the riotous paint jobs and admiring the fantastically massive, ornately carved wooden doors. Behind most of these doorways are fantastic courtyards, lushly planted and beautifully landscaped (judging by the few that were open).

    +

    Granada churchWe stopped by a Church that was holding services and Corrinne was hesitant to go in, but having marched right in to so many Buddhist temples (at the urging of the locals I might add) I decided to do the same with the Catholics, come hell or high water as it were.

    +

    It turned out to that no one seemed to care, or perhaps the tourist-saturated nature of their town has led to an acquiescence that masquerades as acceptance. A very friendly priest of some kind stopped us on our way out and insisted that we go up in the recently restored bell tower to have a look at the city from on high.

    +

    As it turned out, it was the best thing we did in Granada and, for whatever reason, no one seems to do it (or at least no one we talked to). Which isn’t to slight Granada, it’s definitely worth a day, but there isn’t a whole lot to it. Unless you’re really into horse drawn carriage tours.

    +

    We paid a nominal fee — which ostensibly goes toward further restoration efforts since the church dates from the 1600s and could use a bit of work — and then went up the narrowest, steepest, circular concrete staircase that I’ve ever encountered. It had a low railing and circled up four stories worth of precipitous dropoffs before you hit solid ground. Never mind the cracks in the stairs, this is earthquake country. It happens.

    +

    Granada rooftopsAt the top you have a great 360 degree view of the city, which becomes an endless sea of mottled pink, orange and brown hues — terra cotta roof tiles stretching from the shores of Lago Nicaragua all the way back toward the hills. Oh and there’s some bells. Bells that quite clearly get rung from below, and, judging by the size, it would be best to not be around when someone yanks the rope. Thankfully no one did and we spent half and hour or more admiring the city and trying to decide if Ometepe, the towering volcano in the distance, half shrouded in the hazy of the lake, was really belching thin gray wisps of smoke. Inconclusive. It certainly looked like it was though.

    +

    After admiring the views for a while, the idea of lounging in one the aforementioned courtyards kept coming up. Eventually we gave in and headed back to the guesthouse to do the one thing I’m really good at at doing — nothing. And by nothing I mean napping in hammocks, sipping Tona, reading, checking out the German guy’s EeePC (pathetic: Wired technology writer sees first EeePC laptop in Nicaraguan guesthouse), talking about whether or not our house would work with a courtyard and otherwise dodging the heat of the day.

    +

    We went out for a late lunch and had another explore around the market area, down a few back alleys, past another very 17th century-looking church, through a game of baseball happening in the middle of the street and finally looped back to the church and climbed up the bell tower again to watch the sunset.

    +

    I’m not quite sure what the occasion was, other than a Sunday (could have been a wedding perhaps, this time I decided not to intrude), but the church was in full swing with some extremely morose, gothic-tinged music thundering out of the cathedral hall and punctuated by a man in front of the church launching volleys of giant fireworks, seemingly in time with the music. The effect was like being in a bad Francis Ford Coppola movie (like the Godfather), but the fireworks sounded more like mortar shells than percussion.

    +

    Granada sunsetBack up the scary stone staircase I sat down and closed my eyes for a minute and imagined what the same scene would have looked like twenty years ago when the explosions really would have been mortars. After all, that’s what American’s think of when they think of Nicaragua: war, death, suffering. Certainly all part of Nicaragua’s past, but you’d never know it today. Today it’s just fireworks and fugues.

    +

    After the sun set we wandered back over to Parque Colón, the central plaza that anchors the layout of the town and serves as its central hub. We sat down to the side of the park and watched the locals go about their business, enjoying the last few hours of the weekend.

    +

    Eventually we headed back the guesthouse to grab some dinner and a few beers.

    +

    The next morning we were the first bus headed south.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/03/ring-bells.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/03/ring-bells.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ca4269e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/03/ring-bells.txt @@ -0,0 +1,39 @@ +Ring The Bells +============== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 30 March 2008 + +We landed in Managua about eight in the evening, walked outside the airport and smoked a cigarette (I know, terrible, I started smoking again), surveying the taxi drivers all clamoring for jacked up fares from the new arrivals. Eventually we gave up and paid our own jacked up fare to get to a decent guesthouse picked randomly out of the Lonely Planet. + + +Granada StreetManagua is a medium sized city, neither the best nor the worst I've been in, but there didn't seem to be much worth seeing, and we only had two weeks to spare so we hightailed it south to Granada at six the next morning. + +The slow, or ordinario, bus proved to just fine and got us to Granada in an hour or so. We were way too early to check in anywhere, but we stopped by a guesthouse (The Bearded Monkey, rating: B-), reserved a room and stashed our bags before heading out to explore the city. + +Granada is famed for its Colonial-era architecture and colorful buildings; it even has the UNESCO World Heritage site stamp of approval. We wandered the streets, taking in the riotous paint jobs and admiring the fantastically massive, ornately carved wooden doors. Behind most of these doorways are fantastic courtyards, lushly planted and beautifully landscaped (judging by the few that were open). + +Granada churchWe stopped by a Church that was holding services and Corrinne was hesitant to go in, but having marched right in to so many Buddhist temples (at the urging of the locals I might add) I decided to do the same with the Catholics, come hell or high water as it were. + +It turned out to that no one seemed to care, or perhaps the tourist-saturated nature of their town has led to an acquiescence that masquerades as acceptance. A very friendly priest of some kind stopped us on our way out and insisted that we go up in the recently restored bell tower to have a look at the city from on high. + +As it turned out, it was the best thing we did in Granada and, for whatever reason, no one seems to do it (or at least no one we talked to). Which isn't to slight Granada, it's definitely worth a day, but there isn't a whole lot to it. Unless you're really into horse drawn carriage tours. + +We paid a nominal fee -- which ostensibly goes toward further restoration efforts since the church dates from the 1600s and could use a bit of work -- and then went up the narrowest, steepest, circular concrete staircase that I've ever encountered. It had a low railing and circled up four stories worth of precipitous dropoffs before you hit solid ground. Never mind the cracks in the stairs, this is earthquake country. It happens. + +Granada rooftopsAt the top you have a great 360 degree view of the city, which becomes an endless sea of mottled pink, orange and brown hues -- terra cotta roof tiles stretching from the shores of Lago Nicaragua all the way back toward the hills. Oh and there's some bells. Bells that quite clearly get rung from below, and, judging by the size, it would be best to not be around when someone yanks the rope. Thankfully no one did and we spent half and hour or more admiring the city and trying to decide if Ometepe, the towering volcano in the distance, half shrouded in the hazy of the lake, was really belching thin gray wisps of smoke. Inconclusive. It certainly *looked* like it was though. + +After admiring the views for a while, the idea of lounging in one the aforementioned courtyards kept coming up. Eventually we gave in and headed back to the guesthouse to do the one thing I'm really good at at doing -- nothing. And by nothing I mean napping in hammocks, sipping Tona, reading, checking out the German guy's EeePC (pathetic: Wired technology writer sees first EeePC laptop in Nicaraguan guesthouse), talking about whether or not our house would work with a courtyard and otherwise dodging the heat of the day. + +We went out for a late lunch and had another explore around the market area, down a few back alleys, past another very 17th century-looking church, through a game of baseball happening in the middle of the street and finally looped back to the church and climbed up the bell tower again to watch the sunset. + +I'm not quite sure what the occasion was, other than a Sunday (could have been a wedding perhaps, this time I decided not to intrude), but the church was in full swing with some extremely morose, gothic-tinged music thundering out of the cathedral hall and punctuated by a man in front of the church launching volleys of giant fireworks, seemingly in time with the music. The effect was like being in a bad Francis Ford Coppola movie (like the Godfather), but the fireworks sounded more like mortar shells than percussion. + +Granada sunsetBack up the scary stone staircase I sat down and closed my eyes for a minute and imagined what the same scene would have looked like twenty years ago when the explosions really would have been mortars. After all, that's what American's think of when they think of Nicaragua: war, death, suffering. Certainly all part of Nicaragua's past, but you'd never know it today. Today it's just fireworks and fugues. + +After the sun set we wandered back over to Parque Colón, the central plaza that anchors the layout of the town and serves as its central hub. We sat down to the side of the park and watched the locals go about their business, enjoying the last few hours of the weekend. + +Eventually we headed back the guesthouse to grab some dinner and a few beers. + +The next morning we were the first bus headed south. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cc2303c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,107 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Archive: April 2008

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/little-island-sun.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/little-island-sun.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cd0f6fc --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/little-island-sun.amp @@ -0,0 +1,191 @@ + + + + + + +Little Island in the Sun + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Little Island in the Sun

    + + + +
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    +

    From San Juan Del Sur we caught a cab back to Rivas (much faster driver this time), then a bus to Managua, switched to another bus out to the airport, then hopped a plane to Bluefields and then on to Big Corn Island where we jumped in a boat to Little Corn Island. Pretty much every form of transportation in Nicaragua in a single journey (there are no trains unfortunately). To get from the airport to San Juan Del Sur we spent $40 each. To do the same thing in reverse we paid $6 each. That's called figuring it out.

    +

    Of that journey the only stressful part was the puddle-jumper flight from Managua to Big Corn on an airline that's apparently sketchy enough that U.S. diplomats aren't allowed to fly on it. However, we met up with Kenso and Melissa again a few days later and I asked Kenso about it and he waved his hand dismissively and said the planes were fine (he's flown some pretty sketchy stuff for the U.N. in Africa so I figured it was okay and I relaxed somewhat on the flight back).

    +

    We arrived on Little Corn Island around sundown and met a man I at first took to be a tout who showed us the way to the guesthouse we wanted to stay in. After settling in an getting a feel for the island I realized that Ali, the man, wasn't a tout, he was just a really nice guy who enjoyed doing favors for tourists. He would accept the occasional tip, but he wasn't in it for the money.

    +

    +

    The truth is there's just very little to do on Little Corn Island, so helping tourists passes the time. The only people that work what you and I might call a full day are the guesthouse owners and the fishermen. Pretty much everyone else seemed to not have much to do (and we were there during the the three month off season for lobster fisherman so the island was pretty well laid back).

    +

    In short, Little Corn Island is basically paradise. We stayed at Carlito's Sunrise Paradise ($25 a night, A+, highly recommended) and were about ten paces from the water. One afternoon I took a short nap and I sat up in bed and noticed the view you see in the photo to the right.

    +

    Carlito's, like most of the guesthouses on the island, consisted of a few huts, some shaded tables by the water and central eating area. And of course the most important part -- the hammocks slug between pretty much any two appropriately spaced objects.

    +

    The interesting thing about the Corn Islands is that they're more or less a totally separate experience from mainland Nicaragua. English is the primary language and the native people are of African descent. Naturally there are a number of Misquitos as well as Spanish descendant people, but for the most part the Caribbean coast is a bit like transplanting say, Jamaica, to Nicaragua.

    +

    The Corn Islands are part of an autonomous zone in Nicaragua. I won't pretend to understand the nuances of the government setup here, but as I understand it, the Mosquito Indians pretty much control things and government of Nicaragua supports them (for the most part) but doesn't seem to interfere too much.

    +

    This region of the Caribbean has long been a hangout for pirates and smugglers -- especially these islands, which were a favorite for British pirates waiting to hit the Spanish Galleons coming across the Gulf of Mexico.

    +

    The pirating tradition continues to day with drug running boats. Drug-running boats en route from Colombia to Miami pass through this area. Though the boats no longer stop on the islands, every now and then someone loads a panga (local outboard boat) with gasoline and heads out into the sea (GPS to the rescue) to refuel a boat.

    +

    When the drug runners come under attack by U.S. Coast Guard boats they typically pitch their rather large bales of cocaine overboard and, owing to a curious combination of wind and currents, those bales (and sometimes barrels of money as well) tend to wash up here. It used to be that the Colombians would buy the drugs back, but from what I've read the Indians have decided to stop that tradition and now get rid of it them themselves. And apparently the Colombian drug runners won't mess with the Mosquito, who are heavily armed, well-organized and have been defending this area for going on six hundred years. In short, they are not people to fuck with -- as the Spanish, British, the Nicaraguan Army, the U.S. special forces and a number of other erstwhile challengers have discovered over the years.

    +

    Thus, while it certainly isn't common, the white lobster, as the bales of cocaine are known here, does turn up from time to time. As do barrels of money. For instance, according to local gossip, the woman who owns the guesthouse next to Carlito's discovered a barrel with $80,000 inside -- more than enough to open a profitable guesthouse.

    +

    As you might expect, this shady past has made for a bit unrest over the years. As little as six years ago, Little Corn was a very sketchy place. Local residents lined their houses with razor wire and the Casa Iguana Guesthouse had a bucket full a machetes available for any guests that were brave (or foolish) enough to even venture out at night. Luckily for those of us that probably wouldn't fare well in a machete fight, those days are largely over.

    +

    There are still "incidents" on the island, but it's the tamer, stealing-stuff-from-rooms that happens in any isolated, yet heavily visited area, rather than the more violent holdups.

    +

    For the record I never felt unsafe on Little Corn and we walked around at night quite a bit, alone even. Of course some of that has to do with the massively increased police presence that the government sent over for Semana Santa (Easter) who are still on the island.

    +

    But if you've heard the stories floating around the internet about trouble on Little Corn and you're hesitating to go, don't. It's perfectly safe and you'll love it.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/little-island-sun.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/little-island-sun.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4f0fffb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/little-island-sun.html @@ -0,0 +1,344 @@ + + + + + Little Island In The Sun - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Little Island in the Sun

    + +
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    +

    Little Corn Island, Nicaragua

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    From San Juan Del Sur we caught a cab back to Rivas (much faster driver this time), then a bus to Managua, switched to another bus out to the airport, then hopped a plane to Bluefields and then on to Big Corn Island where we jumped in a boat to Little Corn Island. Pretty much every form of transportation in Nicaragua in a single journey (there are no trains unfortunately). To get from the airport to San Juan Del Sur we spent $40 each. To do the same thing in reverse we paid $6 each. That’s called figuring it out.

    +

    Palm Tree, Little Corn Island, NicaraguaOf that journey the only stressful part was the puddle-jumper flight from Managua to Big Corn on an airline that’s apparently sketchy enough that U.S. diplomats aren’t allowed to fly on it. However, we met up with Kenso and Melissa again a few days later and I asked Kenso about it and he waved his hand dismissively and said the planes were fine (he’s flown some pretty sketchy stuff for the U.N. in Africa so I figured it was okay and I relaxed somewhat on the flight back).

    +

    We arrived on Little Corn Island around sundown and met a man I at first took to be a tout who showed us the way to the guesthouse we wanted to stay in. After settling in an getting a feel for the island I realized that Ali, the man, wasn’t a tout, he was just a really nice guy who enjoyed doing favors for tourists. He would accept the occasional tip, but he wasn’t in it for the money.

    +

    +

    The truth is there’s just very little to do on Little Corn Island, so helping tourists passes the time. The only people that work what you and I might call a full day are the guesthouse owners and the fishermen. Pretty much everyone else seemed to not have much to do (and we were there during the the three month off season for lobster fisherman so the island was pretty well laid back).

    +

    Carlito's Guesthouse, Little Corn Island, NicaraguaIn short, Little Corn Island is basically paradise. We stayed at Carlito’s Sunrise Paradise ($25 a night, A+, highly recommended) and were about ten paces from the water. One afternoon I took a short nap and I sat up in bed and noticed the view you see in the photo to the right.

    +

    Carlito’s, like most of the guesthouses on the island, consisted of a few huts, some shaded tables by the water and central eating area. And of course the most important part — the hammocks slug between pretty much any two appropriately spaced objects.

    +

    The interesting thing about the Corn Islands is that they’re more or less a totally separate experience from mainland Nicaragua. English is the primary language and the native people are of African descent. Naturally there are a number of Misquitos as well as Spanish descendant people, but for the most part the Caribbean coast is a bit like transplanting say, Jamaica, to Nicaragua.

    +

    The Corn Islands are part of an autonomous zone in Nicaragua. I won’t pretend to understand the nuances of the government setup here, but as I understand it, the Mosquito Indians pretty much control things and government of Nicaragua supports them (for the most part) but doesn’t seem to interfere too much.

    +

    This region of the Caribbean has long been a hangout for pirates and smugglers — especially these islands, which were a favorite for British pirates waiting to hit the Spanish Galleons coming across the Gulf of Mexico.

    +

    Beach, Little Corn Island, NicaraguaThe pirating tradition continues to day with drug running boats. Drug-running boats en route from Colombia to Miami pass through this area. Though the boats no longer stop on the islands, every now and then someone loads a panga (local outboard boat) with gasoline and heads out into the sea (GPS to the rescue) to refuel a boat.

    +

    When the drug runners come under attack by U.S. Coast Guard boats they typically pitch their rather large bales of cocaine overboard and, owing to a curious combination of wind and currents, those bales (and sometimes barrels of money as well) tend to wash up here. It used to be that the Colombians would buy the drugs back, but from what I’ve read the Indians have decided to stop that tradition and now get rid of it them themselves. And apparently the Colombian drug runners won’t mess with the Mosquito, who are heavily armed, well-organized and have been defending this area for going on six hundred years. In short, they are not people to fuck with — as the Spanish, British, the Nicaraguan Army, the U.S. special forces and a number of other erstwhile challengers have discovered over the years.

    +

    Thus, while it certainly isn’t common, the white lobster, as the bales of cocaine are known here, does turn up from time to time. As do barrels of money. For instance, according to local gossip, the woman who owns the guesthouse next to Carlito’s discovered a barrel with $80,000 inside — more than enough to open a profitable guesthouse.

    +

    As you might expect, this shady past has made for a bit unrest over the years. As little as six years ago, Little Corn was a very sketchy place. Local residents lined their houses with razor wire and the Casa Iguana Guesthouse had a bucket full a machetes available for any guests that were brave (or foolish) enough to even venture out at night. Luckily for those of us that probably wouldn’t fare well in a machete fight, those days are largely over.

    +

    Corrinne and I, Little Corn Island, NicaraguaThere are still “incidents” on the island, but it’s the tamer, stealing-stuff-from-rooms that happens in any isolated, yet heavily visited area, rather than the more violent holdups.

    +

    For the record I never felt unsafe on Little Corn and we walked around at night quite a bit, alone even. Of course some of that has to do with the massively increased police presence that the government sent over for Semana Santa (Easter) who are still on the island.

    +

    But if you’ve heard the stories floating around the internet about trouble on Little Corn and you’re hesitating to go, don’t. It’s perfectly safe and you’ll love it.

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/little-island-sun.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/little-island-sun.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3140115 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/little-island-sun.txt @@ -0,0 +1,44 @@ +Little Island in the Sun +======================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 05 April 2008 + +From [San Juan Del Sur][1] we caught a cab back to Rivas (much faster driver this time), then a bus to Managua, switched to another bus out to the airport, then hopped a plane to Bluefields and then on to Big Corn Island where we jumped in a boat to Little Corn Island. Pretty much every form of transportation in Nicaragua in a single journey (there are no trains unfortunately). To get from the airport to San Juan Del Sur we spent $40 each. To do the same thing in reverse we paid $6 each. That's called figuring it out. + +[1]: http://luxagraf.net/2008/apr/02/return-sea/ + +Palm Tree, Little Corn Island, NicaraguaOf that journey the only stressful part was the puddle-jumper flight from Managua to Big Corn on an airline that's apparently sketchy enough that U.S. diplomats aren't allowed to fly on it. However, we met up with Kenso and Melissa again a few days later and I asked Kenso about it and he waved his hand dismissively and said the planes were fine (he's flown some pretty sketchy stuff for the U.N. in Africa so I figured it was okay and I relaxed somewhat on the flight back). + +We arrived on Little Corn Island around sundown and met a man I at first took to be a tout who showed us the way to the guesthouse we wanted to stay in. After settling in an getting a feel for the island I realized that Ali, the man, wasn't a tout, he was just a really nice guy who enjoyed doing favors for tourists. He would accept the occasional tip, but he wasn't in it for the money. + + + +The truth is there's just very little to do on Little Corn Island, so helping tourists passes the time. The only people that work what you and I might call a full day are the guesthouse owners and the fishermen. Pretty much everyone else seemed to not have much to do (and we were there during the the three month off season for lobster fisherman so the island was pretty well laid back). + +Carlito's Guesthouse, Little Corn Island, NicaraguaIn short, Little Corn Island is basically paradise. We stayed at Carlito's Sunrise Paradise ($25 a night, A+, highly recommended) and were about ten paces from the water. One afternoon I took a short nap and I sat up in bed and noticed the view you see in the photo to the right. + +Carlito's, like most of the guesthouses on the island, consisted of a few huts, some shaded tables by the water and central eating area. And of course the most important part -- the hammocks slug between pretty much any two appropriately spaced objects. + +The interesting thing about the Corn Islands is that they're more or less a totally separate experience from mainland Nicaragua. English is the primary language and the native people are of African descent. Naturally there are a number of Misquitos as well as Spanish descendant people, but for the most part the Caribbean coast is a bit like transplanting say, Jamaica, to Nicaragua. + +The Corn Islands are part of an autonomous zone in Nicaragua. I won't pretend to understand the nuances of the government setup here, but as I understand it, the Mosquito Indians pretty much control things and government of Nicaragua supports them (for the most part) but doesn't seem to interfere too much. + +This region of the Caribbean has long been a hangout for pirates and smugglers -- especially these islands, which were a favorite for British pirates waiting to hit the Spanish Galleons coming across the Gulf of Mexico. + +Beach, Little Corn Island, NicaraguaThe pirating tradition continues to day with drug running boats. Drug-running boats en route from Colombia to Miami pass through this area. Though the boats no longer stop on the islands, every now and then someone loads a panga (local outboard boat) with gasoline and heads out into the sea (GPS to the rescue) to refuel a boat. + +When the drug runners come under attack by U.S. Coast Guard boats they typically pitch their rather large bales of cocaine overboard and, owing to a curious combination of wind and currents, those bales (and sometimes barrels of money as well) tend to wash up here. It used to be that the Colombians would buy the drugs back, but from what I've read the Indians have decided to stop that tradition and now get rid of it them themselves. And apparently the Colombian drug runners won't mess with the Mosquito, who are heavily armed, well-organized and have been defending this area for going on six hundred years. In short, they are not people to fuck with -- as the Spanish, British, the Nicaraguan Army, the U.S. special forces and a number of other erstwhile challengers have discovered over the years. + +Thus, while it certainly isn't common, the white lobster, as the bales of cocaine are known here, does turn up from time to time. As do barrels of money. For instance, according to local gossip, the woman who owns the guesthouse next to Carlito's discovered a barrel with $80,000 inside -- more than enough to open a profitable guesthouse. + +As you might expect, this shady past has made for a bit unrest over the years. As little as six years ago, Little Corn was a very sketchy place. Local residents lined their houses with razor wire and the [Casa Iguana Guesthouse][2] had a bucket full a machetes available for any guests that were brave (or foolish) enough to even venture out at night. Luckily for those of us that probably wouldn't fare well in a machete fight, those days are largely over. + +[2]: http://www.casaiguana.net/ + +Corrinne and I, Little Corn Island, NicaraguaThere are still "incidents" on the island, but it's the tamer, stealing-stuff-from-rooms that happens in any isolated, yet heavily visited area, rather than the more violent holdups. + +For the record I never felt unsafe on Little Corn and we walked around at night quite a bit, alone even. Of course some of that has to do with the massively increased police presence that the government sent over for Semana Santa (Easter) who are still on the island. + +But if you've heard the stories floating around the internet about trouble on Little Corn and you're hesitating to go, don't. It's perfectly safe and you'll love it. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/return-sea.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/return-sea.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2d45399 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/return-sea.amp @@ -0,0 +1,194 @@ + + + + + + +Return to the Sea + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Return to the Sea

    + + + +
    +
    +

    Rivas was hot, dusty and filled with touts clamoring to shove you a cab bound for just about anywhere but Rivas itself. Not being the sort of tourists that like to disappoint a determined tout, we ended up in one of those cabs, along with a couple of Nicaraguans, bound for the Pacific coast town of San Juan Del Sur.

    +

    +From Granada we caught a chicken bus south, headed for Rivas. Southwestern Nicaragua is a very small strip of land with Lago Nicaragua to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west. Rivas is smack dab in the middle of that strip, a kind of stopping off point rather than a destination, almost like a border town, despite the fact that the border is another hour south.

    +

    You essentially have two choices in Rivas: go east to the lake, visit Isle Ometepe and some of the other islands and small towns along the coast, or, go west to San Juan Del Sur and the other fishing villages along the Pacific (there's also the third option of continuing on to the Costa Rican border, but that wasn't in our plans).

    +

    Curiously enough, the morning we left for Nicaragua we stopped off for a cup of coffee at Jittery Joe's and ran into our friend Nelson, who we hadn't seen since we moved back to town. In one of those strange twists of fate that I've come to accept, it turned out that Nelson had just gotten back from Nicaragua the night before. We proceeded to do a quick five minute brain pick and came up with San Juan Del Sur, which is why we found ourselves trapped in a mid-90s Nissan sedan with the world's slowest cab driver.

    +

    The Pacific coast of Nicaragua has long been famous in surfer circles for its near-perfect and seemingly endless breaks (it's featured in Endless Summer if you're into that sort of thing). The last time I went surfing Quicksilver was still run out of a garage and I have no real desire to take it up again, but I rarely say no to some time by ocean.

    +

    San Juan Del Sur proper is nestled around a well protected harbor with a mediocre strip of sand. For the good surf and nice beaches you have to head up or down the coast to one of the many small inlets. And that means you'll either have to catch a cab or take one of several 4x4 drive bus thingies (like troop carrying trucks essentially).

    +

    The problem is that if you stay in San Juan Del Sur, you'll end up spending a good chunk of money getting to the beach, and that has never made sense to me. We did take a cab two days, once to Playa Majagual and once to Playa Maderas, two beaches to the north of the harbor, but they were something of a letdown.

    +

    The beaches themselves were curiously deserted, literally. In two days on two different beaches we were totally alone -- save for our cab driver somewhere back over the dune sleeping in his car. Which is sort of where the letdown part comes in. I realize that we were paying him decent money, but I couldn't help feeling guilty that there was this poor guy waiting all afternoon in his car. I wouldn't want to do that, would you?

    +

    The guilt, coupled with the gusts of wind that whipped the sand against your skin a bit like a low grade sandblaster (come to San Juan Del Sur, free exfoliating while you wait!) made the beaches, well, something of a letdown.

    +

    The third day we got it right, we didn't do anything or go anywhere. We lounged around in hammocks, had a stroll around the town, bought our own hammock and hit the harbor front restaurant/bar scene early.

    +

    We ended up taking an upscale room in San Juan Del Sur since the cheap stuff was pretty morbid (it's hard to pay $25 for a room that isn't half as nice as many of the $2 rooms you've had elsewhere). As it turned out a Canadian couple that we met briefly in Granada had exactly the same thought process and ended up in the room next to use at the Hotel Colonial ($46 a night, rating: A). Kenso and Melissa had perhaps a much better justification for splashing out in San Juan Del Sur since they had taken the "loft" at the Bearded Monkey Guesthouse. Corrinne and I were offered the loft when we arrived at the Bearded Monkey, but we elected to hold out for a private room (which we ended up getting, thank god).

    +

    Kenso and Melissa arrived after us and found that, since we had snatched the last private room, they were stuck with the loft, which was essentially a 4 x 8 sheet of plywood nailed midway up a high-ceiling hallway. Not only was there little in the way of privacy, you had to climb a rather precarious ladder to get in and out -- no small feat when you're in a country where beer is only a dollar.

    +

    Somehow they managed to survive and check in next to us at the Hotel Colonial in San Juan Del Sur (and they were nice enough to bear no outward grudge for stealing the last room in Granada).

    +

    Kenso and Melissa were on basically the same trip we were, though after San Juan Del Sur they opted to head to Ometepe while we went straight over to the Corn Island. But we spent a couple nights in one of the many near anonymous restaurants that line the harbor front, talking with Melissa and Kenso and watching the sunset while we ate lobster, fried plantains and, of course, the ever-present gallo y pinto.

    +

    However after three days we felt like we had more or less exhausted San Juan Del Sur. The combination of high prices and a plethora of rather obnoxious American ex-pats that seemed to generally hail from Los Angeles or some equally dreadful American metropolis sort of turned us off.

    +

    San Juan Del Sur is worth a visit, just don't be surprised when you find a battered paperback novel selling for $40 at a coffee shop where no one speaks Spanish. Americans are a cancer, someone needs to stop us (as a friend recently pointed out, something, not someone, is going to stop us -- the Euro).

    +

    And really it isn't that bad. Though San Juan Del Sur may not be my favorite spot in Nicaragua, there is something to be said for watching the Pacific sunsets over a plate of lobster and a cold beer. Life could be a whole lot worse.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/return-sea.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/return-sea.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a33886e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/return-sea.html @@ -0,0 +1,347 @@ + + + + + Return To The Sea - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    Return to the Sea

    + +
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    +

    San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Rivas was hot, dusty and filled with touts clamoring to shove you a cab bound for just about anywhere but Rivas itself. Not being the sort of tourists that like to disappoint a determined tout, we ended up in one of those cabs, along with a couple of Nicaraguans, bound for the Pacific coast town of San Juan Del Sur.

    +

    +San Juan Del Sur +harborfrontFrom Granada we caught a chicken bus south, headed for Rivas. Southwestern Nicaragua is a very small strip of land with Lago Nicaragua to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west. Rivas is smack dab in the middle of that strip, a kind of stopping off point rather than a destination, almost like a border town, despite the fact that the border is another hour south.

    +

    You essentially have two choices in Rivas: go east to the lake, visit Isle Ometepe and some of the other islands and small towns along the coast, or, go west to San Juan Del Sur and the other fishing villages along the Pacific (there’s also the third option of continuing on to the Costa Rican border, but that wasn’t in our plans).

    +

    Curiously enough, the morning we left for Nicaragua we stopped off for a cup of coffee at Jittery Joe’s and ran into our friend Nelson, who we hadn’t seen since we moved back to town. In one of those strange twists of fate that I’ve come to accept, it turned out that Nelson had just gotten back from Nicaragua the night before. We proceeded to do a quick five minute brain pick and came up with San Juan Del Sur, which is why we found ourselves trapped in a mid-90s Nissan sedan with the world’s slowest cab driver.

    +

    Playa MajagualThe Pacific coast of Nicaragua has long been famous in surfer circles for its near-perfect and seemingly endless breaks (it’s featured in Endless Summer if you’re into that sort of thing). The last time I went surfing Quicksilver was still run out of a garage and I have no real desire to take it up again, but I rarely say no to some time by ocean.

    +

    San Juan Del Sur proper surrounds a well protected harbor with a mediocre strip of sand. For the good surf and nice beaches you have to head up or down the coast to one of the many small inlets. And that means you’ll either have to catch a cab or take one of several 4x4 drive bus thingies (like troop carrying trucks essentially).

    +

    The problem is that if you stay in San Juan Del Sur, you’ll end up spending a good chunk of money getting to the beach, and that has never made sense to me. We did take a cab two days, once to Playa Majagual and once to Playa Maderas, two beaches to the north of the harbor, but they were something of a letdown.

    +

    The beaches themselves were curiously deserted, literally. In two days on two different beaches we were totally alone — save for our cab driver somewhere back over the dune sleeping in his car. Which is sort of where the letdown part comes in. I realize that we were paying him decent money, but I couldn’t help feeling guilty that there was this poor guy waiting all afternoon in his car. I wouldn’t want to do that, would you?

    +

    Hammock, Hotel ColonialThe guilt, coupled with the gusts of wind that whipped the sand against your skin a bit like a low grade sandblaster (come to San Juan Del Sur, free exfoliating while you wait!) made the beaches, well, something of a letdown.

    +

    The third day we got it right, we didn’t do anything or go anywhere. We lounged around in hammocks, had a stroll around the town, bought our own hammock and hit the harbor front restaurant/bar scene early.

    +

    We ended up taking an upscale room in San Juan Del Sur since the cheap stuff was pretty morbid (it’s hard to pay $25 for a room that isn’t half as nice as many of the $2 rooms you’ve had elsewhere). As it turned out a Canadian couple that we met briefly in Granada had exactly the same thought process and ended up in the room next to use at the Hotel Colonial ($46 a night, rating: A). Kenso and Melissa had perhaps a much better justification for splashing out in San Juan Del Sur since they had taken the “loft” at the Bearded Monkey Guesthouse. Corrinne and I were offered the loft when we arrived at the Bearded Monkey, but we elected to hold out for a private room (which we ended up getting, thank god).

    +

    Kenso and Melissa arrived after us and found that, since we had snatched the last private room, they were stuck with the loft, which was essentially a 4 x 8 sheet of plywood nailed midway up a high-ceiling hallway. Not only was there little in the way of privacy, you had to climb a rather precarious ladder to get in and out — no small feat when you’re in a country where beer is only a dollar.

    +

    Somehow they managed to survive and check in next to us at the Hotel Colonial in San Juan Del Sur (and they were nice enough to bear no outward grudge for stealing the last room in Granada).

    +

    sunset San Juan Del Sur +harborfrontKenso and Melissa were on basically the same trip we were, though after San Juan Del Sur they opted to head to Ometepe while we went straight over to the Corn Island. But we spent a couple nights in one of the many near anonymous restaurants that line the harbor front, talking with Melissa and Kenso and watching the sunset while we ate lobster, fried plantains and, of course, the ever-present gallo y pinto.

    +

    However after three days we felt like we had more or less exhausted San Juan Del Sur. The combination of high prices and a plethora of rather obnoxious American ex-pats that seemed to generally hail from Los Angeles or some equally dreadful American metropolis sort of turned us off.

    +

    San Juan Del Sur is worth a visit, just don’t be surprised when you find a battered paperback novel selling for $40 at a coffee shop where no one speaks Spanish. Americans are a cancer, someone needs to stop us (as a friend recently pointed out, something, not someone, is going to stop us — the Euro).

    +

    And really it isn’t that bad. Though San Juan Del Sur may not be my favorite spot in Nicaragua, there is something to be said for watching the Pacific sunsets over a plate of lobster and a cold beer. Life could be a whole lot worse.

    +
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/return-sea.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/return-sea.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..846d3d0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/04/return-sea.txt @@ -0,0 +1,43 @@ +Return to the Sea +================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 02 April 2008 + +Rivas was hot, dusty and filled with touts clamoring to shove you a cab bound for just about anywhere but Rivas itself. Not being the sort of tourists that like to disappoint a determined tout, we ended up in one of those cabs, along with a couple of Nicaraguans, bound for the Pacific coast town of San Juan Del Sur. + + +San Juan Del Sur +harborfrontFrom Granada we caught a chicken bus south, headed for Rivas. Southwestern Nicaragua is a very small strip of land with Lago Nicaragua to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west. Rivas is smack dab in the middle of that strip, a kind of stopping off point rather than a destination, almost like a border town, despite the fact that the border is another hour south. + +You essentially have two choices in Rivas: go east to the lake, visit Isle Ometepe and some of the other islands and small towns along the coast, or, go west to San Juan Del Sur and the other fishing villages along the Pacific (there's also the third option of continuing on to the Costa Rican border, but that wasn't in our plans). + +Curiously enough, the morning we left for Nicaragua we stopped off for a cup of coffee at Jittery Joe's and ran into our friend Nelson, who we hadn't seen since we moved back to town. In one of those strange twists of fate that I've come to accept, it turned out that Nelson had just gotten back from Nicaragua the night before. We proceeded to do a quick five minute brain pick and came up with San Juan Del Sur, which is why we found ourselves trapped in a mid-90s Nissan sedan with the world's slowest cab driver. + +Playa MajagualThe Pacific coast of Nicaragua has long been famous in surfer circles for its near-perfect and seemingly endless breaks (it's featured in Endless Summer if you're into that sort of thing). The last time I went surfing Quicksilver was still run out of a garage and I have no real desire to take it up again, but I rarely say no to some time by ocean. + +San Juan Del Sur proper surrounds a well protected harbor with a mediocre strip of sand. For the good surf and nice beaches you have to head up or down the coast to one of the many small inlets. And that means you'll either have to catch a cab or take one of several 4x4 drive bus thingies (like troop carrying trucks essentially). + +The problem is that if you stay in San Juan Del Sur, you'll end up spending a good chunk of money getting to the beach, and that has never made sense to me. We did take a cab two days, once to Playa Majagual and once to Playa Maderas, two beaches to the north of the harbor, but they were something of a letdown. + +The beaches themselves were curiously deserted, literally. In two days on two different beaches we were totally alone -- save for our cab driver somewhere back over the dune sleeping in his car. Which is sort of where the letdown part comes in. I realize that we were paying him decent money, but I couldn't help feeling guilty that there was this poor guy waiting all afternoon in his car. I wouldn't want to do that, would you? + +Hammock, Hotel ColonialThe guilt, coupled with the gusts of wind that whipped the sand against your skin a bit like a low grade sandblaster (come to San Juan Del Sur, free exfoliating while you wait!) made the beaches, well, something of a letdown. + +The third day we got it right, we didn't do anything or go anywhere. We lounged around in hammocks, had a stroll around the town, bought our own hammock and hit the harbor front restaurant/bar scene early. + +We ended up taking an upscale room in San Juan Del Sur since the cheap stuff was pretty morbid (it's hard to pay $25 for a room that isn't half as nice as many of the $2 rooms you've had elsewhere). As it turned out a Canadian couple that we met briefly in Granada had exactly the same thought process and ended up in the room next to use at the Hotel Colonial ($46 a night, rating: A). Kenso and Melissa had perhaps a much better justification for splashing out in San Juan Del Sur since they had taken the "loft" at the Bearded Monkey Guesthouse. Corrinne and I were offered the loft when we arrived at the Bearded Monkey, but we elected to hold out for a private room (which we ended up getting, thank god). + +Kenso and Melissa arrived after us and found that, since we had snatched the last private room, they were stuck with the loft, which was essentially a 4 x 8 sheet of plywood nailed midway up a high-ceiling hallway. Not only was there little in the way of privacy, you had to climb a rather precarious ladder to get in and out -- no small feat when you're in a country where beer is only a dollar. + +Somehow they managed to survive and check in next to us at the Hotel Colonial in San Juan Del Sur (and they were nice enough to bear no outward grudge for stealing the last room in Granada). + +sunset San Juan Del Sur +harborfrontKenso and Melissa were on basically the same trip we were, though after San Juan Del Sur they opted to head to Ometepe while we went straight over to the Corn Island. But we spent a couple nights in one of the many near anonymous restaurants that line the harbor front, talking with Melissa and Kenso and watching the sunset while we ate lobster, fried plantains and, of course, the ever-present gallo y pinto. + +However after three days we felt like we had more or less exhausted San Juan Del Sur. The combination of high prices and a plethora of rather obnoxious American ex-pats that seemed to generally hail from Los Angeles or some equally dreadful American metropolis sort of turned us off. + +San Juan Del Sur is worth a visit, just don't be surprised when you find a battered paperback novel selling for $40 at a coffee shop where no one speaks Spanish. Americans are a cancer, someone needs to stop us (as a friend recently pointed out, something, not someone, is going to stop us -- the Euro). + +And really it isn't that bad. Though San Juan Del Sur may not be my favorite spot in Nicaragua, there is something to be said for watching the Pacific sunsets over a plate of lobster and a cold beer. Life could be a whole lot worse. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ed8e030 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,110 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Archive: June 2008

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    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/love-with-a-view-vagabonds-responsibilty-living-we.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/love-with-a-view-vagabonds-responsibilty-living-we.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..208601f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/love-with-a-view-vagabonds-responsibilty-living-we.amp @@ -0,0 +1,252 @@ + + + + + + +In Love With a View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty and Living Well + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    In Love With a View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty and Living Well

    + + + +
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    +

    Tim Patterson, editor of MatadorTrips.com, recently published an article entitled How To Travel The World For Free (Seriously). There are some good tips in the article, even for the seasoned travel vet.

    +

    But what's far more fascinating is the response from commenters many of whom tore into Patterson, calling him everything from a "rich, privileged, arrogant hipster" to a "dirty hippie." + +Here's a random sampling of some comments on Patterson's post:

    +
    +

    there are three possible answers for how he can do this and not have to worry about his obligations. 1). He's a jobless loser that contributes nothing to society... 2). He's a rich, privileged, arrogant hipster who, while preaching a lifestyle of no consumerism and organic foods, really travels around in a BMW, listening to his iPod, blogging on his Macbook Air, contributes nothing to society... 3). He's a 14 year old idealist who's parents were hippies, but now work for Haliburton.

    +
    +

    That's the sort of cynicism that just depresses me. Why are you so convinced that everyone else is a selfish privileged asshole? At long last, have you no sense of decency sir?

    +
    +

    Trusting people you don't know while you sleep in their house is a good way to end up half-naked, raped, dead and in a ditch.

    +
    +

    Mom? Is that you?

    +
    +

    In fact, the further you get from the cities, the more viciously backwards with respect to medicine, hygiene and hospitality the people get... and, eventually, you reach places where the word 'culture' is completely inapplicable, and your life is seriously in danger.

    +
    +

    My personal favorite though is the commenter who cites the words of a Pulp Fiction character as an example of how to live. Wonderful, murderous assassins are who you look up to?

    +

    Why Vagabonds Make People Mad

    +

    So why all the vitriol about a seemingly innocuous concept -- that traveling doesn't have to cost a lot of money, isn't all that difficult and hey, you can even go right now.

    +

    Part of the negative reaction comes from the widely-held belief that travelers are a privileged lot -- privileged because, unlike you and I, they can just drop their lives and leave. People like us, who feel tied down by responsibility, find the suggestion that we actually aren't patronizing and yes, elitist -- how dare you tell me what I can and can't do?

    +

    But when I dig a bit deeper into this sort of thinking, I generally find that by elitist, most people really mean enviably rich.

    +

    It may be splitting hairs, but I find that, despite rhetoric to the contrary, Americans actually admire elitists. To paraphrase and twist John Stewart a bit, we want advice from elitists. We don't want advice from people that believe everyone's a murderer.

    +

    But we also don't want rich people who've never struggled telling us that it isn't hard to drop everything we're struggling with and head out into the world.

    +

    The irony of course is that, in this case, the hostile reaction comes in response to an article that has ten tips on traveling cheaply -- in other words, it's trying to show you that you don't need money to travel.

    +

    That said, you'll never find me denying that I am very, very lucky and have been handed an incredible amount of privilege in my life, especially relative to the rest of the world.

    +

    But 90 percent of America is in the same boat. Troops do not storm our houses, bombs do not fall on our cities, Malaria, Dengue Fever, schistosoma and other killer diseases are unknown here (though that may change).

    +

    We are all privileged. For one American to call another privileged is a pot-kettle-black debate.

    +

    The privileged part is just a cover for a much deeper and more personal issue in our lives.

    +

    So why do we attack the author as an elitist? It's a psychological defense mechanism.

    +

    Stop and consider for a moment what Patterson is really saying: it's not hard to drop your life and travel.

    +

    Living Well

    +

    The debate that happens in the comments of his article cuts right to heart of some very personal ideas -- just how important is your "life"? The unspoken assumption in that statement that ticks people off is the implication that everything you're doing is trivial -- that the life you're leading is so meaningless that it can be abandoned without a second thought.

    +

    That's why the attacks on Patterson are so personal and so vehement, because Patterson is, consciously or not, attacking people's most cherished belief, that our lives mean something and are important.

    +

    Obviously no one wants to think otherwise.

    +

    But I've done it -- dropped everything and left -- and, for me, as much as I am loath to admit it, it was true. Everything I thought I needed to be doing turned out to be totally unnecessary and yes, meaningless.

    +

    In fact I spent the first month of my trip wrestling with that. I was caught between feeling like I was finally doing something that did matter and beating myself up about having been suckered into the previous life, now rendered meaningless.

    +

    In other words I understand why some people reacted to Patterson's piece the way they did.

    +

    The debate that happens in the comments of his article cuts right to heart of some very personal ideas -- just how important is your "life"?

    +

    American culture tries to convince us that if you do the right things, you life is very valuable. There are some long standing, deeply-ingrained, fundamental axioms that lead us to believe that relaxation, travel and not working are contemptible. Instead, we're told, you need to work hard to "get ahead."

    +

    The notion that the importance of your life is dependent on your ability to "make something of yourself" is pretty well ingrained. Advocating otherwise is going to bring you some hostile reactions (as Patterson recently discovered).

    +

    I'm not saying I'm immune. If you learn anything traveling, it's that you can never escape your own culture. That's why I spent most of a week in Goa, India feeling guilty. Guilty that I was enjoying my life rather than working for some future enjoyment. Guilty that I had apparently been wasting my life for some years prior to that moment. Guilty that I was able to finally escape that when so many people never do. Guilty for all sorts of contradictory things.

    +

    And scared. Scared that when I got back, jobless and penniless I would end up homeless and starving to death. Scared that I might not make it back (India's bus system will do that to you).

    +

    This is the part where I'm supposed to tell you about how I came to peace with it all. But the truth is that never exactly happened. In India I ended up meeting an Englishman who had a seemingly endless supply of excellent scotch and I quickly forgot about my guilt and fear. But it comes back.

    +

    I know, that's not the answer you were looking for. Bear with me.

    +

    Making Something

    +

    Let's go back to the notion of making something of yourself. I do believe in "making something of myself." And I am aware that that's a uniquely American idea, or at least western, since we seem to have somewhat successfully exported the idea to Europe as well.

    +

    What's interesting is how we define the key variable in that sentence -- what does it mean to make something of yourself?

    +

    In defending his co-writer, fellow Matador author Josh Kearns offers all sorts of ways that travel can lead to a more meaningful definition of who you are. He cites Alan Watts, Lao Tzu and some other very wise men to point out that in fact traveling can be exactly what you need to "make something of yourself."

    +

    But in many ways that simply begs the question -- if you're open to Alan Watts and Lao Tzu, you probably didn't disagree with Patterson's original argument. If you think Alan Watts was a communist and Lao Tzu comes with Kung Pao chicken, Kearns' argument isn't going to say anything to you.

    +

    How you answer that question -- what does it mean to "make something of yourself" -- greatly affects how you view the world around you and will determine how you react to a stance like Patterson's.

    +

    It's pretty easy to see how the more vitriolic commenters answer the question, all you need to do is reverse engineer the thought process. For instance, it's not hard to imagine that the person quoted above, who says staying with strangers is dangerous, lacks a strong sense of faith in humanity.

    +

    I have no idea why, but I'll make a guess -- one way to make something of yourself is to make nothing of everyone else.

    +

    If you see everyone around you as a murderous bunch of rapists and psychopaths, you get to see yourself and your family and friends as shining examples of humanity. You've made something of yourself -- You're better than the murderous bastards out there -- without doing anything at all. You're most likely going to lead a miserable existence, but it is one way to answer the question.

    +

    For others the answer to the "make something of yourself" question is tied up in western technological superiority. Like the man who says that the further you go "the more viciously backwards with respect to medicine, hygiene and hospitality the people get."

    +

    In order to think that you need to believe that your society is superior to everyone else's because we have all the things we value and they have none of the things we value -- never mind what they value, that's irrelevant. So you can say you've made something of yourself because you're part of (by your own definition) a superior society.

    +

    But here's what I think Kearns and Patterson are trying to say -- these might not be the best ways to "make something of yourself." In fact you might need to get completely outside yourself in order to make something.

    +

    If your definition of living well is making something of yourself and your primary means of making something of yourself is making less of everyone else then it's not surprising that anyone who suggests temporarily abandoning your life and your society is going to make you confused, angry, fearful and perhaps guilty.

    +

    The View From Here

    +

    Which brings me back to my own experiences in Goa -- fear, guilt, anger and confusion.

    +

    No, I never have entirely come to terms with the guilt or the confusion, but the fear and anger did go away. I quickly realized that there was no point being angry with myself for failing to leave my life sooner, I took comfort in the fact that at least I left eventually.

    +

    The guilt is still there. Much as I enjoy sitting in hammock in Nicaragua I spend a good bit of my time sitting there thinking about how I should be doing something with my life -- writing a novel, building a website, at the very least writing something about my travels.

    +

    You name it, I've felt guilty about not doing it.

    +

    But this last trip I started thinking about something else more troubling -- have I turned back into someone who thinks their life is important? Have I forgotten that feeling of total freedom that comes from abandoing your "life," that relief of realizing that all the things I agonize over in my "real" life, are actually quite meaningless?

    +

    See unlike the commenters who don't buy the vagabond argument, I suffer from a different American cliche.

    +

    For me, America ingrained its devil-may-care adventure motif far more than its make-something-of-yourself cliche. From Lewis and Clark to Jack Kerouac, there's a strong cultural legacy of lighting out for the territories.

    +

    Now I'm in an entirely different situation than I was when I left for my last trip.

    +

    I'll be married later this month. The common wisdom is that traveling with a family is somehow impossible, in America there's a myth that once you're married and have kids you have to settle down and that butts up against the myth I've been buying into all this time -- Kerouac and the rest.

    +

    I still don't know if it's my idea or just me replicating that devil-may-care cultural meme, but I reject the idea of settling down and I've met enough traveling families to know I won't be the first to reject it.

    +

    It may be more difficult to travel with a family, I'll have to get back to you on that, and fear not, I will get back to you because I will do it.

    +

    But the thing that strikes me is that, if I hadn't already set out, rejected my own life and gone through everything that I went through, adding a family to the equation might well make the whole idea seeming completely unfathomable.

    +

    And that's something I think many of these self-styled vagabond travel writers leave out of their "anyone can do it" travel pieces.

    +

    Anyone can do it, but it takes a hell of a lot more courage and effort for some than for others. I have no doubt that Patterson and Kearns are both aware of that and I understand that including the nuances just isn't something online journalism generally allows for, but it's a shame because it ends up alienating the people who could most benefit from some encouraging.

    +

    So while I agree with both authors, I think the "just do it" incantations are every bit as hollow as a Nike ad -- even when they're true.

    +

    And the glibness of most travel writing, particularly those of the so-called vagabond stripe ends up having the opposite effect that the proponents intend (Rolf Potts is a notable exception).

    +

    I'm not going to tell you that it's easy to drop your life and take off to see the world. +However, I will say that it isn't as hard as you think. Your job isn't as valuable as you think, there's probably someone who'd love to rent your house and your kids will thank you when they're older (mom, dad, thanks).

    +

    I'm also not going to say that I don't buy the idea that you should strive to "make something of yourself," but the important thing about the "making" is that you define what that means. For some it might mean sticking to one job and providing for a family. For others it might mean dragging your family around the world on a grand adventure. Both answers are valid -- just make sure that it's you, not your culture, making the decision. And make sure that you realize both really are valid possibilities -- the only limitation to your life is your own imagination.

    +

    For me, making something of yourself is a never-ending process and one of the key elements is exploring all the different ways people around the world answer that fundamental question -- what does living well mean?

    +

    [VGB image from Rolf Potts, cartoon from the ever hilarious xkcd]

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/love-with-a-view-vagabonds-responsibilty-living-we.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/love-with-a-view-vagabonds-responsibilty-living-we.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..41a5db8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/love-with-a-view-vagabonds-responsibilty-living-we.html @@ -0,0 +1,442 @@ + + + + + In Love With A View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty And Living Well - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    + + +
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    + + + +
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    +

    In Love With a View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty and Living Well

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Tim Patterson, editor of MatadorTrips.com, recently published an article entitled How To Travel The World For Free (Seriously).

    +

    What’s far more fascinating than the functional tips though is the response from commenters many of whom tore into Patterson, calling him nearly every name across the spectrum from “rich, privileged, arrogant hipster” to “dirty hippie.” Make up your mind people.

    +

    Here’s a random sampling of some comments on Patterson’s post:

    +
    +

    there are three possible answers for how he can do this and not have to worry about his obligations. 1). He’s a jobless loser that contributes nothing to society… 2). He’s a rich, privileged, arrogant hipster who, while preaching a lifestyle of no consumerism and organic foods, really travels around in a BMW, listening to his iPod, blogging on his Macbook Air, contributes nothing to society… 3). He’s a 14 year old idealist who’s parents were hippies, but now work for Haliburton.

    +
    +

    The number of unexamined assumptions here is staggering — does having a job contribute to society? How? Is contributing to society a things you should do? Why? And so on — but it’s really the cynicism that depresses me. Why are we so quick to assume the worst in everyone? Oh right, the internet.

    +

    This one is probably my favorite:

    +
    +

    Trusting people you don’t know while you sleep in their house is a good way to end up half-naked, raped, dead and in a ditch.

    +
    +

    Mom? Is that you? Seriously though, this one is uniquely American. Only Americans live in fear of everyone. I’ve spent years trying to figure out where this belief comes from and I still don’t have an answer. My best guess is that the mediocrity of our lives is somehow more tolerable if we cling to the belief that everywhere and everyone else is much worse off.

    +

    Even good old fashioned western colonial pretentiousness finds its way into the comments, which Matador should really just turn off because there’s nay a voice of intelligence among its readership:

    +
    +

    In fact, the further you get from the cities, the more viciously backwards with respect to medicine, hygiene and hospitality the people get… And, eventually, you reach places where the word ‘culture’ is completely inapplicable, and your life is seriously in danger.

    +
    +

    My personal favorite though is the commenter who cites the words of a Pulp Fiction character as an example of how to live. Wonderful, murderous assassins are who you look up to? Oh right, ‘merica.

    +

    Why Vagabonds Have Always Made People Mad

    +

    So why all the vitriol about a seemingly innocuous concept — that traveling doesn’t have to cost a lot of money, isn’t all that difficult, and hey, you can even go right now?

    +

    The first negative reaction comes from the widely-held belief that travelers are a privileged lot — privileged because, unlike you and I, they can just drop their lives and leave. Americans love to make a great show of hating privilege1, which explains the first comment I highlighted. The great irony is that this reaction is in response to an article that has ten tips on traveling cheaply. It’s trying to show you that you don’t need money to travel, but that gets to the second reason people hate vagabonds.

    +

    Consider for a moment what Patterson is really saying: your life isn’t so important. Actually it’s so unimportant that you can just chuck it and travel.

    +

    Americans especially tend to have a lot of their personal identity and sense of self-worth tightly intertwined with their jobs, the status symbols they’ve acquired and so on, in other words, their life.

    +

    If it’s actually quite simple to toss all that aside and do something else then that’s not so subtly saying that all that stuff, our lives, have no value. Tell people that and they’re going to hate you, no matter what their culture.

    +

    Living Well

    +

    The debate that happens in the comments of his article cuts right to heart of some very personal ideas — just how important is your “life”?

    +

    What if the life you’re leading is so meaningless that it can be abandoned without a second thought? That doesn’t make anyone feel good and that’s why the attacks on Patterson are so personal and so vehement, because Patterson is, consciously or not, attacking people’s most cherished belief: that our lives mean something and are important. No one wants to think otherwise.

    +

    But I’ve done it — dropped everything and left — and, for me, as much as I am loath to admit it, it was true.

    +

    Everything I thought I needed to be doing turned out to be totally unnecessary and yes, meaningless. I spent the first month of my first stint of long term travel wrestling with that. I was caught between feeling like I was finally doing something that did matter and beating myself up about having been suckered into the previous life, now rendered meaningless.

    +

    I understand why some people reacted to Patterson’s piece the way they did.

    +

    American culture tries to convince us that if you do the right things, you life is very valuable. There are some long standing, deeply-ingrained beliefs that lead us to believe that relaxation, travel and not working are contemptible. Instead, we’re told, you need to work hard to “get ahead.”

    +

    The notion that the importance of your life is dependent on your ability to “make something of yourself” is pretty well ingrained in us.

    +

    I’m not immune to this notion. If you learn anything traveling, it’s that you can never escape your own cultural assumptions, not even when you realize them for that they are — culturally-bound assumptions. That’s why I spent most of a week in India feeling guilty. Guilty that I was enjoying my life rather than working for some future enjoyment. Guilty that I had apparently been wasting my life for some years prior to that moment. Guilty that I was able to finally escape that when so many people never do. Guilty for all sorts of contradictory things.

    +

    And scared. Scared that when I got back, jobless and penniless I would end up homeless and starving to death. Scared that I might not make it back at all (India’s bus system will do that to you).

    +

    This is the part where I’m supposed to tell you about how I came to peace with it all. But the truth is that never exactly happened. Fear goes away, you learn the useful things it has to teach, you set aside the less useful parts. Or at least you learn to live with it. Or you don’t and you go home. That part is simple.

    +

    Finding meaning in your life to replace the meaning you lose when you step outside your culture and discover that “your” beliefs are not yours at all, just constructs you absorbed without thinking about is much harder because there is no transcendental culture. To replace the meaning you lose without your culture you can either stubbornly cling to your culture by belittling all the rest or you can enter the realms traditionally covered by religion, that is, the search for truth and meaning that transcend human culture.

    +

    I know, that’s not the answer you were looking for.

    +

    Making Something

    +

    The easiest thing to do is what the commenters above did — prop up your own culture by ridiculing other cultures. Like the man who says that the further you go “the more viciously backwards with respect to medicine, hygiene and hospitality the people get.”

    +

    In order to think that you need to believe that your society is superior to the rest because you have all the things you value and they have none of the things you value and never mind what they value, that’s irrelevant.

    +

    If you see everyone around you as a murderous bunch of backward rapists and psychopaths, you get to see yourself and your family and friends as shining examples of humanity.

    +

    To go back to that great Americanism, you’ve made something of yourself.

    +

    You’re better than the murderous bastards out there. Best of all you didn’t actually have to do anything. You’re most likely going to lead a miserable existence, but it is one way to answer the questions travel poses.

    +

    The View From Here

    +

    My last trip to Nicaragua got me wondering if I have turned back into someone who thinks their life is important. Have I forgotten that feeling of total freedom that comes from abandoning your “life,” that relief of realizing that all the things I agonize over in my “real” life, are actually quite meaningless?

    +

    See, unlike the commenters who don’t buy the vagabond argument, I suffer from a different American cliche.

    +

    For me, America ingrained its devil-may-care adventure motif far more than its make-something-of-yourself cliche. From Lewis and Clark to Huck Finn to Jack Kerouac, there’s a strong cultural legacy of lighting out for the territories at Twain put it.

    +

    Now I’m in an entirely different situation than I was when I left for my last trip. I’ll be married later this month, my wife and I would like to have a family. The common wisdom is that traveling with a family is somehow impossible, in America there’s a myth that once you’re married and have kids you have to settle down and that butts up against the myth I’ve been buying into all this time.

    +

    I still don’t know if it’s my idea or just me replicating that devil-may-care cultural meme, but I reject the idea of settling down and I’ve met enough traveling families to know I won’t be the first to reject it. It may be more difficult to travel with a family, I’ll have to get back to you on that, and fear not, I will get back to you because I will do it.

    +

    But the thing that strikes me is that, if I hadn’t already set out, rejected my own life and gone through everything that I went through, adding a family to the equation might well make the whole idea seeming completely unfathomable.

    +

    And that’s something I think many of these self-styled vagabond travel writers leave out of their “anyone can do it” travel pieces.

    +

    Anyone can do it, but it takes a hell of a lot more courage and effort for some than for others. I have no doubt that most writers are both aware of that and I understand that including the nuances just isn’t something online journalism generally allows for, but it’s a shame because it ends up alienating the people who could most benefit from some encouraging rather than banal “I did it you can too” articles. While I agree with the notion that any American can travel, I think the “just do it” incantations are every bit as hollow as a Nike ad — even when they’re true.

    +

    I’m not going to tell you that it’s easy to drop your life and take off to see the world. However, I will say that it isn’t as hard as you think. Your job isn’t as valuable as you think, there’s probably someone who’d love to rent your house and your kids will thank you when they’re older.

    +

    I’m also not going to say that I don’t buy the idea that you should strive to “make something of yourself,” but the important thing about the “making” is that you define what that means.

    +

    For some it might mean sticking to one job and providing for a family. For others it might mean dragging your family around the world on a grand adventure. Both answers are valid — just make sure that it’s you, not your culture, making the decision. And make sure that you realize both really are valid possibilities — the only limitation to your life is your own imagination.

    +

    For me, making something of yourself is a never-ending process and one of the key elements is exploring all the different ways people around the world answer that fundamental question — what does living well mean?

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      That said, you’ll never find me denying that I am very, very lucky and have been handed an incredible amount of privilege in my life, especially relative to the rest of the world. But 90 percent of America is in the same boat. Troops do not storm our houses, bombs do not fall on our cities, Malaria, Dengue Fever, schistosoma and other killer diseases are unknown here. We are all privileged. For one American to call another privileged is a pot-kettle-black debate. ↩

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/love-with-a-view-vagabonds-responsibilty-living-we.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/love-with-a-view-vagabonds-responsibilty-living-we.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9206ae0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/love-with-a-view-vagabonds-responsibilty-living-we.txt @@ -0,0 +1,106 @@ +In Love With a View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty and Living Well +============================================================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 07 June 2008 + +Tim Patterson, editor of MatadorTrips.com, recently published an article entitled [How To Travel The World For Free (Seriously)](https://matadornetwork.com/notebook/how-to-travel-for-free/). + +What's far more fascinating than the functional tips though is the response from commenters many of whom tore into Patterson, calling him nearly every name across the spectrum from "rich, privileged, arrogant hipster" to "dirty hippie." Make up your mind people. + +Here's a random sampling of some comments on Patterson's post: + +>there are three possible answers for how he can do this and not have to worry about his obligations. 1). He's a jobless loser that contributes nothing to society... 2). He's a rich, privileged, arrogant hipster who, while preaching a lifestyle of no consumerism and organic foods, really travels around in a BMW, listening to his iPod, blogging on his Macbook Air, contributes nothing to society... 3). He's a 14 year old idealist who's parents were hippies, but now work for Haliburton. + +The number of unexamined assumptions here is staggering -- does having a job contribute to society? How? Is contributing to society a things you should do? Why? And so on -- but it's really the cynicism that depresses me. Why are we so quick to assume the worst in everyone? Oh right, the internet. + +This one is probably my favorite: + +>Trusting people you don't know while you sleep in their house is a good way to end up half-naked, raped, dead and in a ditch. + +Mom? Is that you? Seriously though, this one is uniquely American. Only Americans live in fear of everyone. I've spent years trying to figure out where this belief comes from and I still don't have an answer. My best guess is that the mediocrity of our lives is somehow more tolerable if we cling to the belief that everywhere and everyone else is much worse off. + +Even good old fashioned western colonial pretentiousness finds its way into the comments, which Matador should really just turn off because there's nay a voice of intelligence among its readership: + +>In fact, the further you get from the cities, the more viciously backwards with respect to medicine, hygiene and hospitality the people get... And, eventually, you reach places where the word 'culture' is completely inapplicable, and your life is seriously in danger. + +My personal favorite though is the commenter who cites the words of a Pulp Fiction character as an example of how to live. Wonderful, murderous assassins are who you look up to? Oh right, 'merica. + +###Why Vagabonds Have Always Made People Mad + +So why all the vitriol about a seemingly innocuous concept -- that traveling doesn't have to cost a lot of money, isn't all that difficult, and hey, you can even go right now? + +The first negative reaction comes from the widely-held belief that travelers are a privileged lot -- privileged because, unlike you and I, they can just drop their lives and leave. Americans love to make a great show of hating privilege[^1], which explains the first comment I highlighted. The great irony is that this reaction is in response to an article that has ten tips on traveling cheaply. It's trying to show you that you don't need money to travel, but that gets to the second reason people hate vagabonds. + +Consider for a moment what Patterson is really saying: your life isn't so important. Actually it's so *un*important that you can just chuck it and travel. + +Americans especially tend to have a lot of their personal identity and sense of self-worth tightly intertwined with their jobs, the status symbols they've acquired and so on, in other words, their life. + +If it's actually quite simple to toss all that aside and do something else then that's not so subtly saying that all that stuff, our lives, have no value. Tell people that and they're going to hate you, no matter what their culture. + +###Living Well + +The debate that happens in the comments of his article cuts right to heart of some very personal ideas -- just how important is your "life"? + +What if the life you're leading is so meaningless that it can be abandoned without a second thought? That doesn't make anyone feel good and that's why the attacks on Patterson are so personal and so vehement, because Patterson is, consciously or not, attacking people's most cherished belief: that our lives mean something and are important. No one wants to think otherwise. + +But I've done it -- dropped everything and left -- and, for me, as much as I am loath to admit it, it was true. + +Everything I thought I needed to be doing turned out to be totally unnecessary and yes, meaningless. I spent the first month of my first stint of long term travel wrestling with that. I was caught between feeling like I was finally doing something that _did_ matter and beating myself up about having been suckered into the previous life, now rendered meaningless. + +I understand why some people reacted to Patterson's piece the way they did. + +American culture tries to convince us that if you do the right things, you life is very valuable. There are some long standing, deeply-ingrained beliefs that lead us to believe that relaxation, travel and not working are contemptible. Instead, we're told, you need to work hard to "get ahead." + +The notion that the importance of your life is dependent on your ability to "make something of yourself" is pretty well ingrained in us. + +I'm not immune to this notion. If you learn anything traveling, it's that you can never escape your own cultural assumptions, not even when you realize them for that they are -- culturally-bound assumptions. That's why I spent most of a week in India feeling guilty. Guilty that I was enjoying my life rather than working for some future enjoyment. Guilty that I had apparently been wasting my life for some years prior to that moment. Guilty that I was able to finally escape that when so many people never do. Guilty for all sorts of contradictory things. + +And scared. Scared that when I got back, jobless and penniless I would end up homeless and starving to death. Scared that I might not make it back at all (India's bus system will do that to you). + +This is the part where I'm supposed to tell you about how I came to peace with it all. But the truth is that never exactly happened. Fear goes away, you learn the useful things it has to teach, you set aside the less useful parts. Or at least you learn to live with it. Or you don't and you go home. That part is simple. + +Finding meaning in your life to replace the meaning you lose when you step outside your culture and discover that "your" beliefs are not yours at all, just constructs you absorbed without thinking about is much harder because there is no transcendental culture. To replace the meaning you lose without your culture you can either stubbornly cling to your culture by belittling all the rest or you can enter the realms traditionally covered by religion, that is, the search for truth and meaning that transcend human culture. + +I know, that's not the answer you were looking for. + +###Making Something + +The easiest thing to do is what the commenters above did -- prop up your own culture by ridiculing other cultures. Like the man who says that the further you go "the more viciously backwards with respect to medicine, hygiene and hospitality the people get." + +In order to think that you need to believe that your society is superior to the rest because you have all the things you value and they have none of the things you value and never mind what they value, that's irrelevant. + +If you see everyone around you as a murderous bunch of backward rapists and psychopaths, you get to see yourself and your family and friends as shining examples of humanity. + +To go back to that great Americanism, you've made something of yourself. + +You're better than the murderous bastards out there. Best of all you didn't actually have to do anything. You're most likely going to lead a miserable existence, but it is one way to answer the questions travel poses. + +###The View From Here + +My last trip to Nicaragua got me wondering if I have turned back into someone who thinks their life is important. Have I forgotten that feeling of total freedom that comes from abandoning your "life," that relief of realizing that all the things I agonize over in my "real" life, are actually quite meaningless? + +See, unlike the commenters who don't buy the vagabond argument, I suffer from a different American cliche. + +For me, America ingrained its devil-may-care adventure motif far more than its make-something-of-yourself cliche. From Lewis and Clark to Huck Finn to Jack Kerouac, there's a strong cultural legacy of lighting out for the territories at Twain put it. + +Now I'm in an entirely different situation than I was when I left for my last trip. I'll be married later this month, my wife and I would like to have a family. The common wisdom is that traveling with a family is somehow impossible, in America there's a myth that once you're married and have kids you have to settle down and that butts up against the myth I've been buying into all this time. + +I still don't know if it's my idea or just me replicating that devil-may-care cultural meme, but I reject the idea of settling down and I've met enough traveling families to know I won't be the first to reject it. It may be more difficult to travel with a family, I'll have to get back to you on that, and fear not, I will get back to you because I will do it. + +But the thing that strikes me is that, if I hadn't already set out, rejected my own life and gone through everything that I went through, adding a family to the equation might well make the whole idea seeming completely unfathomable. + +And that's something I think many of these self-styled vagabond travel writers leave out of their "anyone can do it" travel pieces. + +Anyone _can_ do it, but it takes a hell of a lot more courage and effort for some than for others. I have no doubt that most writers are both aware of that and I understand that including the nuances just isn't something online journalism generally allows for, but it's a shame because it ends up alienating the people who could most benefit from some encouraging rather than banal "I did it you can too" articles. While I agree with the notion that any American can travel, I think the "just do it" incantations are every bit as hollow as a Nike ad -- even when they're true. + +I'm not going to tell you that it's easy to drop your life and take off to see the world. However, I will say that it isn't as hard as you think. Your job isn't as valuable as you think, there's probably someone who'd love to rent your house and your kids will thank you when they're older. + +I'm also not going to say that I don't buy the idea that you should strive to "make something of yourself," but the important thing about the "making" is that _you_ define what that means. + +For some it might mean sticking to one job and providing for a family. For others it might mean dragging your family around the world on a grand adventure. Both answers are valid -- just make sure that it's you, not your culture, making the decision. And make sure that you realize both really are valid possibilities -- the only limitation to your life is your own imagination. + +For me, making something of yourself is a never-ending process and one of the key elements is exploring all the different ways people around the world answer that fundamental question -- what does living well mean? + +[^1]: That said, you'll never find me denying that I am very, very lucky and have been handed an incredible amount of privilege in my life, especially relative to the rest of the world. But 90 percent of America is in the same boat. Troops do not storm our houses, bombs do not fall on our cities, Malaria, Dengue Fever, schistosoma and other killer diseases are unknown here. We are all privileged. For one American to call another privileged is a pot-kettle-black debate. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/returning-again-back-little-corn-island.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/returning-again-back-little-corn-island.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5bf9d88 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/returning-again-back-little-corn-island.amp @@ -0,0 +1,194 @@ + + + + + + +Returning Again &mdash; Back on Little Corn Island + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Returning Again — Back on Little Corn Island

    + + + +
    +
    +

    This is a first -- going back to somewhere I've already been. Generally speaking, the world seems so huge and so full of amazing destinations that repeating one never struck me as a judicious use of my short allotment of time. However, given a rather small window of time for our honeymoon, Corrinne and I decided that the vaguely familiar would be more fun than something totally unpredictable and new.

    +

    Of course, the universe being what it is, our second trip to Little Corn Island has been unpredictable and entirely new. Other than the Best Western, still stolidly sitting directly across from the Managua airport, coming back to Nicaragua has presented a host of new and interesting experiences.

    +

    For instance we weren't counting on the fact that the increased gas prices have severely pinched the average lobster fisherman and to protest the fact that lobster prices remain at their pre-expensive gas levels, the fisherman converged on the airstrip on Big Corn Island and proceeded to blockade the runway with trucks and their own bodies, effectively cutting off the island from the mainland for four days. + +All inbound flights were forced to stop in Bluefields, leaving stranded travelers milling around a town with very little to offer. Those looking to go the other way, back to Managua, were in even worse shape -- no incoming planes meant no outgoing ones either.

    +

    Those desperate to make connecting flights onward from Managua were forced to charter fishing boats for up to $1200 and suffer through what had to be a very punishing ride across rough seas all the way back to Bluefields where they might be able to catch a (now very crowded) flight back to Managua.

    +

    Fortunately the same sort of blind luck that has gotten me this far prevailed and the fishermen gave up the strike the morning we were set to leave.

    +

    Stranded on Big Corn

    +

    Unfortunately, the drivers of the panga boat that runs between Big Corn and Little Corn didn't feel like there was enough business to bother with the evening trip the day we arrived. So Corrinne and I, along with a dozen or so fellow travelers, were stranded on Big Corn that night.

    +

    Being stranded on an island in the Gulf of Mexico probably doesn't sound all that bad, but if the island happens to be Big Corn, well there just isn't much worth seeing or doing on Big Corn. And everything nice on Big Corn is at the south end, but our ferry was set to leave the next morning from the north end, so heading out for an explore seemed like a good way to miss the morning boat and possibly spend yet another day waiting.

    +

    We holed up in a guesthouse just off the public shipping dock and spent the the afternoon and evening drinking and talking to the other people stuck in the same situation. Most of the local restaurants were closed, though we did manage to find a decent plate of shrimp and of course, plenty of Victoria to go around.

    +

    And I made a hilarious discovery that proved a revelation to even the two dive masters who lived on Little Corn -- topless lighters. The store across the street from the Big Corn ferry sells the sort of cigarette lighters that have built-in flashlights, but rather than a simple LED flashlight, the manufacturer decided to go to the next logical level and packed in an image that looks to have been pirated from 1970s-era Playboy pinups. The result is a spotlight of a half naked Playmate, which provided no end of amusement to our stranded group.

    +

    In fact, Big Corn would have been pretty much okay were it not for the dog somewhere in the vicinity of our guesthouse that sounded like it was being skinned alive. It wasn't, though the next morning several guests volunteered to do so, but it barked, yelped, cried and otherwise howled from around the time we went to bed until just before dawn. I actually didn't hear it much since I can sleep through just about anything, but no one else got much sleep that night.

    +

    The Wet Season

    +

    The first day on Little Corn we managed to find a bit of sun in the afternoon and somehow were already under shelter every time the rains came. Shelter is an interesting thing in the rain though, finding a roof isn't enough because the rain is almost completely horizontal thanks to a steady onshore wind, which has been increasing in force ever since we arrived.

    +

    The first night we ate dinner at Casa Iguana with the owner's brother, who is currently involved in a sun-dried fruit project that might, if all goes well, one day be on the shelves of your local Whole Foods or Trader Joe's market. We sat a while afterward drinking mojitos with Camilla, an English girl we met the day before when we were all stranded on Big Corn.

    +

    Still tired from a lack of sleep during the five-day party that was our wedding and the dog from the night before, we turned in early, this time with earplugs firmly in place.

    +

    However, we somehow ended up in the cabin with no window blinds and around midnight a pretty massive storm blew in with winds that howled and horizontal rain driving straight under our porch awning and lashing against the window. But that wasn't what woke me up, it was the lightening flashes that turned night into day and somehow managed to burn through my closed eyelids that woke me up.

    +

    Lightening doesn't especially bother me, I do after all live in Georgia where it's a near daily occurrence in the summer. But as I lay there in bed watching the torrential rains and flaying palm trees in the eery white glow of distant flashes, it suddenly occurred to me that we were sleeping in metal-roofed hut pretty near the highest point on the island -- basically a lightening rod with walls.

    +

    So I lay awake thinking that being killed by lightening on your honeymoon was exactly the sort of horribly cheesy and predictable plot line that life seems to love -- up there with the super athlete contracts cancer, the day trader who suffers a heart attack on the first day of retirement and all the other things that Alanis Morrisette would say are ironic, but of course aren't. They're just strange coincidences. And I fear strange coincidences.

    +

    I lay awake for an hour or more considering safer places to be in the storm and didn't really come up with anything since just about every building on the island has a metal roof. In the end I decided that being struck by lightening in my sleep would be somewhat better than the same while you're awake so I drifted off again and woke up to windy, but sunny skies.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/returning-again-back-little-corn-island.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/returning-again-back-little-corn-island.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..89820a4 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/returning-again-back-little-corn-island.html @@ -0,0 +1,366 @@ + + + + + Returning Again &Mdash; Back On Little Corn Island - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Returning Again — Back on Little Corn Island

    + +
    +
    +

    Little Corn Island, Nicaragua

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    This is a first — going back to somewhere I’ve already been. Generally speaking, the world seems so huge and so full of amazing destinations that repeating one never struck me as a judicious use of my short allotment of time. However, given a rather small window of time for our honeymoon, Corrinne and I decided that the vaguely familiar would be more fun than something totally unpredictable and new.

    +
    + + boats, big corn island photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Of course, the universe being what it is, our second trip to Little Corn Island has been unpredictable and entirely new. Other than the Best Western, still stolidly sitting directly across from the Managua airport, coming back to Nicaragua has presented a host of new and interesting experiences.

    +

    For instance we weren’t counting on the fact that the increased gas prices have severely pinched the average lobster fisherman and to protest the fact that lobster prices remain at their pre-expensive gas levels, the fisherman converged on the airstrip on Big Corn Island and proceeded to blockade the runway with trucks and their own bodies, effectively cutting off the island from the mainland for four days. + +All inbound flights were forced to stop in Bluefields, leaving stranded travelers milling around a town with very little to offer. Those looking to go the other way, back to Managua, were in even worse shape — no incoming planes meant no outgoing ones either.

    +

    Those desperate to make connecting flights onward from Managua were forced to charter fishing boats for up to $1200 and suffer through what had to be a very punishing ride across rough seas all the way back to Bluefields where they might be able to catch a (now very crowded) flight back to Managua.

    +

    Fortunately the same sort of blind luck that has gotten me this far prevailed and the fishermen gave up the strike the morning we were set to leave.

    +

    Stranded on Big Corn

    +

    Unfortunately, the drivers of the panga boat that runs between Big Corn and Little Corn didn’t feel like there was enough business to bother with the evening trip the day we arrived. So Corrinne and I, along with a dozen or so fellow travelers, were stranded on Big Corn that night.

    +
    + + harbor, big corn island photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Being stranded on an island in the Gulf of Mexico probably doesn’t sound all that bad, but if the island happens to be Big Corn, well there just isn’t much worth seeing or doing on Big Corn. And everything nice on Big Corn is at the south end, but our ferry was set to leave the next morning from the north end, so heading out for an explore seemed like a good way to miss the morning boat and possibly spend yet another day waiting.

    +

    We holed up in a guesthouse just off the public shipping dock and spent the the afternoon and evening drinking and talking to the other people stuck in the same situation. Most of the local restaurants were closed, though we did manage to find a decent plate of shrimp and of course, plenty of Victoria to go around.

    +

    And I made a hilarious discovery that proved a revelation to even the two dive masters who lived on Little Corn — topless lighters. The store across the street from the Big Corn ferry sells the sort of cigarette lighters that have built-in flashlights, but rather than a simple LED flashlight, the manufacturer decided to go to the next logical level and packed in an image that looks to have been pirated from 1970s-era Playboy pinups. The result is a spotlight of a half naked Playmate, which provided no end of amusement to our stranded group.

    +

    In fact, Big Corn would have been pretty much okay were it not for the dog somewhere in the vicinity of our guesthouse that sounded like it was being skinned alive. It wasn’t, though the next morning several guests volunteered to do so, but it barked, yelped, cried and otherwise howled from around the time we went to bed until just before dawn. I actually didn’t hear it much since I can sleep through just about anything, but no one else got much sleep that night.

    +

    The Wet Season

    +

    The first day on Little Corn we managed to find a bit of sun in the afternoon and somehow were already under shelter every time the rains came. Shelter is an interesting thing in the rain though, finding a roof isn’t enough because the rain is almost completely horizontal thanks to a steady onshore wind, which has been increasing in force ever since we arrived.

    +
    + + little corn island photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The first night we ate dinner at Casa Iguana with the owner’s brother, who is currently involved in a sun-dried fruit project that might, if all goes well, one day be on the shelves of your local Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s market. We sat a while afterward drinking mojitos with Camilla, an English girl we met the day before when we were all stranded on Big Corn.

    +

    Still tired from a lack of sleep during the five-day party that was our wedding and the dog from the night before, we turned in early, this time with earplugs firmly in place.

    +

    However, we somehow ended up in the cabin with no window blinds and around midnight a pretty massive storm blew in with winds that howled and horizontal rain driving straight under our porch awning and lashing against the window. But that wasn’t what woke me up, it was the lightening flashes that turned night into day and somehow managed to burn through my closed eyelids that woke me up.

    +

    Lightening doesn’t especially bother me, I do after all live in Georgia where it’s a near daily occurrence in the summer. But as I lay there in bed watching the torrential rains and flaying palm trees in the eery white glow of distant flashes, it suddenly occurred to me that we were sleeping in metal-roofed hut pretty near the highest point on the island — basically a lightening rod with walls.

    +

    So I lay awake thinking that being killed by lightening on your honeymoon was exactly the sort of horribly cheesy and predictable plot line that life seems to love — up there with the super athlete contracts cancer, the day trader who suffers a heart attack on the first day of retirement and all the other things that Alanis Morrisette would say are ironic, but of course aren’t. They’re just strange coincidences. And I fear strange coincidences.

    +

    I lay awake for an hour or more considering safer places to be in the storm and didn’t really come up with anything since just about every building on the island has a metal roof. In the end I decided that being struck by lightening in my sleep would be somewhat better than the same while you’re awake so I drifted off again and woke up to windy, but sunny skies.

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/returning-again-back-little-corn-island.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/returning-again-back-little-corn-island.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..08c3631 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/returning-again-back-little-corn-island.txt @@ -0,0 +1,52 @@ +Returning Again — Back on Little Corn Island +================================================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 26 June 2008 + +This is a first -- going back to somewhere I've already been. Generally speaking, the world seems so huge and so full of amazing destinations that repeating one never struck me as a judicious use of my short allotment of time. However, given a rather small window of time for our honeymoon, Corrinne and I decided that the vaguely familiar would be more fun than something totally unpredictable and new. + + + +Of course, the universe being what it is, our second trip to Little Corn Island has been unpredictable and entirely new. Other than the Best Western, still stolidly sitting directly across from the Managua airport, coming back to Nicaragua has presented a host of new and interesting experiences. + +For instance we weren't counting on the fact that the increased gas prices have severely pinched the average lobster fisherman and to protest the fact that lobster prices remain at their pre-expensive gas levels, the fisherman converged on the airstrip on Big Corn Island and proceeded to blockade the runway with trucks and their own bodies, effectively cutting off the island from the mainland for four days. + +All inbound flights were forced to stop in Bluefields, leaving stranded travelers milling around a town with very little to offer. Those looking to go the other way, back to Managua, were in even worse shape -- no incoming planes meant no outgoing ones either. + +Those desperate to make connecting flights onward from Managua were forced to charter fishing boats for up to $1200 and suffer through what had to be a very punishing ride across rough seas all the way back to Bluefields where they might be able to catch a (now very crowded) flight back to Managua. + +Fortunately the same sort of blind luck that has gotten me this far prevailed and the fishermen gave up the strike the morning we were set to leave. + +###Stranded on Big Corn + +Unfortunately, the drivers of the panga boat that runs between Big Corn and Little Corn didn't feel like there was enough business to bother with the evening trip the day we arrived. So Corrinne and I, along with a dozen or so fellow travelers, were stranded on Big Corn that night. + + + +Being stranded on an island in the Gulf of Mexico probably doesn't sound all that bad, but if the island happens to be Big Corn, well there just isn't much worth seeing or doing on Big Corn. And everything nice on Big Corn is at the south end, but our ferry was set to leave the next morning from the north end, so heading out for an explore seemed like a good way to miss the morning boat and possibly spend yet another day waiting. + +We holed up in a guesthouse just off the public shipping dock and spent the the afternoon and evening drinking and talking to the other people stuck in the same situation. Most of the local restaurants were closed, though we did manage to find a decent plate of shrimp and of course, plenty of Victoria to go around. + +And I made a hilarious discovery that proved a revelation to even the two dive masters who lived on Little Corn -- topless lighters. The store across the street from the Big Corn ferry sells the sort of cigarette lighters that have built-in flashlights, but rather than a simple LED flashlight, the manufacturer decided to go to the next logical level and packed in an image that looks to have been pirated from 1970s-era Playboy pinups. The result is a spotlight of a half naked Playmate, which provided no end of amusement to our stranded group. + +In fact, Big Corn would have been pretty much okay were it not for the dog somewhere in the vicinity of our guesthouse that sounded like it was being skinned alive. It wasn't, though the next morning several guests volunteered to do so, but it barked, yelped, cried and otherwise howled from around the time we went to bed until just before dawn. I actually didn't hear it much since I can sleep through just about anything, but no one else got much sleep that night. + +###The Wet Season + +The first day on Little Corn we managed to find a bit of sun in the afternoon and somehow were already under shelter every time the rains came. Shelter is an interesting thing in the rain though, finding a roof isn't enough because the rain is almost completely horizontal thanks to a steady onshore wind, which has been increasing in force ever since we arrived. + + + +The first night we ate dinner at Casa Iguana with the owner's brother, who is currently involved in a sun-dried fruit project that might, if all goes well, one day be on the shelves of your local Whole Foods or Trader Joe's market. We sat a while afterward drinking mojitos with Camilla, an English girl we met the day before when we were all stranded on Big Corn. + +Still tired from a lack of sleep during the five-day party that was our wedding and the dog from the night before, we turned in early, this time with earplugs firmly in place. + +However, we somehow ended up in the cabin with no window blinds and around midnight a pretty massive storm blew in with winds that howled and horizontal rain driving straight under our porch awning and lashing against the window. But that wasn't what woke me up, it was the lightening flashes that turned night into day and somehow managed to burn through my closed eyelids that woke me up. + +Lightening doesn't especially bother me, I do after all live in Georgia where it's a near daily occurrence in the summer. But as I lay there in bed watching the torrential rains and flaying palm trees in the eery white glow of distant flashes, it suddenly occurred to me that we were sleeping in metal-roofed hut pretty near the highest point on the island -- basically a lightening rod with walls. + +So I lay awake thinking that being killed by lightening on your honeymoon was exactly the sort of horribly cheesy and predictable plot line that life seems to love -- up there with the super athlete contracts cancer, the day trader who suffers a heart attack on the first day of retirement and all the other things that Alanis Morrisette would say are ironic, but of course aren't. They're just strange coincidences. And I fear strange coincidences. + +I lay awake for an hour or more considering safer places to be in the storm and didn't really come up with anything since just about every building on the island has a metal roof. In the end I decided that being struck by lightening in my sleep would be somewhat better than the same while you're awake so I drifted off again and woke up to windy, but sunny skies. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/you-cant-go-home-again.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/you-cant-go-home-again.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..baa76ac --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/you-cant-go-home-again.amp @@ -0,0 +1,202 @@ + + + + + + +You Can't Go Home Again + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    You Can’t Go Home Again

    + + + +
    +
    +

    The wind became constant on the second day, changing from the occasional gust that would precede an hour or two of torrential rains, to a steady 20-25 knot blow as if Zephuros himself were paying a visit to the island.

    +

    Once the wind became constant, silence retreated back to wherever silence goes in a world where squalls rule. At first you just notice the clattering palm leaves and of course the near deafening roar of the the rain on the tin roofs. Both mingle with the background of surf breaking just below the bluff where our cabin sits, facing east -- to Cuba and the oncoming clouds. + +But on the second day I started to hear other sounds -- the low steady groan of a turbine, like the sound you make when blowing on the top of an empty bottle. Then there are creaking screws and rusted hooks that hold up the hammocks on my porch. And of course the hammocks themselves, finely woven Nicaragua cotton battered about in the wind.

    +

    When the rain comes it's horizontal, making awnings and porches a useless defense. The only way to stay dry is either inside or pressed against the leeward side of a building.

    +

    The first time we came to Little Corn Island it was April, the tail end of the dry season. It rained once or twice, but never for more than five minutes and always followed by more sunshine.

    +

    This time it's the end of June, just well into the wet season, and the island is an entirely different place.

    +

    Naturally I wasn't really expecting it to be the same. I knew the weather would have changed, I knew the people we had met would be gone, save a few and I knew that it would be a different experience.

    +

    But I wasn't entirely prepared for how different it would be.

    +

    When I first returned from Southeast Asia, I wrote that it was impossible to go back. That travel was singular and unrepeatable.

    +

    My actual words were "You will want to hang on to things when they are perfect. You will want to stay in Vang Veing, a floating village, on an island lost at sea. You will want to return even after you have left. You will want things to be the same when you return. But they will not be the same."

    +

    For all the overly-dramatic certitude, that was just a theory. Being the son of a scientist I hate to spout untested hypotheses, but now we've tested it and I can definitively say that I was right -- there is no going back.

    +

    Going back must mean going again, otherwise it would imply that you, the place and everyone in it are static, fixed, immutable, and of course that simply isn't the world we live in.

    +

    The danger in going again is that we will compare the present to the past and for some reason the present rarely fares well in that comparison.

    +

    So yes, you can go back, physically, but be prepared for something entirely different -- for instance, here on Little Corn not only are the people different, but the very island has morphed and changed -- the rain comes daily and the beaches are almost non-existent.

    +

    Ali, Little Corn's self-appointed medicine man, tells me that the shifting tides pull much of the sand back out toward the reef and the considerably bigger waves breaking on the far side of the reef would seem to prove his point. Eventually, come December, the tides will shift again, bring the sand back in.

    +

    But in the mean time the island has literally shrunk. The beach where we spent most of our previous trip is now under two feet of water at high tide.

    +

    I was sitting up at the Casa Iguana restaurant area yesterday thinking about how much even places can change, not in a matter of years, but months, even days. The remarkable thing about traveling is that it's not simply a matter of moving through space, it's time as well.

    +

    In fact it might be one of life's more undisguised illustrations of the intrinsic link between space and time.

    +

    Arriving somewhere is somewhat like a game of pool slowed down.

    +

    When one pool balls strikes another there is that infinitesimal period of time where the balls actually compress, changing shape as they transfer energy.

    +

    If you were to slow time and and magnify space sufficiently, you would see the balls compress as they touched -- that minute moment of contracting and expanding, the transfer of force, the temporary mingling of color and atoms, the kaleidoscope of impact -- somewhat akin to what it's like to spend a week in one particular place.

    +

    You travel somewhere for a week, a month; you exist in that compressed space, impossible to observe from the outside, but very tangible and obvious within the kaleidoscope of the moment. Everything slows to near stop in relation to the outside world.

    +

    To an outside observer there is merely the impact, some photos on Flickr and the balls are already headed in opposite directions, vast expanses of blue-green felt suddenly between them.

    +

    From the outside it looks like mere mechanics -- people and places collide and some record of time is produced -- but from the inside the experience is very different.

    +

    As the one-time champion of the Denver pool halls, Ramstead Gordon (who was later dethroned by no less than Neal Cassady), once said "This is not a game of physics, it's a game of magic."

    +

    No two shots will ever be the same, no two or three or ten balls will ever cluster exactly the same way twice, no matter how similar they might seem from the outside.

    +

    Duplication is almost certainly impossible, why else would our culture be so obsessed with the things we can duplicate if not as some defense against the things we cannot?

    +

    So yes, as in pool, the places and experiences of travel are finite and you can never go back. But you can go again and bask in the changes because that's part of what makes it so interesting -- just don't try to fight it.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/you-cant-go-home-again.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/you-cant-go-home-again.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1bee378 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/you-cant-go-home-again.html @@ -0,0 +1,383 @@ + + + + + You Can’t Go Home Again - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    You Can’t Go Home Again

    + +
    +
    +

    Little Corn Island, Nicaragua

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The wind became constant on the second day, changing from the occasional gust that would precede an hour or two of torrential rains, to a steady 20-25 knot blow as if Zephuros himself were paying a visit to the island.

    +
    + + little corn island photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Once the wind became constant, silence retreated back to wherever silence goes in a world where squalls rule. At first you just notice the clattering palm leaves and of course the near deafening roar of the the rain on the tin roofs. Both mingle with the background of surf breaking just below the bluff where our cabin sits, facing east — to Cuba and the oncoming clouds. + +But on the second day I started to hear other sounds — the low steady groan of a turbine, like the sound you make when blowing on the top of an empty bottle. Then there are creaking screws and rusted hooks that hold up the hammocks on my porch. And of course the hammocks themselves, finely woven Nicaragua cotton battered about in the wind.

    +

    When the rain comes it’s horizontal, making awnings and porches a useless defense. The only way to stay dry is either inside or pressed against the leeward side of a building.

    +

    The first time we came to Little Corn Island it was April, the tail end of the dry season. It rained once or twice, but never for more than five minutes and always followed by more sunshine.

    +

    This time it’s the end of June, just well into the wet season, and the island is an entirely different place.

    +

    Naturally I wasn’t really expecting it to be the same. I knew the weather would have changed, I knew the people we had met would be gone, save a few and I knew that it would be a different experience.

    +

    But I wasn’t entirely prepared for how different it would be.

    +

    When I first returned from Southeast Asia, I wrote that it was impossible to go back. That travel was singular and unrepeatable. My actual words were

    +
    +

    You will want to hang on to things when they are perfect. You will want to stay in Vang Veing, a floating village, on an island lost at sea. You will want to return even after you have left. You will want things to be the same when you return. But they will not be the same.

    +
    +

    For all the overly-dramatic certitude, that was just a theory. Being the son of a scientist I hate to spout untested hypotheses, but now we’ve tested it and I can definitively say that I was right — there is no going back. Going back must mean going again, otherwise it would imply that you, the place and everyone in it are static, fixed, immutable, and of course that simply isn’t the world we live in.

    +

    The danger in going again is that we will compare the present to the past and for some reason the present rarely fares well in that comparison.

    +

    So yes, you can go back, physically, but be prepared for something entirely different — for instance, here on Little Corn not only are the people different, but the very island has morphed and changed — the rain comes daily and the beaches are almost non-existent.

    +
    + + + + little corn island, nicaragua photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + view from a hammock, little corn island photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    Ali, Little Corn’s self-appointed medicine man, tells me that the shifting tides pull much of the sand back out toward the reef and the considerably bigger waves breaking on the far side of the reef would seem to prove his point. Eventually, come December, the tides will shift again, bring the sand back in.

    +

    But in the mean time the island has literally shrunk. The beach where we spent most of our previous trip is now under two feet of water at high tide.

    +

    I was sitting up at the Casa Iguana restaurant area yesterday thinking about how much even places can change, not in a matter of years, but months, even days. The remarkable thing about traveling is that it’s not simply a matter of moving through space, it’s time as well.

    +

    In fact it might be one of life’s more undisguised illustrations of the intrinsic link between space and time.

    +

    Arriving somewhere is somewhat like a game of pool slowed down.

    +

    When one pool balls strikes another there is that infinitesimal period of time where the balls actually compress, changing shape as they transfer energy.

    +

    If you were to slow time and and magnify space sufficiently, you would see the balls compress as they touched — that minute moment of contracting and expanding, the transfer of force, the temporary mingling of color and atoms, the kaleidoscope of impact — somewhat akin to what it’s like to spend a week in one particular place.

    +

    You travel somewhere for a week, a month; you exist in that compressed space, impossible to observe from the outside, but very tangible and obvious within the kaleidoscope of the moment. Everything slows to near stop in relation to the outside world.

    +
    + + little corn island photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    To an outside observer there is merely the impact, some photos on Flickr and the balls are already headed in opposite directions, vast expanses of blue-green felt suddenly between them. From the outside it looks like mere mechanics — people and places collide and some record of time is produced — but from the inside the experience is very different.

    +

    As the one-time champion of the Denver pool halls, Ramstead Gordon (who was later dethroned by no less than Neal Cassady), once said “This is not a game of physics, it’s a game of magic.” No two shots will ever be the same, no two or three or ten balls will ever cluster exactly the same way twice, no matter how similar they might seem from the outside.

    +

    Duplication is almost certainly impossible, why else would our culture be so obsessed with the things we can duplicate if not as some defense against the things we cannot?

    +

    So yes, as in pool, the places and experiences of travel are finite and you can never go back. But you can go again and bask in the changes because that’s part of what makes it so interesting — just don’t try to fight it.

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/you-cant-go-home-again.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/you-cant-go-home-again.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a4168c7 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/06/you-cant-go-home-again.txt @@ -0,0 +1,67 @@ +You Can't Go Home Again +======================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 30 June 2008 + +The wind became constant on the second day, changing from the occasional gust that would precede an hour or two of torrential rains, to a steady 20-25 knot blow as if Zephuros himself were paying a visit to the island. + + + +Once the wind became constant, silence retreated back to wherever silence goes in a world where squalls rule. At first you just notice the clattering palm leaves and of course the near deafening roar of the the rain on the tin roofs. Both mingle with the background of surf breaking just below the bluff where our cabin sits, facing east -- to Cuba and the oncoming clouds. + +But on the second day I started to hear other sounds -- the low steady groan of a turbine, like the sound you make when blowing on the top of an empty bottle. Then there are creaking screws and rusted hooks that hold up the hammocks on my porch. And of course the hammocks themselves, finely woven Nicaragua cotton battered about in the wind. + +When the rain comes it's horizontal, making awnings and porches a useless defense. The only way to stay dry is either inside or pressed against the leeward side of a building. + +The first time we came to Little Corn Island it was April, the tail end of the dry season. It rained once or twice, but never for more than five minutes and always followed by more sunshine. + +This time it's the end of June, just well into the wet season, and the island is an entirely different place. + +Naturally I wasn't really expecting it to be the same. I knew the weather would have changed, I knew the people we had met would be gone, save a few and I knew that it would be a different experience. + +But I wasn't entirely prepared for *how* different it would be. + +When I first returned from Southeast Asia, I wrote that it was impossible to go back. That travel was singular and unrepeatable. My actual words were + +>You will want to hang on to things when they are perfect. You will want to stay in Vang Veing, a floating village, on an island lost at sea. You will want to return even after you have left. You will want things to be the same when you return. But they will not be the same. + +For all the overly-dramatic certitude, that was just a theory. Being the son of a scientist I hate to spout untested hypotheses, but now we've tested it and I can definitively say that I was right -- there is no going back. Going back must mean going again, otherwise it would imply that you, the place and everyone in it are static, fixed, immutable, and of course that simply isn't the world we live in. + +The danger in going again is that we will compare the present to the past and for some reason the present rarely fares well in that comparison. + +So yes, you can go back, physically, but be prepared for something entirely different -- for instance, here on Little Corn not only are the people different, but the very island has morphed and changed -- the rain comes daily and the beaches are almost non-existent. + +
    + + + + +
    + +Ali, Little Corn's self-appointed medicine man, tells me that the shifting tides pull much of the sand back out toward the reef and the considerably bigger waves breaking on the far side of the reef would seem to prove his point. Eventually, come December, the tides will shift again, bring the sand back in. + +But in the mean time the island has literally shrunk. The beach where we spent most of our previous trip is now under two feet of water at high tide. + +I was sitting up at the Casa Iguana restaurant area yesterday thinking about how much even places can change, not in a matter of years, but months, even days. The remarkable thing about traveling is that it's not simply a matter of moving through space, it's time as well. + +In fact it might be one of life's more undisguised illustrations of the intrinsic link between space and time. + +Arriving somewhere is somewhat like a game of pool slowed down. + +When one pool balls strikes another there is that infinitesimal period of time where the balls actually compress, changing shape as they transfer energy. + +If you were to slow time and and magnify space sufficiently, you would see the balls compress as they touched -- that minute moment of contracting and expanding, the transfer of force, the temporary mingling of color and atoms, the kaleidoscope of impact -- somewhat akin to what it's like to spend a week in one particular place. + +You travel somewhere for a week, a month; you exist in that compressed space, impossible to observe from the outside, but very tangible and obvious within the kaleidoscope of the moment. Everything slows to near stop in relation to the outside world. + + + +To an outside observer there is merely the impact, some photos on Flickr and the balls are already headed in opposite directions, vast expanses of blue-green felt suddenly between them. From the outside it looks like mere mechanics -- people and places collide and some record of time is produced -- but from the inside the experience is very different. + +As the one-time champion of the Denver pool halls, Ramstead Gordon (who was later dethroned by no less than Neal Cassady), once said "This is not a game of physics, it's a game of magic." No two shots will ever be the same, no two or three or ten balls will ever cluster exactly the same way twice, no matter how similar they might seem from the outside. + +Duplication is almost certainly impossible, why else would our culture be so obsessed with the things we _can_ duplicate if not as some defense against the things we cannot? + +So yes, as in pool, the places and experiences of travel are finite and you can never go back. But you can go again and bask in the changes because that's part of what makes it so interesting -- just don't try to fight it. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1dc9295 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,110 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Archive: July 2008

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    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/our-days-are-becoming-nights.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/our-days-are-becoming-nights.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4ccbcbd --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/our-days-are-becoming-nights.amp @@ -0,0 +1,174 @@ + + + + + + +Our Days Are Becoming Nights + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Our Days Are Becoming Nights

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    Everywhere I go I think, I should live here... I should know what it's like to work in a cigar factory in Leon, fish in the Mekong, living in a floating house on Tonle Sap, sell hot dogs at Fenway Park, trade stocks in New York, wander the Thar Desert by camel, navigate the Danube, see the way Denali looks at sunset, the smell the Sonora Desert after a rain, taste the dust of a Juarez street, know how to make tortillas, what Mate tastes like, feel autumn in Paris, spend a winter in Moscow, a summer in Death Valley. I should be able to not just visit places, but in habit them. + +There is, so far as I know, only one short life. And in this life I will do very few of these things.

    +

    Sometimes I think that's very sad.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/our-days-are-becoming-nights.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/our-days-are-becoming-nights.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..99b035b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/our-days-are-becoming-nights.html @@ -0,0 +1,370 @@ + + + + + Our Days Are Becoming Nights - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Our Days Are Becoming Nights

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    León, Nicaragua

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Everywhere I go I think, I should live here… I should know what it’s like to work in a cigar factory in Leon, fish in the Mekong, living in a floating house on Tonle Sap, sell hot dogs at Fenway Park, trade stocks in New York, wander the Thar Desert by camel, navigate the Danube, see the way Denali looks at sunset, the smell the Sonora Desert after a rain, taste the dust of a Juarez street, know how to make tortillas, what Mate tastes like, feel autumn in Paris, spend a winter in Moscow, a summer in Death Valley. I should be able to not just visit places, but in habit them. + +There is, so far as I know, only one short life. And in this life I will do very few of these things.

    +

    Sometimes I think that’s very sad.

    +
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    1 Comment

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    + Wil + July 10, 2008 at 3:01 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    That is exactly how I feel, everywhere.

    + +
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/our-days-are-becoming-nights.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/our-days-are-becoming-nights.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c7a2bce --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/our-days-are-becoming-nights.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12 @@ +Our Days Are Becoming Nights +============================ + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 06 July 2008 + +Everywhere I go I think, I should live here... I should know what it's like to work in a cigar factory in Leon, fish in the Mekong, living in a floating house on Tonle Sap, sell hot dogs at Fenway Park, trade stocks in New York, wander the Thar Desert by camel, navigate the Danube, see the way Denali looks at sunset, the smell the Sonora Desert after a rain, taste the dust of a Juarez street, know how to make tortillas, what Mate tastes like, feel autumn in Paris, spend a winter in Moscow, a summer in Death Valley. I should be able to not just visit places, but in habit them. + +There is, so far as I know, only one short life. And in this life I will do very few of these things. + +Sometimes I think that's very sad. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6dabf1c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats.amp @@ -0,0 +1,218 @@ + + + + + + +Rope Swings and River Floats + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    +

    Rope Swings and River Floats

    + + + +
    +
    +

    Two weekends ago we went up to the mountains, just outside of Dahlonega GA, and floated the Chestatee River using inner tubes, various pool toys and one super-cool inflatable seahorse. We even rigged up an inner tube to carry a cooler of beer and dragged an extra inflatable boat to pick up trash (as well as hold our own).

    +

    It was great fun. We found a rope swing where you could climb up about six feet on the bank and swing out over the river and drop into a nice pool that was plenty deep for the landing.

    +

    What made the whole thing possible is that my wife's parents own a cabin in the area, which they are kind enough to let us use.

    +

    Since this weekend was my father-in-law's birthday, we decided to head up and do another river run. + +After parking the car at the end and trucking the tubes down to the launch point, we put into the river. Just beyond the launch point there's a couple sizable drops that we walked around last time, but this time, after scouting things out, I figured out how to go down.

    +

    I made it through unscathed and I sat in the lower pool waiting for the others.

    +

    In short, things started well.

    +

    About a minute later a drowning bumble bee somehow climbed out of the river, onto my tube and then stung my right arm.

    +

    For most people that's a moment of discomfort and no big deal. But I'm lucky, I'm allergic to bees so for me it means a moment of discomfort followed by several days of swelling and aching -- as I type this my forearm is about one and half times its normal size. Of course it could be worse, I could be "I have to carry an epi-pen" allergic, which, thankfully, I'm not.

    +

    Everyone asked if I was okay or if we should turn around. In hindsight, I should have said no, I wasn't okay and yes we should turn around -- not because of me, just because I know what happened next -- but I didn't, so we continued on. [This would have been a great time for the crazy old man of the river to come out of the woods, point a crooked finger in our direction and prophetically croak, "you're all doomed." But as far as I know the Chestatee lacks any such character.]

    +

    For about an hour it was the same peaceful float we did two weeks ago, a few rapids, long calm stretches where the river is too deep to touch bottom, just lying back in your tube watching the hardwood's overhanging branches threading across the gray-blue sky. Or the snarled banks choked with laurel and the occasional honeysuckle, roots protruding out like fingers rubbed raw by the passing water.

    +

    It's one of the finest stretches of river I've ever been down.

    +

    And then we came to the rope swing.

    +

    Everything that follows is essentially my fault.

    +

    See, I love to jump off of things. Swinging off of things is even better. And if you can dive... If there's somewhere to jump, swing or dive, I'm probably going to find it.

    +

    Of course it's not the safest thing in the world to do, nor am I the sharpest tool in the shed, but you already knew that much.

    +

    When we went down two weeks ago I spied a rope hanging down from a tree. Naturally, I immediately started paddling for the shore. Now I seriously wish I hadn't, but I did.

    +

    I climbed out of my tube and grabbed the rope and walked up the bank. I quickly discovered that I couldn't reach the handle someone had kindly attached. However there was a bit of rope extending down from the handle, which some other shorter person had no doubt added.

    +

    Normally I would have climbed back down the bank and checked to see how far off the ground the little extension of rope would have put me. But for whatever reason I didn't, I just grabbed it and jumped.

    +

    Just below the embankment where you launched from there were some stratified rocks sticking out of the water -- fairly sharp, ridged rocks, the sort of rocks that look to have jutted up straight out of the Mesozoic era.

    +

    And I hit them. About a millisecond after I jumped I knew I was doomed and I pulled my legs up to my chest as tight as could and tried to control the crash. I hit the rocks hard, but with my feet (the Choco sandals I bought for my trip around the world are still the best purchase I've ever made and they allow me to do things like bounce off rocks without a scratch).

    +

    As soon as my feet hit the rocks I twisted my body and pushed off out into the deeper water and managed to avoid more serious injury. However, it wasn't so much my skills or planning that saved me, really it was just dumb luck.

    +

    Undeterred (or stupidly if that syntax works better for you) I climbed back up and was joined by a couple of other people from our river party who wanted to give it a try.

    +

    Long story short: it turned out that if you were about six feet tall you could reach the handle, if you were five ten like me and someone else put their weight on the rope to stretch it, you could also reach the handle.

    +

    If you were five five like one girl who did it, you could be picked up and then grab the rope handle. The problem is that the person picking you up is on a muddy incline and bit off balance themselves.

    +

    Which brings us to today.

    +

    My wife's brother Jeremy and I stopped at the swing and his girlfriend, Tova, wanted to give it a try. I held the rope and Jeremy held her up until she could grab the handle. It worked and she swung out over the river and let go. We all had a turn and then another.

    +

    We went up for a third try.

    +

    Same routine, I pulled the rope as taut as it would go and Jeremy held her up to grab the handle. We both thought she had it, but as Jeremy was starting to let go she said, "no, wait."

    +

    But it was already too late, he couldn't have held her if he wanted to. Even if he had been able to they both would have fallen and landed on the roots and rocks below.

    +

    Instead, Tova swung out about five feet and then her grip slipped and she fell, hard, face first onto the same rocks I had hit with my feet.

    +

    When she first came up out of the water I could already see a blue bruise and blood on her leg. I thought for a moment that it was a broken bone sticking up, ready to break through the skin. I went down to help, but there wasn't much I could do. I figured having a broken bone sticking up and having someone throw up on you was probably worse than just the bone.

    +

    I looked around trying to figure out a way off the river and out of the valley. But there wasn't one. Even if we had a cellphone, there was no way you could fly a helicopter into the riverbed, it was too narrow and overgrown (I bet Kenso could have done it, but he wasn't immediately available).

    +

    The options were: walk upstream or float down. That really isn't a hard decision if you spend much time thinking about it.

    +

    Thankfully the majority of her fall was broken by the innertubes we had stacked below to try and cover the rocks in case of something like what happened. Unfortunately we missed a spot, the center of tubes, and that's where her knee hit.

    +

    Luckily it turned out out that bloody blue bruise I saw wasn't a broken bone threatening to poke through the skin. Of course that fact that the bruised, bloody contusion was her kneecap didn't really make things much better.

    +

    After a few minutes of evaluating our options, Tova said she felt okay enough to continue down. We took ice from the cooler and put it on her leg and Jeremy walked the rest of way, guiding Tova in the small inflatable boat, with her leg elevated and the ice-pack resting on her knee.

    +

    Eventually we got back to the car and got Tova to a hospital where X-Rays determined that she had fractured her patella (kneecap).

    +

    Which means Tova floated for over half hour down a river with no painkillers other than ice, with a fractured kneecap.

    +

    You wouldn't be able to do that. I wouldn't be able to do that. But Tova is considerably tougher than the rest of us and she did it.

    +

    I don't know what will happen with her knee in the long run, hopefully surgery won't be necessary. I once did something similar skiing and I know how much joint injuries suck. Her leg is currently in one of those super annoying anti-mobility casts that extends from your mid hip to your ankle, which means you can't drive or really do much of anything.

    +

    If you'd like to send a care package or something of that nature, e-mail me and I'll give you an address. In the mean time hopefully the pain isn't too bad.

    +

    And I have to say, Tova, I think you're pretty badass for floating the rest of way down the river with a shattered kneecap and a smile. I would have cried the whole way.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..19c23ba --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats.html @@ -0,0 +1,371 @@ + + + + + Rope Swings And River Floats - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Rope Swings and River Floats

    + +
    +
    +

    Mountain Cabin, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Two weekends ago we went up to the mountains, just outside of Dahlonega GA, and floated the Chestatee River using inner tubes, various pool toys and one super-cool inflatable seahorse. We even rigged up an inner tube to carry a cooler of beer and dragged an extra inflatable boat to pick up trash (as well as hold our own).

    +

    Tubing on the Chestatee RiverIt was great fun. We found a rope swing where you could climb up about six feet on the bank and swing out over the river and drop into a nice pool that was plenty deep for the landing.

    +

    What made the whole thing possible is that my wife’s parents own a cabin in the area, which they are kind enough to let us use.

    +

    Since this weekend was my father-in-law’s birthday, we decided to head up and do another river run. + +Tubing on the Chestatee RiverAfter parking the car at the end and trucking the tubes down to the launch point, we put into the river. Just beyond the launch point there’s a couple sizable drops that we walked around last time, but this time, after scouting things out, I figured out how to go down.

    +

    I made it through unscathed and I sat in the lower pool waiting for the others.

    +

    In short, things started well.

    +

    About a minute later a drowning bumble bee somehow climbed out of the river, onto my tube and then stung my right arm.

    +

    For most people that’s a moment of discomfort and no big deal. But I’m lucky, I’m allergic to bees so for me it means a moment of discomfort followed by several days of swelling and aching — as I type this my forearm is about one and half times its normal size. Of course it could be worse, I could be “I have to carry an epi-pen” allergic, which, thankfully, I’m not.

    +

    Everyone asked if I was okay or if we should turn around. In hindsight, I should have said no, I wasn’t okay and yes we should turn around — not because of me, just because I know what happened next — but I didn’t, so we continued on. [This would have been a great time for the crazy old man of the river to come out of the woods, point a crooked finger in our direction and prophetically croak, “you’re all doomed.” But as far as I know the Chestatee lacks any such character.]

    +

    For about an hour it was the same peaceful float we did two weeks ago, a few rapids, long calm stretches where the river is too deep to touch bottom, just lying back in your tube watching the hardwood’s overhanging branches threading across the gray-blue sky. Or the snarled banks choked with laurel and the occasional honeysuckle, roots protruding out like fingers rubbed raw by the passing water.

    +

    It’s one of the finest stretches of river I’ve ever been down.

    +

    And then we came to the rope swing.

    +

    Everything that follows is essentially my fault.

    +

    rope swingSee, I love to jump off of things. Swinging off of things is even better. And if you can dive… If there’s somewhere to jump, swing or dive, I’m probably going to find it.

    +

    Of course it’s not the safest thing in the world to do, nor am I the sharpest tool in the shed, but you already knew that much.

    +

    When we went down two weeks ago I spied a rope hanging down from a tree. Naturally, I immediately started paddling for the shore. Now I seriously wish I hadn’t, but I did.

    +

    I climbed out of my tube and grabbed the rope and walked up the bank. I quickly discovered that I couldn’t reach the handle someone had kindly attached. However there was a bit of rope extending down from the handle, which some other shorter person had no doubt added.

    +

    Normally I would have climbed back down the bank and checked to see how far off the ground the little extension of rope would have put me. But for whatever reason I didn’t, I just grabbed it and jumped.

    +

    Just below the embankment where you launched from there were some stratified rocks sticking out of the water — fairly sharp, ridged rocks, the sort of rocks that look to have jutted up straight out of the Mesozoic era.

    +

    And I hit them. About a millisecond after I jumped I knew I was doomed and I pulled my legs up to my chest as tight as could and tried to control the crash. I hit the rocks hard, but with my feet (the Choco sandals I bought for my trip around the world are still the best purchase I’ve ever made and they allow me to do things like bounce off rocks without a scratch).

    +

    As soon as my feet hit the rocks I twisted my body and pushed off out into the deeper water and managed to avoid more serious injury. However, it wasn’t so much my skills or planning that saved me, really it was just dumb luck.

    +

    Undeterred (or stupidly if that syntax works better for you) I climbed back up and was joined by a couple of other people from our river party who wanted to give it a try.

    +

    Long story short: it turned out that if you were about six feet tall you could reach the handle, if you were five ten like me and someone else put their weight on the rope to stretch it, you could also reach the handle.

    +

    If you were five five like one girl who did it, you could be picked up and then grab the rope handle. The problem is that the person picking you up is on a muddy incline and bit off balance themselves.

    +

    Which brings us to today.

    +

    rope swingMy wife’s brother Jeremy and I stopped at the swing and his girlfriend, Tova, wanted to give it a try. I held the rope and Jeremy held her up until she could grab the handle. It worked and she swung out over the river and let go. We all had a turn and then another.

    +

    We went up for a third try.

    +

    Same routine, I pulled the rope as taut as it would go and Jeremy held her up to grab the handle. We both thought she had it, but as Jeremy was starting to let go she said, “no, wait.”

    +

    But it was already too late, he couldn’t have held her if he wanted to. Even if he had been able to they both would have fallen and landed on the roots and rocks below.

    +

    Instead, Tova swung out about five feet and then her grip slipped and she fell, hard, face first onto the same rocks I had hit with my feet.

    +

    When she first came up out of the water I could already see a blue bruise and blood on her leg. I thought for a moment that it was a broken bone sticking up, ready to break through the skin. I went down to help, but there wasn’t much I could do. I figured having a broken bone sticking up and having someone throw up on you was probably worse than just the bone.

    +

    I looked around trying to figure out a way off the river and out of the valley. But there wasn’t one. Even if we had a cellphone, there was no way you could fly a helicopter into the riverbed, it was too narrow and overgrown (I bet Kenso could have done it, but he wasn’t immediately available).

    +

    The options were: walk upstream or float down. That really isn’t a hard decision if you spend much time thinking about it.

    +

    Thankfully the majority of her fall was broken by the innertubes we had stacked below to try and cover the rocks in case of something like what happened. Unfortunately we missed a spot, the center of tubes, and that’s where her knee hit.

    +

    Luckily it turned out out that bloody blue bruise I saw wasn’t a broken bone threatening to poke through the skin. Of course that fact that the bruised, bloody contusion was her kneecap didn’t really make things much better.

    +

    After a few minutes of evaluating our options, Tova said she felt okay enough to continue down. We took ice from the cooler and put it on her leg and Jeremy walked the rest of way, guiding Tova in the small inflatable boat, with her leg elevated and the ice-pack resting on her knee.

    +

    Eventually we got back to the car and got Tova to a hospital where X-Rays determined that she had fractured her patella (kneecap).

    +

    Which means Tova floated for over half hour down a river with no painkillers other than ice, with a fractured kneecap.

    +

    You wouldn’t be able to do that. I wouldn’t be able to do that. But Tova is considerably tougher than the rest of us and she did it.

    +

    I don’t know what will happen with her knee in the long run, hopefully surgery won’t be necessary. I once did something similar skiing and I know how much joint injuries suck. Her leg is currently in one of those super annoying anti-mobility casts that extends from your mid hip to your ankle, which means you can’t drive or really do much of anything.

    +

    If you’d like to send a care package or something of that nature, e-mail me and I’ll give you an address. In the mean time hopefully the pain isn’t too bad.

    +

    And I have to say, Tova, I think you’re pretty badass for floating the rest of way down the river with a shattered kneecap and a smile. I would have cried the whole way.

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

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    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ea05c66 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/rope-swings-and-river-floats.txt @@ -0,0 +1,94 @@ +Rope Swings and River Floats +============================ + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 27 July 2008 + +Two weekends ago we went up to the mountains, just outside of Dahlonega GA, and floated the Chestatee River using inner tubes, various pool toys and one super-cool inflatable seahorse. We even rigged up an inner tube to carry a cooler of beer and dragged an extra inflatable boat to pick up trash (as well as hold our own). + +Tubing on the Chestatee RiverIt was great fun. We found a rope swing where you could climb up about six feet on the bank and swing out over the river and drop into a nice pool that was plenty deep for the landing. + +What made the whole thing possible is that my wife's parents own a cabin in the area, which they are kind enough to let us use. + +Since this weekend was my father-in-law's birthday, we decided to head up and do another river run. + +Tubing on the Chestatee RiverAfter parking the car at the end and trucking the tubes down to the launch point, we put into the river. Just beyond the launch point there's a couple sizable drops that we walked around last time, but this time, after scouting things out, I figured out how to go down. + +I made it through unscathed and I sat in the lower pool waiting for the others. + +In short, things started well. + +About a minute later a drowning bumble bee somehow climbed out of the river, onto my tube and then stung my right arm. + +For most people that's a moment of discomfort and no big deal. But I'm lucky, I'm allergic to bees so for me it means a moment of discomfort followed by several days of swelling and aching -- as I type this my forearm is about one and half times its normal size. Of course it could be worse, I could be "I have to carry an epi-pen" allergic, which, thankfully, I'm not. + +Everyone asked if I was okay or if we should turn around. In hindsight, I should have said no, I wasn't okay and yes we should turn around -- not because of me, just because I know what happened next -- but I didn't, so we continued on. [This would have been a great time for the crazy old man of the river to come out of the woods, point a crooked finger in our direction and prophetically croak, "you're all doomed." But as far as I know the Chestatee lacks any such character.] + +For about an hour it was the same peaceful float we did two weeks ago, a few rapids, long calm stretches where the river is too deep to touch bottom, just lying back in your tube watching the hardwood's overhanging branches threading across the gray-blue sky. Or the snarled banks choked with laurel and the occasional honeysuckle, roots protruding out like fingers rubbed raw by the passing water. + +It's one of the finest stretches of river I've ever been down. + +And then we came to the rope swing. + +Everything that follows is essentially my fault. + +rope swingSee, I love to jump off of things. Swinging off of things is even better. And if you can dive... If there's somewhere to jump, swing or dive, I'm probably going to find it. + +Of course it's not the safest thing in the world to do, nor am I the sharpest tool in the shed, but you already knew that much. + +When we went down two weeks ago I spied a rope hanging down from a tree. Naturally, I immediately started paddling for the shore. Now I seriously wish I hadn't, but I did. + +I climbed out of my tube and grabbed the rope and walked up the bank. I quickly discovered that I couldn't reach the handle someone had kindly attached. However there was a bit of rope extending down from the handle, which some other shorter person had no doubt added. + +Normally I would have climbed back down the bank and checked to see how far off the ground the little extension of rope would have put me. But for whatever reason I didn't, I just grabbed it and jumped. + +Just below the embankment where you launched from there were some stratified rocks sticking out of the water -- fairly sharp, ridged rocks, the sort of rocks that look to have jutted up straight out of the Mesozoic era. + +And I hit them. About a millisecond after I jumped I knew I was doomed and I pulled my legs up to my chest as tight as could and tried to control the crash. I hit the rocks hard, but with my feet (the Choco sandals I bought for my trip around the world are still the best purchase I've ever made and they allow me to do things like bounce off rocks without a scratch). + +As soon as my feet hit the rocks I twisted my body and pushed off out into the deeper water and managed to avoid more serious injury. However, it wasn't so much my skills or planning that saved me, really it was just dumb luck. + +Undeterred (or stupidly if that syntax works better for you) I climbed back up and was joined by a couple of other people from our river party who wanted to give it a try. + +Long story short: it turned out that if you were about six feet tall you could reach the handle, if you were five ten like me and someone else put their weight on the rope to stretch it, you could also reach the handle. + +If you were five five like one girl who did it, you could be picked up and then grab the rope handle. The problem is that the person picking you up is on a muddy incline and bit off balance themselves. + +Which brings us to today. + +rope swingMy wife's brother Jeremy and I stopped at the swing and his girlfriend, Tova, wanted to give it a try. I held the rope and Jeremy held her up until she could grab the handle. It worked and she swung out over the river and let go. We all had a turn and then another. + +We went up for a third try. + +Same routine, I pulled the rope as taut as it would go and Jeremy held her up to grab the handle. We both thought she had it, but as Jeremy was starting to let go she said, "no, wait." + +But it was already too late, he couldn't have held her if he wanted to. Even if he had been able to they both would have fallen and landed on the roots and rocks below. + +Instead, Tova swung out about five feet and then her grip slipped and she fell, hard, face first onto the same rocks I had hit with my feet. + +When she first came up out of the water I could already see a blue bruise and blood on her leg. I thought for a moment that it was a broken bone sticking up, ready to break through the skin. I went down to help, but there wasn't much I could do. I figured having a broken bone sticking up _and_ having someone throw up on you was probably worse than just the bone. + +I looked around trying to figure out a way off the river and out of the valley. But there wasn't one. Even if we had a cellphone, there was no way you could fly a helicopter into the riverbed, it was too narrow and overgrown (I bet [Kenso could have done it][1], but he wasn't immediately available). + +[1]: http://luxagraf.net/2008/apr/02/return-sea/ + +The options were: walk upstream or float down. That really isn't a hard decision if you spend much time thinking about it. + +Thankfully the majority of her fall was broken by the innertubes we had stacked below to try and cover the rocks in case of something like what happened. Unfortunately we missed a spot, the center of tubes, and that's where her knee hit. + +Luckily it turned out out that bloody blue bruise I saw wasn't a broken bone threatening to poke through the skin. Of course that fact that the bruised, bloody contusion was her kneecap didn't really make things much better. + +After a few minutes of evaluating our options, Tova said she felt okay enough to continue down. We took ice from the cooler and put it on her leg and Jeremy walked the rest of way, guiding Tova in the small inflatable boat, with her leg elevated and the ice-pack resting on her knee. + +Eventually we got back to the car and got Tova to a hospital where X-Rays determined that she had fractured her patella (kneecap). + +Which means Tova floated for over half hour down a river with no painkillers other than ice, with a fractured kneecap. + +You wouldn't be able to do that. I wouldn't be able to do that. But Tova is considerably tougher than the rest of us and she did it. + +I don't know what will happen with her knee in the long run, hopefully surgery won't be necessary. I once did something similar skiing and I know how much joint injuries suck. Her leg is currently in one of those super annoying anti-mobility casts that extends from your mid hip to your ankle, which means you can't drive or really do much of anything. + +If you'd like to send a care package or something of that nature, e-mail me and I'll give you an address. In the mean time hopefully the pain isn't too bad. + +And I have to say, Tova, I think you're pretty badass for floating the rest of way down the river with a shattered kneecap and a smile. I would have cried the whole way. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2ebac00 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash.amp @@ -0,0 +1,199 @@ + + + + + + +Tiny Cities Made of Ash + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Tiny Cities Made of Ash

    + + + +
    +
    +

    The bells are a constant cacophony, not the rhythmic ringing out of the hours or tolling from mass that the human mind seems to find pleasant; no, this is constant banging, the sort of atonal banging that only appeals to the young and dumb. The firecrackers bursting back over behind the cathedral add an off rhythm that only makes the whole mess more jarring.

    +

    But Francisco seems entirely unperturbed and only once even glances over at toward the other side of the park, the source of all the noise and confusion. He's too fascinated with the tattoo on Corrinne's shoulder to bother with what slowly just becomes yet another sound echoing through León.

    +

    Francisco is a shoe shiner, but since we're both wearing sandals he's out of luck and has reverted to what seems to be the secondary universal appeal of westerners -- a chance to practice English. + +We're sipping Victorias in a cafe just off the main park in León, Nicaragua. It's our fourth day here -- with an extra day spent at the nearby Pacific beaches -- in what is, so far, my favorite city in Nicaragua.

    +

    Architecturally León is a bit like Granada, but since it lacks the UNESCO stamp it's somewhat less touristy and a bit more Nicaraguan, whatever that means.

    +

    It's a city of poets and painters, philosophers and political revolutionaries. In fact, Nicaragua as a whole is full of poets and artists, all the newspapers still carry at least one poem everyday (U.S. newspapers used to do that too), but León is perhaps the pinnacle of Nicaraguan writing and painting, if for no other reason than it's a college town -- the constant influx of youth always brings with it vitality and art.

    +

    There are three separate Nicaragua universities in León and even though none of them are in session right now, as with Athens, GA the fomenting imprint of students lingers even when they are gone -- political graffiti dots the cafes, bars are open later, people seem more active, the bells clang, the fireworks explode on an otherwise ordinary Sunday evening.

    +

    In short, León has something that most of the rest of Nicaragua (and the U.S. for that matter) lacks -- a vibrant sense of community.

    +

    Of course in relation to the States nearly everywhere seems to have a much stronger sense of community and togetherness.

    +

    The irony though is that just writing those words together fills me with dread and loathing, a sure sign of my own inherent Americanism.

    +

    But the truth is community doesn't have to mean over-priced "organic" markets, war protests round the maypole and whatever other useless crap passes itself off as community in Athens and elsewhere in America.

    +

    Every time I go abroad, not just Nicaragua, but Asia, Europe, the Caribbean, just about anywhere, the communities are somehow more vibrant, more alive, more sensual -- full of bright colors, playing children, people walking to work, to the market, to the gym, to wherever. There is life in the streets.

    +

    In Athens there's mainly just cars in the streets. Big, fast cars.

    +

    For instance, in León the houses are not the stolid tans, boring greys and muted greens you find in Athens, but brightly colored -- reds, blues, yellows, crimson, indigo, chartreuse even -- the doors are not shuttered and double-bolted, there are no lawns, no barriers between the life of the home and life of the street, everything co-mingles, a great soup of public and private with each overlapping the other.

    +

    The clatter of the Red Sox game drifts out the window, along with the smell of fresh roasted chicken that mingles with the dust of the street, the kids gathering in the park, the declining light of the day, the first streetlights, the evening news, the women in curlers walking in the shadows just behind the half-open wooden doors....

    +

    And it makes the streets more fun to walk down, there's something to experience, things to see and hear and smell and taste.

    +

    Which isn't to say that León is Paris or New York, but in its own way it sort of is. Certainly it's better than my own neighborhood where I know exactly what color the houses will be before I even step out the door -- and not because I know the neighborhood, but because I know what colors comprise the set of acceptable options in the States -- where the children are staked in the front yard on leashes (invisible for the most part, but it won't surprise me when the leashes can be seen), neighbors wave, but rarely stop to talk and certainly no one walks anywhere unless it's for exercise.

    +

    Why are American neighborhoods so dull? Why no happy colors? Why make things more lifeless than they already are, given that our neighborhoods are set up in such away that we abandon them all day and return only at night to sleep?

    +

    Dunno, but I can tell you this, León, Paris, Phnom Phen, Prague, Vientiane and just about everywhere else is far more exciting to walk around than the average American town. And it isn't just the exotic appeal of the foreign; it's about architecture, design and the sharp division of public and private those two create to make our neighborhoods into the rigid anti-fun caricature that the rest of the world sees.

    +

    Do I sound like a transcendentalist-inspired, anti-american crank? Sorry about that. I like America, really I do. And I hold out hope. One day my house will be vermillion -- my own small step.

    +

    Plus, that's a big part of what I enjoy about traveling -- seeing how other people construct their house, their neighborhoods, their cities, their way of life... see not just how it differs from our own, but perhaps see some ways you could improve our lives.

    +

    Like hammocks. We desperately need more hammocks. Lots of hammocks.

    +

    But León isn't perfect. In fact it fails on several levels -- take that butt ugly radio/microwave/cell tower on the horizon -- why the hell would you put that in the middle of otherwise majestic 18th century Spanish colonial city?

    +

    León, I'll miss you, you're just about perfect as far as Central America goes, maybe just see about moving that radio tower....

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9efa977 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash.html @@ -0,0 +1,352 @@ + + + + + Tiny Cities Made Of Ash - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Tiny Cities Made of Ash

    + +
    +
    +

    León, Nicaragua

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The bells are a constant cacophony, not the rhythmic ringing out of the hours or tolling from mass that the human mind seems to find pleasant; no, this is constant banging, the sort of atonal banging that only appeals to the young and dumb. The firecrackers bursting back over behind the cathedral add an off rhythm that only makes the whole mess more jarring.

    +

    Leon, lion statueBut Francisco seems entirely unperturbed and only once even glances over at toward the other side of the park, the source of all the noise and confusion. He’s too fascinated with the tattoo on Corrinne’s shoulder to bother with what slowly just becomes yet another sound echoing through León.

    +

    Francisco is a shoe shiner, but since we’re both wearing sandals he’s out of luck and has reverted to what seems to be the secondary universal appeal of westerners — a chance to practice English. + +We’re sipping Victorias in a cafe just off the main park in León, Nicaragua. It’s our fourth day here — with an extra day spent at the nearby Pacific beaches — in what is, so far, my favorite city in Nicaragua.

    +

    Architecturally León is a bit like Granada, but since it lacks the UNESCO stamp it’s somewhat less touristy and a bit more Nicaraguan, whatever that means.

    +

    Leon, church bellsIt’s a city of poets and painters, philosophers and political revolutionaries. In fact, Nicaragua as a whole is full of poets and artists, all the newspapers still carry at least one poem everyday (U.S. newspapers used to do that too), but León is perhaps the pinnacle of Nicaraguan writing and painting, if for no other reason than it’s a college town — the constant influx of youth always brings with it vitality and art.

    +

    There are three separate Nicaragua universities in León and even though none of them are in session right now, as with Athens, GA the fomenting imprint of students lingers even when they are gone — political graffiti dots the cafes, bars are open later, people seem more active, the bells clang, the fireworks explode on an otherwise ordinary Sunday evening.

    +

    In short, León has something that most of the rest of Nicaragua (and the U.S. for that matter) lacks — a vibrant sense of community.

    +

    Of course in relation to the States nearly everywhere seems to have a much stronger sense of community and togetherness.

    +

    The irony though is that just writing those words together fills me with dread and loathing, a sure sign of my own inherent Americanism.

    +

    But the truth is community doesn’t have to mean over-priced “organic” markets, war protests round the maypole and whatever other useless crap passes itself off as community in Athens and elsewhere in America.

    +

    Every time I go abroad, not just Nicaragua, but Asia, Europe, the Caribbean, just about anywhere, the communities are somehow more vibrant, more alive, more sensual — full of bright colors, playing children, people walking to work, to the market, to the gym, to wherever. There is life in the streets.

    +

    In Athens there’s mainly just cars in the streets. Big, fast cars.

    +

    house, LeonFor instance, in León the houses are not the stolid tans, boring greys and muted greens you find in Athens, but brightly colored — reds, blues, yellows, crimson, indigo, chartreuse even — the doors are not shuttered and double-bolted, there are no lawns, no barriers between the life of the home and life of the street, everything co-mingles, a great soup of public and private with each overlapping the other.

    +

    The clatter of the Red Sox game drifts out the window, along with the smell of fresh roasted chicken that mingles with the dust of the street, the kids gathering in the park, the declining light of the day, the first streetlights, the evening news, the women in curlers walking in the shadows just behind the half-open wooden doors….

    +

    And it makes the streets more fun to walk down, there’s something to experience, things to see and hear and smell and taste.

    +

    Which isn’t to say that León is Paris or New York, but in its own way it sort of is. Certainly it’s better than my own neighborhood where I know exactly what color the houses will be before I even step out the door — and not because I know the neighborhood, but because I know what colors comprise the set of acceptable options in the States — where the children are staked in the front yard on leashes (invisible for the most part, but it won’t surprise me when the leashes can be seen), neighbors wave, but rarely stop to talk and certainly no one walks anywhere unless it’s for exercise.

    +

    doorway, LeonWhy are American neighborhoods so dull? Why no happy colors? Why make things more lifeless than they already are, given that our neighborhoods are set up in such away that we abandon them all day and return only at night to sleep?

    +

    Dunno, but I can tell you this, León, Paris, Phnom Phen, Prague, Vientiane and just about everywhere else is far more exciting to walk around than the average American town. And it isn’t just the exotic appeal of the foreign; it’s about architecture, design and the sharp division of public and private those two create to make our neighborhoods into the rigid anti-fun caricature that the rest of the world sees.

    +

    Do I sound like a transcendentalist-inspired, anti-american crank? Sorry about that. I like America, really I do. And I hold out hope. One day my house will be vermillion — my own small step.

    +

    Plus, that’s a big part of what I enjoy about traveling — seeing how other people construct their house, their neighborhoods, their cities, their way of life… see not just how it differs from our own, but perhaps see some ways you could improve our lives.

    +

    Like hammocks. We desperately need more hammocks. Lots of hammocks.

    +

    But León isn’t perfect. In fact it fails on several levels — take that butt ugly radio/microwave/cell tower on the horizon — why the hell would you put that in the middle of otherwise majestic 18th century Spanish colonial city?

    +

    León, I’ll miss you, you’re just about perfect as far as Central America goes, maybe just see about moving that radio tower….

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..97b29e6 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash.txt @@ -0,0 +1,54 @@ +Tiny Cities Made of Ash +======================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 03 July 2008 + +The bells are a constant cacophony, not the rhythmic ringing out of the hours or tolling from mass that the human mind seems to find pleasant; no, this is constant banging, the sort of atonal banging that only appeals to the young and dumb. The firecrackers bursting back over behind the cathedral add an off rhythm that only makes the whole mess more jarring. + +Leon, lion statueBut Francisco seems entirely unperturbed and only once even glances over at toward the other side of the park, the source of all the noise and confusion. He's too fascinated with the tattoo on Corrinne's shoulder to bother with what slowly just becomes yet another sound echoing through León. + +Francisco is a shoe shiner, but since we're both wearing sandals he's out of luck and has reverted to what seems to be the secondary universal appeal of westerners -- a chance to practice English. + +We're sipping Victorias in a cafe just off the main park in León, Nicaragua. It's our fourth day here -- with an extra day spent at the nearby Pacific beaches -- in what is, so far, my favorite city in Nicaragua. + +Architecturally León is a bit like Granada, but since it lacks the UNESCO stamp it's somewhat less touristy and a bit more Nicaraguan, whatever that means. + +Leon, church bellsIt's a city of poets and painters, philosophers and political revolutionaries. In fact, Nicaragua as a whole is full of poets and artists, all the newspapers still carry at least one poem everyday (U.S. newspapers used to do that too), but León is perhaps the pinnacle of Nicaraguan writing and painting, if for no other reason than it's a college town -- the constant influx of youth always brings with it vitality and art. + +There are three separate Nicaragua universities in León and even though none of them are in session right now, as with Athens, GA the fomenting imprint of students lingers even when they are gone -- political graffiti dots the cafes, bars are open later, people seem more active, the bells clang, the fireworks explode on an otherwise ordinary Sunday evening. + +In short, León has something that most of the rest of Nicaragua (and the U.S. for that matter) lacks -- a vibrant sense of community. + +Of course in relation to the States nearly everywhere seems to have a much stronger sense of community and togetherness. + +The irony though is that just writing those words together fills me with dread and loathing, a sure sign of my own inherent Americanism. + +But the truth is community doesn't have to mean over-priced "organic" markets, war protests round the maypole and whatever other useless crap passes itself off as community in Athens and elsewhere in America. + +Every time I go abroad, not just Nicaragua, but Asia, Europe, the Caribbean, just about anywhere, the communities are somehow more vibrant, more alive, more sensual -- full of bright colors, playing children, people walking to work, to the market, to the gym, to wherever. There is life in the streets. + +In Athens there's mainly just cars in the streets. Big, fast cars. + +house, LeonFor instance, in León the houses are not the stolid tans, boring greys and muted greens you find in Athens, but brightly colored -- reds, blues, yellows, crimson, indigo, chartreuse even -- the doors are not shuttered and double-bolted, there are no lawns, no barriers between the life of the home and life of the street, everything co-mingles, a great soup of public and private with each overlapping the other. + +The clatter of the Red Sox game drifts out the window, along with the smell of fresh roasted chicken that mingles with the dust of the street, the kids gathering in the park, the declining light of the day, the first streetlights, the evening news, the women in curlers walking in the shadows just behind the half-open wooden doors.... + +And it makes the streets more fun to walk down, there's something to experience, things to see and hear and smell and taste. + +Which isn't to say that León is Paris or New York, but in its own way it sort of is. Certainly it's better than my own neighborhood where I know exactly what color the houses will be before I even step out the door -- and not because I know the neighborhood, but because I know what colors comprise the set of acceptable options in the States -- where the children are staked in the front yard on leashes (invisible for the most part, but it won't surprise me when the leashes can be seen), neighbors wave, but rarely stop to talk and certainly no one walks anywhere unless it's for exercise. + +doorway, LeonWhy are American neighborhoods so dull? Why no happy colors? Why make things more lifeless than they already are, given that our neighborhoods are set up in such away that we abandon them all day and return only at night to sleep? + +Dunno, but I can tell you this, León, Paris, Phnom Phen, Prague, Vientiane and just about everywhere else is far more exciting to walk around than the average American town. And it isn't just the exotic appeal of the foreign; it's about architecture, design and the sharp division of public and private those two create to make our neighborhoods into the rigid anti-fun caricature that the rest of the world sees. + +Do I sound like a transcendentalist-inspired, anti-american crank? Sorry about that. I like America, really I do. And I hold out hope. One day my house will be vermillion -- my own small step. + +Plus, that's a big part of what I enjoy about traveling -- seeing how other people construct their house, their neighborhoods, their cities, their way of life... see not just how it differs from our own, but perhaps see some ways you could improve our lives. + +Like hammocks. We desperately need more hammocks. Lots of hammocks. + +But León isn't perfect. In fact it fails on several levels -- take that butt ugly radio/microwave/cell tower on the horizon -- why the hell would you put that in the middle of otherwise majestic 18th century Spanish colonial city? + +León, I'll miss you, you're just about perfect as far as Central America goes, maybe just see about moving that radio tower.... diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/10/elkmont-and-great-smoky-mountains.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/10/elkmont-and-great-smoky-mountains.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ec7d7b9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/10/elkmont-and-great-smoky-mountains.amp @@ -0,0 +1,212 @@ + + + + + + +Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains

    + + + +
    +
    +

    The road undulates through the darkness, over the long, arching tails of mountain ridges, where the eastern slopes of the Smokies taper off into the Tennessee River Valley. Divets between tiny the rolling hilltops form eerie microclimes of misty white clouds hugging the valleys and road like the fingers of some wispy white mountain ghosts snaking down from the peaks.

    +

    With the windows cracked it's not hard to tell that the pockets of fog gather in the cold crevasses where the temperature drops noticeably along with the highway. From the top of every small hill, the headlights move like shiny ribbons though the knuckles of mountains. As the beams dive back down, the view from behind the windshield becomes a bath of smoky white light -- a film noir scene brought to life. And then the car rushes up out of the chilly depths and into the clear night, atop another ridge where the remnants of wood plank fences line the road.

    +

    From a particularly high ridge the land is lit up by the rising moon and succession of foggy pockets and lumpy ridges between spreads out like cigarette smoke settling in the creases of some red vinyl cushions, tucked in the corner of an all night diner, straight out of the 1950s.

    +

    The Smoky Mountains are, as it turns out, well named.

    +

    +

    Were it light, the landscape and buildings in the area would indeed look much like the 50s. Not a lot appears to have changed on the slopes of the Smokies in quite some time. The new developments -- strip malls, cookie cutter suburbs and giant megastores -- are further up ahead, around the bend in Knoxville, Maryville.

    +

    But out here in the boundary land of mountain and plain it's just the headlights stabbing through the fog.

    +

    I keep half expecting to see some ghostly figure off in the shadowy outline of trees at the edge of the small arc of headlamps, to catch some otherworldly creature slouching through the foggy forest, off to haunt the crumbling farm houses set back from the road, enveloped in night.

    +

    Occasionally I pass through a town -- sudden, brilliant, florescent -- gas stations, neon beer signs in a window, telephone wires, stoplights, downshifting and then fading in the rearview mirror, returning to the murky hills.

    +

    It continues like that with a brief break through Maryville where Starbucks and shopping malls remind me that I am indeed still part of the 21st century. But then that fades as we move into the mountains again, higher, this time in pure blackness, even the fog is gone.

    +

    After a while the zigzags stop and the road follows the river upstream headed to Pigeon Forge, which, when you reach it in darkness, can't help but look like an amusement park at the gates of hell, a last ditch effort of all failed American cultural ideas shored up together -- Elvis impersonators, mini golf, Dollyworld, all-you-can-eat restaurants serving every food imaginable as long as your imagination is limited to steak and pizza, which apparently, for many, it is.

    +

    Pigeon Forge is everything that's wrong with America.

    +

    Pigeon Forge is Myrtle Beach in the mountains, it lacks any basis in reality and, like Myrtle Beach, it doesn't really exist. It's all just redneck weddings cascading straight out of the chapel and into the mini golf reception area.

    +

    I used to think the demise of such places would be gradual, almost imperceptible, until one day they were just vacant and ghostly, joining Bowie CA, Bisbee, St Elmo and other places that simply slipped our collective minds. However, in the case of Pigeon Forge it may well be much faster. The people who come here are the same ones now mailing their house keys to the mortgage companies -- the unreality of it all only lasts for so long. Of course I could be wrong.

    +

    And we aren't here for Pigeon Forge, it just happens to have a free condo we're staying in. We're here for the mountains. Smoky Mountain National Park is just a few miles up the road.

    +

     

    +

    The next morning I'm sitting on the patio, bundled up against the unseasonable cold, reading Cormac McCarthy's The Orchard Keeper which is largely set here in these same mountains, but back in the early 1920s. The Orchard Keeper is fiction, but McCarthy spent a fair share of his life in Sevier County and knew these mountains well -- you can feel them living and breathing right there in the turning of the page.

    +
    +

    He came out on a high bald knoll that looked over the valley and he stopped here and studied it as a man might cresting a hill and seeing a strange landscape for the first time. Pine and cedars in a dark swath of green piled down the mountain to the left and ceased again where the road cut through. Beyond that a field and a log hogpin, the shakes spilling down the broken roof, looking like some diminutive settler's cabin in ruins. Through the leaves of the hardwoods he could see the zinc-colored roof of the church faintly coruscant and patched of boarded siding weathered the paper-gray of a waspnest. And in the distance the long purple welts of the Great Smokies.

    +
    +

    Although with a bit of driving, and some selective horizon framing, you can find crumbling buildings with collapsing siding that does indeed resemble the "paper-gray of a waspnest," or the ridgelines like bruised knuckles interrupting the sunrise, for the most part McCarthy's vision of the Smokies is just a memory, a half crumbled placemarker at a neglected turnout in the road, a few yellowed, slightly retouched photos in a visitor center, a coffee table book of history purchased for friends back home.

    +

    I would love to know what McCarthy thinks of Sevier and environs now. It would be nice to drink a pint with him and hear about a time when men and women were sane, cautious and respectful. Of course, if you've ever read a McCarthy book you know what happens to those characters, they are, in one way or another displaced by the less savory, the more ambitious, more full of hot air and power-hungry dreams.

    +

    In McCarthy's world the meek very rarely inherit anything save dust and silence, but they do retain their dignity, something painfully lacking in Pigeon Forge.

    +

     

    +

    The mountains are still beautiful, dying perhaps, choking on smoke from Chattanooga and Atlanta, mostly Atlanta, but in the mean time the leaves on the trees run the spectrum from ochre to vermillion with all the middle hues as well.

    +

    We spend a few days, driving mainly, but occasionally walking, through the mountains, the trees, along the rivers and streams, the windswept peaks with fog breaking over them like waves of mist and smoke.

    +

    There are also the crumbling remains of old grist mills and early towns now abandoned; remnants of a time, near the end of the 19th century when hiking and exploring the outdoors was all the rage -- John Muir helped the trend along, but for a time people genuinely liked to get up into the mountains, out in the desert and see America's unparalleled natural wonderland.

    +

    One the byproducts of that era is the ghost town of Elkmont, nestled up against the steep ridges of the Smokies at the end of railway line that used to stretch back to down to Maryville. Elkmont began like as a rough and tumble logging town, and while I couldn't find mention of it in The Orchard Keeper, it dates from 1908 which puts it in roughly the same time frame.

    +

    Over time Elkmont ran out of trees to easily harvest and the town gradually evolved into a haven for the socially prominent and wealthy members of Knoxville, Maryville, and Chattanooga -- summer cottages were built, a central hunting lodge was added and members built a number of trails that lead off into the Smokies.

    +

    At the zenith of its popularity the Little River Railroad, which ran from Knoxville to Elkmont, offered a Sunday "Elkmont Special" -- non-stop train service to the mountains. That proved popular enough that the Sunday special became a regular, several days a week route.

    +

    Then that passed or was diluted somehow, getting out to see the land was condensed down to the somewhat easier, more profitable habit of just buying fleece jackets at the mega-mall and playing a bit of putt-putt golf in Pigeon Forge.

    +

    Oh well.

    +

     

    +

    One piece of advice, should you head to Smoky Mountain National Park, don't dig too deep, if you do any more than scratch the surface you might discover some unpleasant things -- like the signs along the river that read: Do Not Drink, Swim, Bathe or Touch the Water; River contains fecal matter.

    +

    Yes, the rivers are full of shit. Shouldn't be surprising then that Pigeon Forge is full of shit. Everything trickles downhill as they say.

    +

    And we are all more or less full of shit.

    +

    Don't drink the water.

    +

    And so it goes.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/10/elkmont-and-great-smoky-mountains.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/10/elkmont-and-great-smoky-mountains.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..38a4a8e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/10/elkmont-and-great-smoky-mountains.html @@ -0,0 +1,423 @@ + + + + + Elkmont And The Great Smoky Mountains - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains

    + +
    +
    +

    Great Smoky Mountains, Tennessee, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The road undulates through the darkness, over the long, arching tails of mountain ridges, where the eastern slopes of the Smokies taper off into the Tennessee River Valley. Divets between tiny the rolling hilltops form eerie microclimes of misty white clouds hugging the valleys and road like the fingers of some wispy white mountain ghosts snaking down from the peaks.

    +

    headlights on the roadWith the windows cracked it’s not hard to tell that the pockets of fog gather in the cold crevasses where the temperature drops noticeably along with the highway. From the top of every small hill, the headlights move like shiny ribbons though the knuckles of mountains. As the beams dive back down, the view from behind the windshield becomes a bath of smoky white light — a film noir scene brought to life. And then the car rushes up out of the chilly depths and into the clear night, atop another ridge where the remnants of wood plank fences line the road.

    +

    From a particularly high ridge the land is lit up by the rising moon and succession of foggy pockets and lumpy ridges between spreads out like cigarette smoke settling in the creases of some red vinyl cushions, tucked in the corner of an all night diner, straight out of the 1950s.

    +

    The Smoky Mountains are, as it turns out, well named.

    +

    +

    Were it light, the landscape and buildings in the area would indeed look much like the 50s. Not a lot appears to have changed on the slopes of the Smokies in quite some time. The new developments — strip malls, cookie cutter suburbs and giant megastores — are further up ahead, around the bend in Knoxville, Maryville.

    +

    But out here in the boundary land of mountain and plain it’s just the headlights stabbing through the fog.

    +

    I keep half expecting to see some ghostly figure off in the shadowy outline of trees at the edge of the small arc of headlamps, to catch some otherworldly creature slouching through the foggy forest, off to haunt the crumbling farm houses set back from the road, enveloped in night.

    +

    Occasionally I pass through a town — sudden, brilliant, florescent — gas stations, neon beer signs in a window, telephone wires, stoplights, downshifting and then fading in the rearview mirror, returning to the murky hills.

    +

    It continues like that with a brief break through Maryville where Starbucks and shopping malls remind me that I am indeed still part of the 21st century. But then that fades as we move into the mountains again, higher, this time in pure blackness, even the fog is gone.

    +

    fog, hillsideAfter a while the zigzags stop and the road follows the river upstream headed to Pigeon Forge, which, when you reach it in darkness, can’t help but look like an amusement park at the gates of hell, a last ditch effort of all failed American cultural ideas shored up together — Elvis impersonators, mini golf, Dollyworld, all-you-can-eat restaurants serving every food imaginable as long as your imagination is limited to steak and pizza, which apparently, for many, it is.

    +

    Pigeon Forge is everything that’s wrong with America.

    +

    Pigeon Forge is Myrtle Beach in the mountains, it lacks any basis in reality and, like Myrtle Beach, it doesn’t really exist. It’s all just redneck weddings cascading straight out of the chapel and into the mini golf reception area.

    +

    I used to think the demise of such places would be gradual, almost imperceptible, until one day they were just vacant and ghostly, joining Bowie CA, Bisbee, St Elmo and other places that simply slipped our collective minds. However, in the case of Pigeon Forge it may well be much faster. The people who come here are the same ones now mailing their house keys to the mortgage companies — the unreality of it all only lasts for so long. Of course I could be wrong.

    +

    And we aren’t here for Pigeon Forge, it just happens to have a free condo we’re staying in. We’re here for the mountains. Smoky Mountain National Park is just a few miles up the road.

    +

     

    +

    The next morning I’m sitting on the patio, bundled up against the unseasonable cold, reading Cormac McCarthy’s The Orchard Keeper which is largely set here in these same mountains, but back in the early 1920s. The Orchard Keeper is fiction, but McCarthy spent a fair share of his life in Sevier County and knew these mountains well — you can feel them living and breathing right there in the turning of the page.

    +
    +

    He came out on a high bald knoll that looked over the valley and he stopped here and studied it as a man might cresting a hill and seeing a strange landscape for the first time. Pine and cedars in a dark swath of green piled down the mountain to the left and ceased again where the road cut through. Beyond that a field and a log hogpin, the shakes spilling down the broken roof, looking like some diminutive settler’s cabin in ruins. Through the leaves of the hardwoods he could see the zinc-colored roof of the church faintly coruscant and patched of boarded siding weathered the paper-gray of a waspnest. And in the distance the long purple welts of the Great Smokies.

    +
    +

    ridges of the smokiesAlthough with a bit of driving, and some selective horizon framing, you can find crumbling buildings with collapsing siding that does indeed resemble the “paper-gray of a waspnest,” or the ridgelines like bruised knuckles interrupting the sunrise, for the most part McCarthy’s vision of the Smokies is just a memory, a half crumbled placemarker at a neglected turnout in the road, a few yellowed, slightly retouched photos in a visitor center, a coffee table book of history purchased for friends back home.

    +

    I would love to know what McCarthy thinks of Sevier and environs now. It would be nice to drink a pint with him and hear about a time when men and women were sane, cautious and respectful. Of course, if you’ve ever read a McCarthy book you know what happens to those characters, they are, in one way or another displaced by the less savory, the more ambitious, more full of hot air and power-hungry dreams.

    +

    In McCarthy’s world the meek very rarely inherit anything save dust and silence, but they do retain their dignity, something painfully lacking in Pigeon Forge.

    +

     

    +

    river, treesThe mountains are still beautiful, dying perhaps, choking on smoke from Chattanooga and Atlanta, mostly Atlanta, but in the mean time the leaves on the trees run the spectrum from ochre to vermillion with all the middle hues as well.

    +

    We spend a few days, driving mainly, but occasionally walking, through the mountains, the trees, along the rivers and streams, the windswept peaks with fog breaking over them like waves of mist and smoke.

    +

    There are also the crumbling remains of old grist mills and early towns now abandoned; remnants of a time, near the end of the 19th century when hiking and exploring the outdoors was all the rage — John Muir helped the trend along, but for a time people genuinely liked to get up into the mountains, out in the desert and see America’s unparalleled natural wonderland.

    +

    One the byproducts of that era is the ghost town of Elkmont, lying under the steep ridges of the Smokies at the end of railway line that used to stretch back to down to Maryville. Elkmont began like as a rough and tumble logging town, and while I couldn’t find mention of it in The Orchard Keeper, it dates from 1908 which puts it in roughly the same time frame.

    +

    Over time Elkmont ran out of trees to easily harvest and the town gradually evolved into a haven for the socially prominent and wealthy members of Knoxville, Maryville, and Chattanooga — summer cottages were built, a central hunting lodge was added and members built a number of trails that lead off into the Smokies.

    +

    At the zenith of its popularity the Little River Railroad, which ran from Knoxville to Elkmont, offered a Sunday “Elkmont Special” — non-stop train service to the mountains. That proved popular enough that the Sunday special became a regular, several days a week route.

    +

    Then that passed or was diluted somehow, getting out to see the land was condensed down to the somewhat easier, more profitable habit of just buying fleece jackets at the mega-mall and playing a bit of putt-putt golf in Pigeon Forge.

    +

    Oh well.

    +

     

    +

    One piece of advice, should you head to Smoky Mountain National Park, don’t dig too deep, if you do any more than scratch the surface you might discover some unpleasant things — like the signs along the river that read: Do Not Drink, Swim, Bathe or Touch the Water; River contains fecal matter.

    +

    Yes, the rivers are full of shit. Shouldn’t be surprising then that Pigeon Forge is full of shit. Everything trickles downhill as they say.

    +

    And we are all more or less full of shit.

    +

    Don’t drink the water.

    +

    And so it goes.

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +

    2 Comments

    + + + + + + +
    + +
    + +
    + Kenyon Patterson + February 07, 2009 at 7:44 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    As a young boy in the 1950’s I explored all around the tracks and old station for the Smoky Mtn Railroad. Although I was too young to ever have ridden that train, I knew several people that did ride. They all told me it was originally set up as a logging train from Elkmont to Knoxville. There was also a dam on the creek there at the bottom of the hill on Cumberland Ave close to the train station. We played on the rusting and decayed engines and walked around in the old station building. It was pretty well grown over when we found this site in about 1957-58. My best friends grandfather was former UT President James D Hoskins and they lived at 834 Temple Ave just up the street from me at 944 Temple. My friend was Billy Hoskins. His Grandmother, Mrs Wright had a cabin at Elkmont, just up the road leading out of the parking lot from the Wonderland Club Hotel along with many other cabins. I spent many weeks in that cabin in the summers of the 1950’s and early 1960’s. I loved the Wonderland Club Hotel with its big porch and rocking chairs and the nice restaurant. It seems odd that the gov’t saw fit to let all this history revert back to wilderness without so much of as a trace and to see how now the Smokies are represented to the world by Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg.

    +

    I do miss the Elkmont of old. It truly was a beautiful and wonderful place to be as a kid. I still drive up there to see the place but the Wonderland Hotel has completely fallen in and most of the cabins are gone as well.

    +

    Oh well, that’s progress I guess !

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + luxagraf + February 17, 2009 at 7:46 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Kenyon-

    +

    Yeah Elkmont is stuck in a catch-22, the park service wants it gone and the land returned to its wild origins, but the historic preservation society wants it restored as a kind of museum/monument sort of thing. Strange spot to be in. Personally, while I enjoyed seeing it, and hearing stories like yours, I say let it go. Even if it’s restored, it won’t be the same. Sometimes it’s better to just let things be what they were and not try to hold them past their time.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/10/elkmont-and-great-smoky-mountains.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/10/elkmont-and-great-smoky-mountains.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a1b4d43 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/10/elkmont-and-great-smoky-mountains.txt @@ -0,0 +1,78 @@ +Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains +===================================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Friday, 31 October 2008 + +The road undulates through the darkness, over the long, arching tails of mountain ridges, where the eastern slopes of the Smokies taper off into the Tennessee River Valley. Divets between tiny the rolling hilltops form eerie microclimes of misty white clouds hugging the valleys and road like the fingers of some wispy white mountain ghosts snaking down from the peaks. + +headlights on the roadWith the windows cracked it's not hard to tell that the pockets of fog gather in the cold crevasses where the temperature drops noticeably along with the highway. From the top of every small hill, the headlights move like shiny ribbons though the knuckles of mountains. As the beams dive back down, the view from behind the windshield becomes a bath of smoky white light -- a film noir scene brought to life. And then the car rushes up out of the chilly depths and into the clear night, atop another ridge where the remnants of wood plank fences line the road. + +From a particularly high ridge the land is lit up by the rising moon and succession of foggy pockets and lumpy ridges between spreads out like cigarette smoke settling in the creases of some red vinyl cushions, tucked in the corner of an all night diner, straight out of the 1950s. + +The Smoky Mountains are, as it turns out, well named. + + + +Were it light, the landscape and buildings in the area would indeed look much like the 50s. Not a lot appears to have changed on the slopes of the Smokies in quite some time. The new developments -- strip malls, cookie cutter suburbs and giant megastores -- are further up ahead, around the bend in Knoxville, Maryville. + +But out here in the boundary land of mountain and plain it's just the headlights stabbing through the fog. + +I keep half expecting to see some ghostly figure off in the shadowy outline of trees at the edge of the small arc of headlamps, to catch some otherworldly creature slouching through the foggy forest, off to haunt the crumbling farm houses set back from the road, enveloped in night. + +Occasionally I pass through a town -- sudden, brilliant, florescent -- gas stations, neon beer signs in a window, telephone wires, stoplights, downshifting and then fading in the rearview mirror, returning to the murky hills. + +It continues like that with a brief break through Maryville where Starbucks and shopping malls remind me that I am indeed still part of the 21st century. But then that fades as we move into the mountains again, higher, this time in pure blackness, even the fog is gone. + +fog, hillsideAfter a while the zigzags stop and the road follows the river upstream headed to Pigeon Forge, which, when you reach it in darkness, can't help but look like an amusement park at the gates of hell, a last ditch effort of all failed American cultural ideas shored up together -- Elvis impersonators, mini golf, Dollyworld, all-you-can-eat restaurants serving every food imaginable as long as your imagination is limited to steak and pizza, which apparently, for many, it is. + +Pigeon Forge is everything that's wrong with America. + +Pigeon Forge is Myrtle Beach in the mountains, it lacks any basis in reality and, like Myrtle Beach, it doesn't really exist. It's all just redneck weddings cascading straight out of the chapel and into the mini golf reception area. + +I used to think the demise of such places would be gradual, almost imperceptible, until one day they were just vacant and ghostly, joining Bowie CA, Bisbee, St Elmo and other places that simply slipped our collective minds. However, in the case of Pigeon Forge it may well be much faster. The people who come here are the same ones now mailing their house keys to the mortgage companies -- the unreality of it all only lasts for so long. Of course I could be wrong. + +And we aren't here for Pigeon Forge, it just happens to have a free condo we're staying in. We're here for the mountains. Smoky Mountain National Park is just a few miles up the road. + +  + +The next morning I'm sitting on the patio, bundled up against the unseasonable cold, reading Cormac McCarthy's The Orchard Keeper which is largely set here in these same mountains, but back in the early 1920s. The Orchard Keeper is fiction, but McCarthy spent a fair share of his life in Sevier County and knew these mountains well -- you can feel them living and breathing right there in the turning of the page. + +>He came out on a high bald knoll that looked over the valley and he stopped here and studied it as a man might cresting a hill and seeing a strange landscape for the first time. Pine and cedars in a dark swath of green piled down the mountain to the left and ceased again where the road cut through. Beyond that a field and a log hogpin, the shakes spilling down the broken roof, looking like some diminutive settler's cabin in ruins. Through the leaves of the hardwoods he could see the zinc-colored roof of the church faintly coruscant and patched of boarded siding weathered the paper-gray of a waspnest. And in the distance the long purple welts of the Great Smokies. + +ridges of the smokiesAlthough with a bit of driving, and some selective horizon framing, you can find crumbling buildings with collapsing siding that does indeed resemble the "paper-gray of a waspnest," or the ridgelines like bruised knuckles interrupting the sunrise, for the most part McCarthy's vision of the Smokies is just a memory, a half crumbled placemarker at a neglected turnout in the road, a few yellowed, slightly retouched photos in a visitor center, a coffee table book of history purchased for friends back home. + +I would love to know what McCarthy thinks of Sevier and environs now. It would be nice to drink a pint with him and hear about a time when men and women were sane, cautious and respectful. Of course, if you've ever read a McCarthy book you know what happens to those characters, they are, in one way or another displaced by the less savory, the more ambitious, more full of hot air and power-hungry dreams. + +In McCarthy's world the meek very rarely inherit anything save dust and silence, but they do retain their dignity, something painfully lacking in Pigeon Forge. + +  + +river, treesThe mountains are still beautiful, dying perhaps, choking on smoke from Chattanooga and Atlanta, mostly Atlanta, but in the mean time the leaves on the trees run the spectrum from ochre to vermillion with all the middle hues as well. + +We spend a few days, driving mainly, but occasionally walking, through the mountains, the trees, along the rivers and streams, the windswept peaks with fog breaking over them like waves of mist and smoke. + +There are also the crumbling remains of old grist mills and early towns now abandoned; remnants of a time, near the end of the 19th century when hiking and exploring the outdoors was all the rage -- John Muir helped the trend along, but for a time people genuinely liked to get up into the mountains, out in the desert and see America's unparalleled natural wonderland. + +One the byproducts of that era is the ghost town of Elkmont, lying under the steep ridges of the Smokies at the end of railway line that used to stretch back to down to Maryville. Elkmont began like as a rough and tumble logging town, and while I couldn't find mention of it in The Orchard Keeper, it dates from 1908 which puts it in roughly the same time frame. + +Over time Elkmont ran out of trees to easily harvest and the town gradually evolved into a haven for the socially prominent and wealthy members of Knoxville, Maryville, and Chattanooga -- summer cottages were built, a central hunting lodge was added and members built a number of trails that lead off into the Smokies. + +At the zenith of its popularity the Little River Railroad, which ran from Knoxville to Elkmont, offered a Sunday "Elkmont Special" -- non-stop train service to the mountains. That proved popular enough that the Sunday special became a regular, several days a week route. + +Then that passed or was diluted somehow, getting out to see the land was condensed down to the somewhat easier, more profitable habit of just buying fleece jackets at the mega-mall and playing a bit of putt-putt golf in Pigeon Forge. + +Oh well. + +  + +One piece of advice, should you head to Smoky Mountain National Park, don't dig too deep, if you do any more than scratch the surface you might discover some unpleasant things -- like the signs along the river that read: Do Not Drink, Swim, Bathe or Touch the Water; River contains fecal matter. + +Yes, the rivers are full of shit. Shouldn't be surprising then that Pigeon Forge is full of shit. Everything trickles downhill as they say. + +And we are all more or less full of shit. + +Don't drink the water. + +And so it goes. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/10/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/10/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a68d56d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/10/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,104 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Archive: October 2008

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    Walk Slowly

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    Archive: December 2008

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    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/12/leonardo-da-vinci-and-codex-bunnies.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/12/leonardo-da-vinci-and-codex-bunnies.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b0e29b6 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/12/leonardo-da-vinci-and-codex-bunnies.amp @@ -0,0 +1,209 @@ + + + + + + +Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies

    + + + +
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    Downtown Birmingham is deserted, even the trees are bare and there's hardly any sign of life, save the occasional car on the interstate somewhere up above, propped aloft on concrete pylons. There's a far too bitter wind for October in the South; it cuts around the brick edifices and concrete parking garages.

    +

    I've come to Birmingham for Da Vinci. He of the Mona Lisa, the Sistine Chapel and the Codex of Birds.

    +

    You wouldn't expect Da Vinci in Birmingham Alabama, it of the civil rights struggle, much more readily conjured as a synecdoche of mediocre backwaters everywhere.

    +

    Yet here he is.

    +

    Or his notebooks anyway. + +I should say that I did not so much want to see Drawings From the Biblioteca Reale in Turin, rather I felt that I should, which I freely admit is a very poor reason for going. But in truth there is more to it than that. I didn't feel I should go because it was somehow necessary to see, an educational exercise or anything like that.

    +

    Rather, something in my head kept saying, for no reason I could deduce, go to that exhibit. In hindsight I now know that I needed to go for the bunnies.

    +

    But let's start at the beginning, the warm, red-lipped smile from the middle age woman who collects my ticket, the very nice white-haired gentleman who hands me a brochure on Da Vinci and his notebooks, the other elderly gentleman in a blue docent's vest who directs me to the back of the line.

    +

    Oh yes, the line.

    +

    Over two hours worth of people backed up, snaking through the main foyer, up the staircase to the second floor, around the landing and then inside some hidden room where, under glass and guarded by more museum security than I've ever encountered anywhere else combined (Da Vinci may have come to Alabama but clearly no one trusts Alabamians to react well to his arrival), the drawings await us.

    +

    Imagine for a moment if, some 500 hundred years from now, a few pages torn from your notebook could draw thousands of people from around the world.

    +

    Be a bit strange wouldn't it? But never mind that.

    +

    I suspect that, had Da Vinci's codex of birds arrived in Birmingham Alabama say ten years ago, I would likely be standing alone right now. But then there was that damnable Da Vinci Code book.

    +

    Yes. I've read it. It was once the only English language book on Ko Muk where I was once trapped for while. It was just me, an Australian who told me with a straight face that he was an ex-lifeguard, a grumpy collection of Thai guesthouse staff, three naked Swedish girls and that damn book. I read it in three hours.

    +

    But I digress.

    +

    We need to get to the beginning. Further back than just the museum, further back than the curator who set up the show, further back than Italy from whence it came, probably all the way back to Da Vinci himself, who once made some doodles in a notebook, drawing people, drawing birds, drawing horses.

    +

    To keep things short we'll setting for the moment I first encountered the bunnies.

    +

    The week before I left to travel the world, months before I would read The Da Vinci code, years before I would go to Birmingham, Alabama, I went up to San Francisco to visit Mike and Hilary. Bill drove, fun was had as I recall. For me the thing that sticks out though are the bunnies on the wall (well, that and the wolf coughing in the living room, but that's another story).

    +

    The bunnies were on the wall. Two dimensional bunnies. There were posters of bunnies. Specifically Kozyndan's poster of various famous Japanese paintings recast with bunnies. Where there should be sea foam there were bunnies. Where there should have been leaves, there were bunnies. Where there should have been cherry blossoms, there were bunnies.

    +

    There were bunnies everywhere damnit.

    +

    Prior to seeing those images I'm not sure I ever gave bunnies much thought (several months later in Austria I would eat a bunny and be somewhat unimpressed), but there, hanging on the wall of a San Francisco apartment, were posters of bunnies, hundreds of bunnies, thousands perhaps and I, for the first time, I was forced to think about bunnies. Bunnies in places you would not expect bunnies.

    +

    You can see where, if, shortly after seeing such a thing you suddenly had roughly an entire year's worth of free time in part of world where beer is about 25 cents a pint, you might develop something of an obsession with the bunnies in places where there should not be bunnies (what if, instead of rats running around this hostel, there were bunnies? And so on).

    +

    I did a bit of googling and discovered that the artist(s) have something of a bunny fetish, bunny fish, bunnies in winter, bunnies in a crowd and so on. When I got back one of the first things I did after I had a roof over my head was order my own copies of the bunny posters.

    +

    Of course none of that prepared me for the Ur Bunny in Birmingham.

    +

    Eventually the long line to see the Da Vinci exhibit made its way up the stairs and around the second story, through a smallish exhibit of Asian art. Finally, I thought, at least there is something to do while I wait, some art to examine.

    +

    As the line wound around the room, there were a number of interesting pieces, but in the corner I spied something that looked like a traditional Japanese or perhaps Chinese landscape paintings -- a tree in fall, some mountains in the background and some, wait a minute, are those bunnies? Holy crap, they are bunnies and they have glowing red eyes.

    +

    There, fortunately restrained under protective museum glass, was a Chinese landscape populated by red-eyed bunnies, lurking under trees, trying, but failing, to look innocent.

    +

    I had plenty of time to confront the bunnies, to study them in the their natural watercolor state and it didn't take long to feel there was a noticeably evil glint in their eyes, as if wary of being caught in the act of colluding on some nefarious project, almost certainly some sort of world takeover scheme -- not unlike what the conspiracy theorists attribute to Da Vinci, but so much sneakier because no one expects the bunnies.

    +

    Bunnies are cute. Bunnies do not generally attack. Of course there was that incident in The Holy Grail and, as we all know, humor has a way of cutting much closer to the truth, but still, bunnies are harmless right? Cute, fluffy little things... but what's with the red eyes? The artist clearly did not have cute fluffy little things in mind when he painted these bunnies.

    +

    Red-eyed things are zombies, re-animated nightmares, conspiratorial evil plotting against us. Now I understand the kozyndan posters, they're a warning, a vision of future where bunnies have taken over the sea, the mountains, become like water, like snow, like wind to meld themselves irreversibly into the fabric of our existence.

    +

    Think about, with the birthrate of bunnies it wouldn't take but a couple of years for properly conditioned bunnies to replace nearly every atom of our existence with themselves.

    +

    Here's what I know: the Ur bunnies have glowing red eyes and while Da Vinci did not, so far as we know, produce a Codex of Bunnies, given his secret society connections, he surely must have known of the Ur bunnies. Known enough to hide the codex and hide it well.

    +

    As for the stuff he didn't hide quite as well, well, it was interesting, perhaps even illuminating, but somehow it seemed suddenly unimportant in the face of the inevitable bunny onslaught. Remember, you read it here first.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/12/leonardo-da-vinci-and-codex-bunnies.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/12/leonardo-da-vinci-and-codex-bunnies.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9a43b52 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/12/leonardo-da-vinci-and-codex-bunnies.html @@ -0,0 +1,361 @@ + + + + + Leonardo Da Vinci And The Codex On Bunnies - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    + + + +
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    Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies

    + +
    +
    +

    Birmingham, Alabama, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Downtown Birmingham is deserted, even the trees are bare and there’s hardly any sign of life, save the occasional car on the interstate somewhere up above, propped aloft on concrete pylons. There’s a far too bitter wind for October in the South; it cuts around the brick edifices and concrete parking garages.

    +

    Alabama Power by filam61, flickrI’ve come to Birmingham for Da Vinci. He of the Mona Lisa, the Sistine Chapel and the Codex of Birds.

    +

    You wouldn’t expect Da Vinci in Birmingham Alabama, it of the civil rights struggle, much more readily conjured as a synecdoche of mediocre backwaters everywhere.

    +

    Yet here he is.

    +

    Or his notebooks anyway. + +I should say that I did not so much want to see Drawings From the Biblioteca Reale in Turin, rather I felt that I should, which I freely admit is a very poor reason for going. But in truth there is more to it than that. I didn’t feel I should go because it was somehow necessary to see, an educational exercise or anything like that.

    +

    Rather, something in my head kept saying, for no reason I could deduce, go to that exhibit. In hindsight I now know that I needed to go for the bunnies.

    +

    But let’s start at the beginning, the warm, red-lipped smile from the middle age woman who collects my ticket, the very nice white-haired gentleman who hands me a brochure on Da Vinci and his notebooks, the other elderly gentleman in a blue docent’s vest who directs me to the back of the line.

    +

    Oh yes, the line.

    +

    Over two hours worth of people backed up, snaking through the main foyer, up the staircase to the second floor, around the landing and then inside some hidden room where, under glass and guarded by more museum security than I’ve ever encountered anywhere else combined (Da Vinci may have come to Alabama but clearly no one trusts Alabamians to react well to his arrival), the drawings await us.

    +

    Leonardo Da Vinci, Codex on Flight of BirdsImagine for a moment if, some 500 hundred years from now, a few pages torn from your notebook could draw thousands of people from around the world.

    +

    Be a bit strange wouldn’t it? But never mind that.

    +

    I suspect that, had Da Vinci’s codex of birds arrived in Birmingham Alabama say ten years ago, I would likely be standing alone right now. But then there was that damnable Da Vinci Code book.

    +

    Yes. I’ve read it. It was once the only English language book on Ko Muk where I was once trapped for while. It was just me, an Australian who told me with a straight face that he was an ex-lifeguard, a grumpy collection of Thai guesthouse staff, three naked Swedish girls and that damn book. I read it in three hours.

    +

    But I digress.

    +

    We need to get to the beginning. Further back than just the museum, further back than the curator who set up the show, further back than Italy from whence it came, probably all the way back to Da Vinci himself, who once made some doodles in a notebook, drawing people, drawing birds, drawing horses.

    +

    To keep things short we’ll setting for the moment I first encountered the bunnies.

    +

    The week before I left to travel the world, months before I would read The Da Vinci code, years before I would go to Birmingham, Alabama, I went up to San Francisco to visit Mike and Hilary. Bill drove, fun was had as I recall. For me the thing that sticks out though are the bunnies on the wall (well, that and the wolf coughing in the living room, but that’s another story).

    +

    Uprisings by KozyndanThe bunnies were on the wall. Two dimensional bunnies. There were posters of bunnies. Specifically Kozyndan’s poster of various famous Japanese paintings recast with bunnies. Where there should be sea foam there were bunnies. Where there should have been leaves, there were bunnies. Where there should have been cherry blossoms, there were bunnies.

    +

    There were bunnies everywhere damnit.

    +

    Prior to seeing those images I’m not sure I ever gave bunnies much thought (several months later in Austria I would eat a bunny and be somewhat unimpressed), but there, hanging on the wall of a San Francisco apartment, were posters of bunnies, hundreds of bunnies, thousands perhaps and I, for the first time, I was forced to think about bunnies. Bunnies in places you would not expect bunnies.

    +

    You can see where, if, shortly after seeing such a thing you suddenly had roughly an entire year’s worth of free time in part of world where beer is about 25 cents a pint, you might develop something of an obsession with the bunnies in places where there should not be bunnies (what if, instead of rats running around this hostel, there were bunnies? And so on).

    +

    I did a bit of googling and discovered that the artist(s) have something of a bunny fetish, bunny fish, bunnies in winter, bunnies in a crowd and so on. When I got back one of the first things I did after I had a roof over my head was order my own copies of the bunny posters.

    +

    Of course none of that prepared me for the Ur Bunny in Birmingham.

    +

    Eventually the long line to see the Da Vinci exhibit made its way up the stairs and around the second story, through a smallish exhibit of Asian art. Finally, I thought, at least there is something to do while I wait, some art to examine.

    +

    As the line wound around the room, there were a number of interesting pieces, but in the corner I spied something that looked like a traditional Japanese or perhaps Chinese landscape paintings — a tree in fall, some mountains in the background and some, wait a minute, are those bunnies? Holy crap, they are bunnies and they have glowing red eyes.

    +

    There, fortunately restrained under protective museum glass, was a Chinese landscape populated by red-eyed bunnies, lurking under trees, trying, but failing, to look innocent.

    +

    red eyed bunniesI had plenty of time to confront the bunnies, to study them in the their natural watercolor state and it didn’t take long to feel there was a noticeably evil glint in their eyes, as if wary of being caught in the act of colluding on some nefarious project, almost certainly some sort of world takeover scheme — not unlike what the conspiracy theorists attribute to Da Vinci, but so much sneakier because no one expects the bunnies.

    +

    Bunnies are cute. Bunnies do not generally attack. Of course there was that incident in The Holy Grail and, as we all know, humor has a way of cutting much closer to the truth, but still, bunnies are harmless right? Cute, fluffy little things… but what’s with the red eyes? The artist clearly did not have cute fluffy little things in mind when he painted these bunnies.

    +

    Red-eyed things are zombies, re-animated nightmares, conspiratorial evil plotting against us. Now I understand the kozyndan posters, they’re a warning, a vision of future where bunnies have taken over the sea, the mountains, become like water, like snow, like wind to meld themselves irreversibly into the fabric of our existence.

    +

    red eyed bunnies, full imageThink about, with the birthrate of bunnies it wouldn’t take but a couple of years for properly conditioned bunnies to replace nearly every atom of our existence with themselves.

    +

    Here’s what I know: the Ur bunnies have glowing red eyes and while Da Vinci did not, so far as we know, produce a Codex of Bunnies, given his secret society connections, he surely must have known of the Ur bunnies. Known enough to hide the codex and hide it well.

    +

    As for the stuff he didn’t hide quite as well, well, it was interesting, perhaps even illuminating, but somehow it seemed suddenly unimportant in the face of the inevitable bunny onslaught. Remember, you read it here first.

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/12/leonardo-da-vinci-and-codex-bunnies.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/12/leonardo-da-vinci-and-codex-bunnies.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0ed72c2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/12/leonardo-da-vinci-and-codex-bunnies.txt @@ -0,0 +1,81 @@ +Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies +========================================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Tuesday, 09 December 2008 + +Downtown Birmingham is deserted, even the trees are bare and there's hardly any sign of life, save the occasional car on the interstate somewhere up above, propped aloft on concrete pylons. There's a far too bitter wind for October in the South; it cuts around the brick edifices and concrete parking garages. + +Alabama Power by filam61, flickrI've come to Birmingham for Da Vinci. He of the Mona Lisa, the Sistine Chapel and the Codex of Birds. + +You wouldn't expect Da Vinci in Birmingham Alabama, it of the civil rights struggle, much more readily conjured as a synecdoche of mediocre backwaters everywhere. + +Yet here he is. + +Or his notebooks anyway. + +I should say that I did not so much _want_ to see Drawings From the Biblioteca Reale in Turin, rather I felt that I should, which I freely admit is a very poor reason for going. But in truth there is more to it than that. I didn't feel I should go because it was somehow necessary to see, an educational exercise or anything like that. + +Rather, something in my head kept saying, for no reason I could deduce, _go to that exhibit_. In hindsight I now know that I needed to go for the bunnies. + +But let's start at the beginning, the warm, red-lipped smile from the middle age woman who collects my ticket, the very nice white-haired gentleman who hands me a brochure on Da Vinci and his notebooks, the other elderly gentleman in a blue docent's vest who directs me to the back of the line. + +Oh yes, the line. + +Over two hours worth of people backed up, snaking through the main foyer, up the staircase to the second floor, around the landing and then inside some hidden room where, under glass and guarded by more museum security than I've ever encountered anywhere else combined (Da Vinci may have come to Alabama but clearly no one trusts Alabamians to react well to his arrival), the drawings await us. + + Leonardo Da Vinci, Codex on Flight of BirdsImagine for a moment if, some 500 hundred years from now, a few pages torn from your notebook could draw thousands of people from around the world. + +Be a bit strange wouldn't it? But never mind that. + +I suspect that, had Da Vinci's codex of birds arrived in Birmingham Alabama say ten years ago, I would likely be standing alone right now. But then there was that damnable Da Vinci Code book. + +Yes. I've read it. It was once the only English language book on Ko Muk where I was once trapped for while. It was just me, an Australian who told me with a straight face that he was an ex-lifeguard, a grumpy collection of Thai guesthouse staff, three naked Swedish girls and that damn book. I read it in three hours. + +But I digress. + +We need to get to the beginning. Further back than just the museum, further back than the curator who set up the show, further back than Italy from whence it came, probably all the way back to Da Vinci himself, who once made some doodles in a notebook, drawing people, drawing birds, drawing horses. + +To keep things short we'll setting for the moment I first encountered the bunnies. + +The week before I left to travel the world, months before I would read The Da Vinci code, years before I would go to Birmingham, Alabama, I went up to San Francisco to visit Mike and Hilary. Bill drove, fun was had as I recall. For me the thing that sticks out though are the bunnies on the wall (well, that and the wolf coughing in the living room, but that's another story). + +Uprisings by KozyndanThe bunnies were on the wall. Two dimensional bunnies. There were posters of bunnies. Specifically Kozyndan's poster of various famous Japanese paintings recast with bunnies. Where there should be sea foam [there were bunnies][1]. Where there should have been leaves, [there were bunnies][2]. Where there should have been cherry blossoms, [there were bunnies][4]. + +There were bunnies everywhere damnit. + +Prior to seeing those images I'm not sure I ever gave bunnies much thought (several months later in Austria I would eat a bunny and be somewhat unimpressed), but there, hanging on the wall of a San Francisco apartment, were posters of bunnies, hundreds of bunnies, thousands perhaps and I, for the first time, I was forced to think about bunnies. Bunnies in places you would not expect bunnies. + +You can see where, if, shortly after seeing such a thing you suddenly had roughly an entire year's worth of free time in part of world where beer is about 25 cents a pint, you might develop something of an obsession with the bunnies in places where there should not be bunnies (what if, instead of rats running around this hostel, there were bunnies? And so on). + +I did a bit of googling and discovered that the artist(s) have something of a bunny fetish, [bunny fish][5], [bunnies in winter][3], bunnies in a crowd and so on. When I got back one of the first things I did after I had a roof over my head was order my own copies of the bunny posters. + +Of course none of that prepared me for the Ur Bunny in Birmingham. + +Eventually the long line to see the Da Vinci exhibit made its way up the stairs and around the second story, through a smallish exhibit of Asian art. Finally, I thought, at least there is something to do while I wait, some art to examine. + +As the line wound around the room, there were a number of interesting pieces, but in the corner I spied something that looked like a traditional Japanese or perhaps Chinese landscape paintings -- a tree in fall, some mountains in the background and some, wait a minute, are those bunnies? Holy crap, they are bunnies and they have _glowing red eyes_. + +There, fortunately restrained under protective museum glass, was a Chinese landscape populated by red-eyed bunnies, lurking under trees, trying, but failing, to look innocent. + +red eyed bunniesI had plenty of time to confront the bunnies, to study them in the their natural watercolor state and it didn't take long to feel there was a noticeably evil glint in their eyes, as if wary of being caught in the act of colluding on some nefarious project, almost certainly some sort of world takeover scheme -- not unlike what the conspiracy theorists attribute to Da Vinci, but so much sneakier because no one expects the bunnies. + +Bunnies are cute. Bunnies do not generally attack. Of course there was that incident in The Holy Grail and, as we all know, humor has a way of cutting much closer to the truth, but still, bunnies are harmless right? Cute, fluffy little things... but what's with the red eyes? The artist clearly did not have cute fluffy little things in mind when he painted these bunnies. + +Red-eyed things are zombies, re-animated nightmares, conspiratorial evil plotting against us. Now I understand the kozyndan posters, they're a warning, a vision of future where bunnies have taken over the sea, the mountains, become like water, like snow, like wind to meld themselves irreversibly into the fabric of our existence. + +red eyed bunnies, full imageThink about, with the birthrate of bunnies it wouldn't take but a couple of years for properly conditioned bunnies to replace nearly every atom of our existence with themselves. + +Here's what I know: the Ur bunnies have glowing red eyes and while Da Vinci did not, so far as we know, produce a Codex of Bunnies, given his secret society connections, he surely must have known of the Ur bunnies. Known enough to hide the codex and hide it well. + +As for the stuff he didn't hide quite as well, well, it was interesting, perhaps even illuminating, but somehow it seemed suddenly unimportant in the face of the inevitable bunny onslaught. Remember, you read it here first. + + + +[1]: http://www.kozyndan.com/new_portfolio/GR28.html +[2]: http://www.kozyndan.com/assets/the_bunnies_fall.jpg +[3]: http://www.kozyndan.com/assets/winter_bunnies_800.jpg +[4]: http://www.kozyndan.com/bunny_blossom.html +[5]: http://www.kozyndan.com/pacific.html +[6]: http://blog.al.com/mhuebner/2008/09/birmingham_museum_of_art_sets.html diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6bfc637 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2008/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,168 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    2008, on luxagraf

    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/04/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/04/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ac2bf2e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/04/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,104 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: April 2009

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/04/strangers-on-a-train.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/04/strangers-on-a-train.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f808aa8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/04/strangers-on-a-train.amp @@ -0,0 +1,204 @@ + + + + + + +No Strangers on a Train + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    No Strangers on a Train

    + + + +
    +
    +

    I have a weakness for trains. It doesn't matter if it's a subway ride across town or the Trans-Siberian railway, count me in.

    +

    I blame the whole thing on the The Boxcar Children, certainly not the world I grew up in, where there were very few trains.[1]

    +

    Trains are almost totally unknown where I come from. If trains pass through Los Angeles, they don't do it anywhere near where I lived. When it came to traveling from LA there were two options -- get in the car or head to LAX.

    +

    And yet trains lurk in the background of most American myths, from Kerouac hopping freight cars in On the Road to the music of Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, Bob Dylan and countless others. Chances are, if something is hailed as "uniquely American," then there's a train in there somewhere.

    +

    So how does a culture end up with a mythology built around something most of us have never experienced in any way?

    +

    The answer lies more in what trains represent than their practical reality. Rail travel taps into a very primal part of the American imagination -- that we're all free. And by free I think we mean the idea that there is still some untapped thing out there that we can, at any moment, propel ourselves toward.

    +

    It's part of the belief that there is freedom in travel -- the way parallel tracks converge in the distance offers the promise of the infinite, toward which we are always running.

    +

    +

    That's why the mythology of trains is tied up in that of nomadic wanderers. The train-riding hobos of old are the modern vagabonds' spiritual predecessors; travelers who, like the hobos of pop mythology, place more value on the freedom of movement than the accumulation of things (there's also the similarity in bathing habits, but hey, you have to take the bad with the good).

    +

    I didn't spend any real time on trains until I got to India, where I spent nearly all my time on trains.

    +

    My overwhelming memory of India is the Indian railway system, which is simultaneously the most mind-boggling complex thing I have encountered,[2] and also the coolest, most convenient and downright fun way to travel.

    +

    My best memories of India are sitting on the steps of an Indian train car, feeling the rush of air, the thousand foreign smells, watching the scenery pass, from the red mud jungles of the south to the dry barren deserts of Rajasthan. In all I traveled nearly a thousand miles by train in India (and saw no less than four major bus wrecks from the comfort of my train car, which gave me additional motivation to stick to trains).

    +

    The train system is the life blood of India, not only is it the single largest employer in the world, it's how the country moves.

    +

    The vast majority of the Indians I met were fellow rail passengers. The secret is to always travel second class. First is too segregated, you don't meet anyone but army officers and fellow backpackers. Third class is standing room only and generally too crowded to move. Second class is just right.

    +

    In second class train cars I met Indians from all walks of life, from the cobbler's family that asked me to babysit their children and offered me the best samosas I've ever had, to the two teenage aspiring rappers who gave me a full day tour of New Delhi when we arrived.

    +

    Indian trains offer something I've rarely found in America -- organic community travel.

    +

    In the west especially, a community of travelers has become little more than businessmen drinking at the Holiday Inn Express bar, or backpackers smoking in some dingy flophouse, or worse, the online communities we mistake for genuine connections between people.[3]

    +

    Trains have become one of the last real manifestations of our longing for something more -- some shared group travel experience that is almost totally lost in American culture.

    +

    I think in the end that's why we mythologize trains, because they harken back to an age of community travel, a real, tangible community of travelers, not just backpackers, but people from all walks of life, people traveling near and far together in a shared space that isn't locked down like an airplane and isn't isolated like a car; it's a shared travel experience and there are precious few of those left in our world.

    +
      +
    1. +

      1. I do remember once as a child taking the train from Santa Ana to San Juan Capistrano to see the swallows, or perhaps the monarch butterflies, that part is hazy, but the train ride I am certain of.↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      2. The single best resource for deciphering train travel and the complexities of timetables is undoubtedly the wonderful Seat 61 website.↩

      +
      3. +
    3. +

      3. Old man internet joke: what's the difference between a 1998 BBS and Facebook? Ten years of rationalizing our isolation.↩

      +
      4. +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/04/strangers-on-a-train.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/04/strangers-on-a-train.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c07a379 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/04/strangers-on-a-train.html @@ -0,0 +1,409 @@ + + + + + No Strangers On A Train - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    No Strangers on a Train

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    I have a weakness for trains. It doesn’t matter if it’s a subway ride across town or the Trans-Siberian railway, count me in.

    +

    The boxcar Children book cover, certainly not the world I grew up in, where there were very few trains.[1]

    +

    Trains are almost totally unknown where I come from. If trains pass through Los Angeles, they don’t do it anywhere near where I lived. When it came to traveling from LA there were two options — get in the car or head to LAX.

    +

    And yet trains lurk in the background of most American myths, from Kerouac hopping freight cars in On the Road to the music of Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, Bob Dylan and countless others. Chances are, if something is hailed as “uniquely American,” then there’s a train in there somewhere.

    +

    So how does a culture end up with a mythology built around something most of us have never experienced in any way?

    +

    The answer lies more in what trains represent than their practical reality. Rail travel taps into a very primal part of the American imagination — that we’re all free. And by free I think we mean the idea that there is still some untapped thing out there that we can, at any moment, propel ourselves toward.

    +

    It’s part of the belief that there is freedom in travel — the way parallel tracks converge in the distance offers the promise of the infinite, toward which we are always running.

    +

    +

    That’s why the mythology of trains is tied up in that of nomadic wanderers. The train-riding hobos of old are the modern vagabonds’ spiritual predecessors; travelers who, like the hobos of pop mythology, place more value on the freedom of movement than the accumulation of things (there’s also the similarity in bathing habits, but hey, you have to take the bad with the good).

    +

    I didn’t spend any real time on trains until I got to India, where I spent nearly all my time on trains.

    +

    Train from Trang Thailand to BangkokMy overwhelming memory of India is the Indian railway system, which is simultaneously the most mind-boggling complex thing I have encountered,[2] and also the coolest, most convenient and downright fun way to travel.

    +

    My best memories of India are sitting on the steps of an Indian train car, feeling the rush of air, the thousand foreign smells, watching the scenery pass, from the red mud jungles of the south to the dry barren deserts of Rajasthan. In all I traveled nearly a thousand miles by train in India (and saw no less than four major bus wrecks from the comfort of my train car, which gave me additional motivation to stick to trains).

    +

    The train system is the life blood of India, not only is it the single largest employer in the world, it’s how the country moves.

    +

    The vast majority of the Indians I met were fellow rail passengers. The secret is to always travel second class. First is too segregated, you don’t meet anyone but army officers and fellow backpackers. Third class is standing room only and generally too crowded to move. Second class is just right.

    +

    In second class train cars I met Indians from all walks of life, from the cobbler’s family that asked me to babysit their children and offered me the best samosas I’ve ever had, to the two teenage aspiring rappers who gave me a full day tour of New Delhi when we arrived.

    +

    Train to Udiapur, Rajasthan, IndiaIndian trains offer something I’ve rarely found in America — organic community travel.

    +

    In the west especially, a community of travelers has become little more than businessmen drinking at the Holiday Inn Express bar, or backpackers smoking in some dingy flophouse, or worse, the online communities we mistake for genuine connections between people.[3]

    +

    Trains have become one of the last real manifestations of our longing for something more — some shared group travel experience that is almost totally lost in American culture.

    +

    I think in the end that’s why we mythologize trains, because they harken back to an age of community travel, a real, tangible community of travelers, not just backpackers, but people from all walks of life, people traveling near and far together in a shared space that isn’t locked down like an airplane and isn’t isolated like a car; it’s a shared travel experience and there are precious few of those left in our world.

    +
      +
    1. +

      1. I do remember once as a child taking the train from Santa Ana to San Juan Capistrano to see the swallows, or perhaps the monarch butterflies, that part is hazy, but the train ride I am certain of.↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      2. The single best resource for deciphering train travel and the complexities of timetables is undoubtedly the wonderful Seat 61 website.↩

      +
      3. +
    3. +

      3. Old man internet joke: what’s the difference between a 1998 BBS and Facebook? Ten years of rationalizing our isolation.↩

      +
      4. +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/04/strangers-on-a-train.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/04/strangers-on-a-train.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c8b3fc9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/04/strangers-on-a-train.txt @@ -0,0 +1,60 @@ +No Strangers on a Train +======================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 13 April 2009 + +I have a weakness for trains. It doesn't matter if it's a subway ride across town or the Trans-Siberian railway, count me in. + +The boxcar Children book coverI blame the whole thing on the The Boxcar Children, certainly not the world I grew up in, where there were very few trains.[1] + +Trains are almost totally unknown where I come from. If trains pass through Los Angeles, they don't do it anywhere near where I lived. When it came to traveling from LA there were two options -- get in the car or head to LAX. + +And yet trains lurk in the background of most American myths, from Kerouac hopping freight cars in On the Road to the music of Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, Bob Dylan and countless others. Chances are, if something is hailed as "uniquely American," then there's a train in there somewhere. + +So how does a culture end up with a mythology built around something most of us have never experienced in any way? + +The answer lies more in what trains represent than their practical reality. Rail travel taps into a very primal part of the American imagination -- that we're all free. And by free I think we mean the idea that there is still some untapped thing out there that we can, at any moment, propel ourselves toward. + +It's part of the belief that there is freedom in travel -- the way parallel tracks converge in the distance offers the promise of the infinite, toward which we are always running. + + + +That's why the mythology of trains is tied up in that of nomadic wanderers. The train-riding hobos of old are the modern vagabonds' spiritual predecessors; travelers who, like the hobos of pop mythology, place more value on the freedom of movement than the accumulation of things (there's also the similarity in bathing habits, but hey, you have to take the bad with the good). + + + +I didn't spend any real time on trains until I got to India, where I spent nearly all my time on trains. + +Train from Trang Thailand to BangkokMy overwhelming memory of India is the Indian railway system, which is simultaneously the most mind-boggling complex thing I have encountered,[2] and also the coolest, most convenient and downright fun way to travel. + +My best memories of India are sitting on the steps of an Indian train car, feeling the rush of air, the thousand foreign smells, watching the scenery pass, from the red mud jungles of the south to the dry barren deserts of Rajasthan. In all I traveled nearly a thousand miles by train in India (and saw no less than four major bus wrecks from the comfort of my train car, which gave me additional motivation to stick to trains). + +The train system is the life blood of India, not only is it the single largest employer in the world, it's how the country moves. + +The vast majority of the Indians I met were fellow rail passengers. The secret is to always travel second class. First is too segregated, you don't meet anyone but army officers and fellow backpackers. Third class is standing room only and generally too crowded to move. Second class is just right. + +In second class train cars I met Indians from all walks of life, from the cobbler's family that asked me to babysit their children and offered me the best samosas I've ever had, to the two teenage aspiring rappers who gave me a full day tour of New Delhi when we arrived. + +Train to Udiapur, Rajasthan, IndiaIndian trains offer something I've rarely found in America -- organic community travel. + +In the west especially, a community of travelers has become little more than businessmen drinking at the Holiday Inn Express bar, or backpackers smoking in some dingy flophouse, or worse, the online communities we mistake for genuine connections between people.[3] + +Trains have become one of the last real manifestations of our longing for something more -- some shared group travel experience that is almost totally lost in American culture. + +I think in the end that's why we mythologize trains, because they harken back to an age of community travel, a real, tangible community of travelers, not just backpackers, but people from all walks of life, people traveling near and far together in a shared space that isn't locked down like an airplane and isn't isolated like a car; it's a shared travel experience and there are precious few of those left in our world. + + +
      +
    1. +

      1. I do remember once as a child taking the train from Santa Ana to San Juan Capistrano to see the swallows, or perhaps the monarch butterflies, that part is hazy, but the train ride I am certain of.↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      2. The single best resource for deciphering train travel and the complexities of timetables is undoubtedly the wonderful Seat 61 website.↩

      +
      3. +
    3. +

      3. Old man internet joke: what's the difference between a 1998 BBS and Facebook? Ten years of rationalizing our isolation.↩

      +
      4. +
    + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/05/how-to-get-your-butt-and-travel-world.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/05/how-to-get-your-butt-and-travel-world.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..79da604 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/05/how-to-get-your-butt-and-travel-world.amp @@ -0,0 +1,265 @@ + + + + + + +How to Get Off Your Butt and Travel the World + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    How to Get Off Your Butt and Travel the World

    + + + +
    +
    +

    How do you make the leap from cubicle daydreams to life on to the road?

    +

    There are plenty of guides on the practicalities of traveling the world -- like planning an itinerary, booking cheap flights or living in hostels -- but sometimes the harder questions go unanswered -- how do you find the courage to travel?

    +

    Even for those that want nothing more than to escape a life of monotony, even for those that hate their jobs, even for those that feel like they have no life and desperately need some excitement, it still isn't easy to actually get on a plane and go.

    +

    I know. I've been there. I decided to travel to world when I was 24. I left to travel the world when I was 29.

    +

    For five years I found excuses to postpone my dreams, not consciously of course, but there was always some excuse to stay. Only years later, once I'd made it all the way to India, did I realize what held me back -- fear born of inertia.

    +

    Inertia is a powerful thing -- both imprisoning and liberating at the same time. The negative aspect is the inertia that imbues our lives in the form of habit. We get up, we go to work, we come home, and the same thing happens the next day.

    +

    The first law of thermodynamics says, more or less, that bodies in crappy ruts tend to remain in crappy ruts.

    +

    The good news is that bodies on the road tend to remain on the road.

    +

    The question is: how do we make inertia work for us rather than against us?

    +

    The answer is that it's going to take some energy. You have to make the change happen. You must decide to save yourself. + +One thing that I think is absolutely key to understand is that traveling doesn't have to be turning your back on your life at home. I don't think of travel as escaping from my life at home (which I like), but as something that enhances and informs the life I live when I return home.

    +

    Eliminate Excuses

    +

    The best way to change your habits is to look at what's stopping you from changing.

    +

    You want to travel the world, but, like me, you have a million excuses stopping you.

    +

    Let's take a look at some common reasons to not travel (this is not an exhaustive list, but it reflects both my experiences and those of people I've met in my travels).

    +

    Most of these reasons (excuses) complete the phrase i'd love to travel the world, but...

    +

    I don't have the money

    +

    Generally speaking this is a less self-indicting way of saying, I already spent the money on something else.

    +

    Very few of us are so poor we can't save money to travel the world. It doesn't take nearly as much money as you think; I spent $12,000 including airfare ($2000), traveling for three months in Europe and seven months in Asia. That averages out to $1,200 a month, far less than most of us spend at home (and for the record I was not pinching pennies as I traveled, I ate well, slept in nice, clean guesthouses and didn't pass on anything I wanted to do just because it was expensive).

    +

    So how do you save for a trip? That depends, but here's a good place to start: stop buying so much stuff. We all spend a shocking amount of money on stuff we don't need, and this is the number one habit to break if you're serious about traveling the world. Live simply and save your money. Here's how Rolf Potts recently addressed the question of money:

    +
    +

    The specifics are less important than your attitude. That is, whatever job you take to travel the world and/or fund your journeys, the most important thing is to stay positive, live simply, and discipline yourself in such a way that you save your money. For my first vagabonding journey around the North America when I was 23, I worked as a landscaper for 8 months. This wasn't a super high-paying job, but by living simply I was able to save enough money to travel the USA by van for eight months.

    +
    +

    My experience was similar, I was running a restaurant kitchen (not a good way to get rich), and I mananged to save the money I needed. To expedite the savings I also did some web development on the side.

    +

    Start a savings account and, instead of buying stuff, put your money in the account. If you're new to saving, check out Get Rich Slowly for some tips and inspiration and The Art of Nonconformity for some reasons why stuff leads to mediocrity, not the sort of life changing experiences we all crave.

    +

    The key to letting go of stuff is realizing how much more valuable experience is -- this is a profound shift of priorities and, in my experience, goes far beyond just saving to travel.

    +

    I'm not big on being frugal, but if you simply eliminate stuff from your life, you'll suddenly discover you have quite a bit of extra money.

    +

    I can't quit my job

    +

    This one is doubly powerful in today's economy.

    +

    There are probably some of you who have found completely fulfilling work and are in the place you should be. I understand that, I haven't done a long trip in three years because I had such a job. But if that was really true, you wouldn't be reading this post.

    +

    And if your job is not fulfilling and not making you feel like you are doing your best work for the world, then there is absolutely nothing to lose by quitting it.

    +

    Think of it this way: the world needs you and you're ignoring it. Working at job you dislike is cheating the world out of your creative genius and passion. Don't be that guy.

    +

    As for the current economic situation... if you're really worried about the long-term viability of your job, then what's the harm in quitting?

    +

    I only speak English

    +

    80 percent of the world is desperately trying to learn something you already know. You're way ahead of the curve here.

    +

    Would it be nice to speak Nepalese and chat with the sherpas by a campfire in Nepal? Absolutely, but trust me, no one is going to hate you because you can't (that said, a phrasebook is always a good idea, just making a tiny effort will get you a long way). I have the utmost respect for those who can learn languages, but I suck at it and it has never gotten in the way of my travels.

    +

    Besides what better way to learn a language than to immerse yourself in the country?

    +

    I'm too old

    +

    No, you're not.

    +

    I'll do that when I'm older

    +

    Sadly, from what I've seen, you probably won't. I've never understood long term deferred gratification -- why would you assume that you will in fact be old? Why take that risk?

    +

    If you've never seen it, watch Rady Pausch's The Last Lecture, which is heartbreaking, but very inspiring as well. And bear in mind one of his central messages: "We don't beat the Reaper by living longer. We beat the Reaper by living well."

    +

    Isn't traveling just running away from my problems?

    +

    Possibly, but not necessarily; you'll never know until you go. Even if you are running, it may not be away, it could easily be toward. There's really no way to answer this one until you go. And don't be afraid to fail. If you head out to travel the world and discover that you absolutely hate it, hey, you can always go home. But you'll never be able to answer that question until you leave.

    +

    I don't have anyone to travel with

    +

    I'm an only child so I'll admit that this one had never actually occurred to me, but I can say that being alone, even being lonely, can be a very healthy experience.

    +

    However, the truth is, unless you willfully decide to be alone, you're going to meet tons of people on the road. Even if you leave home alone, you won't be alone for long (which is both a blessing and curse, depending on your personality).

    +

    Inspire Yourself

    +

    Eliminating your excuses is only half the challenge.

    +

    Excuses are the result of movement in the wrong direction, and to stop moving in the wrong direction is progress, but only so much.

    +

    Once you have stopped your old habits, you must shift directions and move again somewhere new.

    +

    Start with something very simple, like taking a different route to work, ride the bus (which also saves money), walking somewhere you usually drive, or otherwise physically alter the way you see the world around you.

    +

    Start photographing your day, not only will you get a new perspective on things, but if the results are rather dull then you'll have even more inspiration to change.

    +

    Start a journal, write down what you like about your life, what you don't like and how travel is going to change that (this will prove hilarious about halfway through your trip).

    +

    These things might sound silly to you, they might seem unimportant. But traveling is about much more than just going somewhere else; it can offer all variety of life changing experiences, but only if you're ready for them, so get yourself ready by changing before you leave.

    +

    Start Planning

    +

    So you're looking at the world around you a bit differently, now it's time to get serious about this trip you want to do.

    +

    It's time for a concrete plan. The simple action of planning can easily become the inertia you need to propel yourself onto the road.

    +

    Head to your local library and check out some books. Buy them if you must, but remember we're trying eliminating stuff, so try not to buy too many. And don't get guidebooks just yet, pick something like Rolf Potts' book, Vagabonding: An Uncommon Guide to the Art of Long-term World Travel 1 or Edward Hasbrouck's The Practical Nomad: How to Travel Around the World, both are excellent and will inspire you in numerous ways.

    +

    Delve in into the practicalities of living on the road, sell your stuff, rent a storage unit if you really can't part with all of it, get rid of the things that block your path.

    +

    Also start doing some research on how to travel. It sounds silly, but there is an art to traveling. Read travel blogs of those who have gone before you, vagabonding.com is a great site (though it's no longer updated), as is World Hum and Vagabondish.com. Half of what you learn will be wrong and most of your preconceptions will be shot to hell the minute you land, but it doesn't matter, make yourself part of the travel world and eventually you will end up living in it.

    +

    Figure out where you want to go and how you want to get there. I suggest you buy round the world plane tickets, you'll save a lot of money that way, but be sure that your tickets include overland travel as well2. Unless you're hopping islands in the South Pacific, ground travel is almost always cheaper (and infinitely more fun).

    +

    But chances are you will need some plane tickets, so when you're ready to kick your butt in high gear, go ahead and buy them. I used Airtreks, there are others that will work just as well. Or cash in your frequent flyer miles if you have them.

    +

    Buy a ticket, set a date and make the new path real.

    +

    Give notice at work. There are few more personally liberating acts than quitting a job.

    +

    Once you know where you're headed, it's off to the bookstore in your spare time. Read the latest editions of relevant guidebooks, but don't buy any. If you must, buy the guide to the first country you'll visit, wait and buy the rest when on the road.

    +

    But while you're digging through the guidebooks, wander over to the fiction and memoirs sections as well to see if you can find some novels or travel narratives on the area you've chosen. Headed to Asia? Read Graham Green's The Quiet American. Headed to Europe? read Kafka, Dickens or my personal favorite, W.G. Sebald. Headed to South America? Read some Borges, some Marquez or some Neruda. Headed to Central America? Read Arturo Bolano, Ernesto Cardenal or any of the many accounts of the civil wars in the region.

    +

    Here's another one some people will find silly: go have a meal a restaurant that serves food from an area where you're headed.

    +

    Read, eat, sleep and breathe your travel ambitions. Make them real.

    +

    Conclusion

    +

    Congratulations, you've almost made it. By this point you have tickets in hand, you have some idea of what living on the road will be like, you have some gear and maybe you've even have packed. You've kissed the job goodbye, shed the stuff that was holding you back and you're nearly there.

    +

    About the only thing left to do is get on the plane (or bus or train or whatever).

    +

    It's difficult to describe what that will feel like, I've rewritten this sentence about twenty times now and I still can't do it justice. It's a sense of liberation that you will rarely get a chance to feel. Embrace it.

    +

    Not very many people create the opportunities to live out their dreams; think about how lucky you are when you walk down the concourse and step on that plane.

    +

    A Word about Failure

    +

    Not every trip happens. When it's your first trip, failure is hard swallow. But the truth is, there's is no such thing as a failed trip, there are just postponed trips.

    +

    For every long trip I've gone on (and that would really only be two long trips, totaling almost two years of traveling), there's half a dozen well-laid plans that have fallen through for one reason or another. I should be writing this from Paris, but I'm not. I bought a house instead -- I failed to travel to Paris.

    +

    Like anything, travel is the result of choices, sometimes you go, sometimes you don't just yet.

    +

    Don't beat yourself up if your initial plan doesn't work out. Hang a map on the wall, keep saving and eventually you'll get there.

    +

    +
      +
    1. +

      1. Full disclosure: I write for Rolf's vagablogging.net, it's not a paid job and Rolf has never suggested that I pimp his books. I just happen to genuinely think that his book is one of the best meditations on extended, budget travel that's out there.↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      2. One of my only real regrets in my own trip is that I didn't go overland from India to Nepal. I already had the (non-refundable) ticket so I got on the plane. Everyone I've ever talked to loved the journey from India to Kathmandu and I wish I had done it. Next time.↩

      +
      3. +
    +

    [photo credits, from top down: TheFriendlyFiend,stuartpilbrow, mikecolvin82, rileyroxx, Esparta]

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/05/how-to-get-your-butt-and-travel-world.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/05/how-to-get-your-butt-and-travel-world.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bb2275e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/05/how-to-get-your-butt-and-travel-world.html @@ -0,0 +1,469 @@ + + + + + How To Get Off Your Butt And Travel The World - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    How to Get Off Your Butt and Travel the World

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    How do you make the leap from cubicle daydreams to life on to the road?

    +

    There are plenty of guides on the practicalities of traveling the world — like planning an itinerary, booking cheap flights or living in hostels — but sometimes the harder questions go unanswered — how do you find the courage to travel?

    +

    Endless road by TheFriendlyFiend, FlickrEven for those that want nothing more than to escape a life of monotony, even for those that hate their jobs, even for those that feel like they have no life and desperately need some excitement, it still isn’t easy to actually get on a plane and go.

    +

    I know. I’ve been there. I decided to travel to world when I was 24. I left to travel the world when I was 29.

    +

    For five years I found excuses to postpone my dreams, not consciously of course, but there was always some excuse to stay. Only years later, once I’d made it all the way to India, did I realize what held me back — fear born of inertia.

    +

    Inertia is a powerful thing — both imprisoning and liberating at the same time. The negative aspect is the inertia that imbues our lives in the form of habit. We get up, we go to work, we come home, and the same thing happens the next day.

    +

    The first law of thermodynamics says, more or less, that bodies in crappy ruts tend to remain in crappy ruts.

    +

    The good news is that bodies on the road tend to remain on the road.

    +

    The question is: how do we make inertia work for us rather than against us?

    +

    The answer is that it’s going to take some energy. You have to make the change happen. You must decide to save yourself. + +One thing that I think is absolutely key to understand is that traveling doesn’t have to be turning your back on your life at home. I don’t think of travel as escaping from my life at home (which I like), but as something that enhances and informs the life I live when I return home.

    +

    Eliminate Excuses

    +

    The best way to change your habits is to look at what’s stopping you from changing.

    +

    You want to travel the world, but, like me, you have a million excuses stopping you.

    +

    Let’s take a look at some common reasons to not travel (this is not an exhaustive list, but it reflects both my experiences and those of people I’ve met in my travels).

    +

    Most of these reasons (excuses) complete the phrase i’d love to travel the world, but…

    +

    I don’t have the money

    +

    Generally speaking this is a less self-indicting way of saying, I already spent the money on something else.

    +

    Money...What Money, by stuartpilbrow, FlickrVery few of us are so poor we can’t save money to travel the world. It doesn’t take nearly as much money as you think; I spent $12,000 including airfare ($2000), traveling for three months in Europe and seven months in Asia. That averages out to $1,200 a month, far less than most of us spend at home (and for the record I was not pinching pennies as I traveled, I ate well, slept in nice, clean guesthouses and didn’t pass on anything I wanted to do just because it was expensive).

    +

    So how do you save for a trip? That depends, but here’s a good place to start: stop buying so much stuff. We all spend a shocking amount of money on stuff we don’t need, and this is the number one habit to break if you’re serious about traveling the world. Live simply and save your money. Here’s how Rolf Potts recently addressed the question of money:

    +
    +

    The specifics are less important than your attitude. That is, whatever job you take to travel the world and/or fund your journeys, the most important thing is to stay positive, live simply, and discipline yourself in such a way that you save your money. For my first vagabonding journey around the North America when I was 23, I worked as a landscaper for 8 months. This wasn’t a super high-paying job, but by living simply I was able to save enough money to travel the USA by van for eight months.

    +
    +

    My experience was similar, I was running a restaurant kitchen (not a good way to get rich), and I mananged to save the money I needed. To expedite the savings I also did some web development on the side.

    +

    Start a savings account and, instead of buying stuff, put your money in the account. If you’re new to saving, check out Get Rich Slowly for some tips and inspiration and The Art of Nonconformity for some reasons why stuff leads to mediocrity, not the sort of life changing experiences we all crave.

    +

    The key to letting go of stuff is realizing how much more valuable experience is — this is a profound shift of priorities and, in my experience, goes far beyond just saving to travel.

    +

    I’m not big on being frugal, but if you simply eliminate stuff from your life, you’ll suddenly discover you have quite a bit of extra money.

    +

    I can’t quit my job

    +

    This one is doubly powerful in today’s economy.

    +

    I HATE MY JOB by mikecolvin82, FlickrThere are probably some of you who have found completely fulfilling work and are in the place you should be. I understand that, I haven’t done a long trip in three years because I had such a job. But if that was really true, you wouldn’t be reading this post.

    +

    And if your job is not fulfilling and not making you feel like you are doing your best work for the world, then there is absolutely nothing to lose by quitting it.

    +

    Think of it this way: the world needs you and you’re ignoring it. Working at job you dislike is cheating the world out of your creative genius and passion. Don’t be that guy.

    +

    As for the current economic situation… if you’re really worried about the long-term viability of your job, then what’s the harm in quitting?

    +

    I only speak English

    +

    80 percent of the world is desperately trying to learn something you already know. You’re way ahead of the curve here.

    +

    Would it be nice to speak Nepalese and chat with the sherpas by a campfire in Nepal? Absolutely, but trust me, no one is going to hate you because you can’t (that said, a phrasebook is always a good idea, just making a tiny effort will get you a long way). I have the utmost respect for those who can learn languages, but I suck at it and it has never gotten in the way of my travels.

    +

    Besides what better way to learn a language than to immerse yourself in the country?

    +

    I’m too old

    +

    No, you’re not.

    +

    I’ll do that when I’m older

    +

    Old People Sign by rileyroxx, FlickrSadly, from what I’ve seen, you probably won’t. I’ve never understood long term deferred gratification — why would you assume that you will in fact be old? Why take that risk?

    +

    If you’ve never seen it, watch Rady Pausch’s The Last Lecture, which is heartbreaking, but very inspiring as well. And bear in mind one of his central messages: “We don’t beat the Reaper by living longer. We beat the Reaper by living well.”

    +

    Isn’t traveling just running away from my problems?

    +

    Possibly, but not necessarily; you’ll never know until you go. Even if you are running, it may not be away, it could easily be toward. There’s really no way to answer this one until you go. And don’t be afraid to fail. If you head out to travel the world and discover that you absolutely hate it, hey, you can always go home. But you’ll never be able to answer that question until you leave.

    +

    I don’t have anyone to travel with

    +

    I’m an only child so I’ll admit that this one had never actually occurred to me, but I can say that being alone, even being lonely, can be a very healthy experience.

    +

    However, the truth is, unless you willfully decide to be alone, you’re going to meet tons of people on the road. Even if you leave home alone, you won’t be alone for long (which is both a blessing and curse, depending on your personality).

    +

    Inspire Yourself

    +

    Eliminating your excuses is only half the challenge.

    +

    Excuses are the result of movement in the wrong direction, and to stop moving in the wrong direction is progress, but only so much.

    +

    Once you have stopped your old habits, you must shift directions and move again somewhere new.

    +

    Start with something very simple, like taking a different route to work, ride the bus (which also saves money), walking somewhere you usually drive, or otherwise physically alter the way you see the world around you.

    +

    I used to have Super Human Powers by Esparta, FlickrStart photographing your day, not only will you get a new perspective on things, but if the results are rather dull then you’ll have even more inspiration to change.

    +

    Start a journal, write down what you like about your life, what you don’t like and how travel is going to change that (this will prove hilarious about halfway through your trip).

    +

    These things might sound silly to you, they might seem unimportant. But traveling is about much more than just going somewhere else; it can offer all variety of life changing experiences, but only if you’re ready for them, so get yourself ready by changing before you leave.

    +

    Start Planning

    +

    So you’re looking at the world around you a bit differently, now it’s time to get serious about this trip you want to do.

    +

    It’s time for a concrete plan. The simple action of planning can easily become the inertia you need to propel yourself onto the road.

    +

    Head to your local library and check out some books. Buy them if you must, but remember we’re trying eliminating stuff, so try not to buy too many. And don’t get guidebooks just yet, pick something like Rolf Potts’ book, Vagabonding: An Uncommon Guide to the Art of Long-term World Travel 1 or Edward Hasbrouck’s The Practical Nomad: How to Travel Around the World, both are excellent and will inspire you in numerous ways.

    +

    Delve in into the practicalities of living on the road, sell your stuff, rent a storage unit if you really can’t part with all of it, get rid of the things that block your path.

    +

    Also start doing some research on how to travel. It sounds silly, but there is an art to traveling. Read travel blogs of those who have gone before you, vagabonding.com is a great site (though it’s no longer updated), as is World Hum and Vagabondish.com. Half of what you learn will be wrong and most of your preconceptions will be shot to hell the minute you land, but it doesn’t matter, make yourself part of the travel world and eventually you will end up living in it.

    +

    Figure out where you want to go and how you want to get there. I suggest you buy round the world plane tickets, you’ll save a lot of money that way, but be sure that your tickets include overland travel as well2. Unless you’re hopping islands in the South Pacific, ground travel is almost always cheaper (and infinitely more fun).

    +

    But chances are you will need some plane tickets, so when you’re ready to kick your butt in high gear, go ahead and buy them. I used Airtreks, there are others that will work just as well. Or cash in your frequent flyer miles if you have them.

    +

    Buy a ticket, set a date and make the new path real.

    +

    Give notice at work. There are few more personally liberating acts than quitting a job.

    +

    Once you know where you’re headed, it’s off to the bookstore in your spare time. Read the latest editions of relevant guidebooks, but don’t buy any. If you must, buy the guide to the first country you’ll visit, wait and buy the rest when on the road.

    +

    But while you’re digging through the guidebooks, wander over to the fiction and memoirs sections as well to see if you can find some novels or travel narratives on the area you’ve chosen. Headed to Asia? Read Graham Green’s The Quiet American. Headed to Europe? read Kafka, Dickens or my personal favorite, W.G. Sebald. Headed to South America? Read some Borges, some Marquez or some Neruda. Headed to Central America? Read Arturo Bolano, Ernesto Cardenal or any of the many accounts of the civil wars in the region.

    +

    Here’s another one some people will find silly: go have a meal a restaurant that serves food from an area where you’re headed.

    +

    Read, eat, sleep and breathe your travel ambitions. Make them real.

    +

    Conclusion

    +

    Congratulations, you’ve almost made it. By this point you have tickets in hand, you have some idea of what living on the road will be like, you have some gear and maybe you’ve even have packed. You’ve kissed the job goodbye, shed the stuff that was holding you back and you’re nearly there.

    +

    About the only thing left to do is get on the plane (or bus or train or whatever).

    +

    It’s difficult to describe what that will feel like, I’ve rewritten this sentence about twenty times now and I still can’t do it justice. It’s a sense of liberation that you will rarely get a chance to feel. Embrace it.

    +

    Not very many people create the opportunities to live out their dreams; think about how lucky you are when you walk down the concourse and step on that plane.

    +

    A Word about Failure

    +

    Not every trip happens. When it’s your first trip, failure is hard swallow. But the truth is, there’s is no such thing as a failed trip, there are just postponed trips.

    +

    For every long trip I’ve gone on (and that would really only be two long trips, totaling almost two years of traveling), there’s half a dozen well-laid plans that have fallen through for one reason or another. I should be writing this from Paris, but I’m not. I bought a house instead — I failed to travel to Paris.

    +

    Like anything, travel is the result of choices, sometimes you go, sometimes you don’t just yet.

    +

    Don’t beat yourself up if your initial plan doesn’t work out. Hang a map on the wall, keep saving and eventually you’ll get there.

    +

    +
      +
    1. +

      1. Full disclosure: I write for Rolf’s vagablogging.net, it’s not a paid job and Rolf has never suggested that I pimp his books. I just happen to genuinely think that his book is one of the best meditations on extended, budget travel that’s out there.↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      2. One of my only real regrets in my own trip is that I didn’t go overland from India to Nepal. I already had the (non-refundable) ticket so I got on the plane. Everyone I’ve ever talked to loved the journey from India to Kathmandu and I wish I had done it. Next time.↩

      +
      3. +

    +

    [photo credits, from top down: TheFriendlyFiend,stuartpilbrow, mikecolvin82, rileyroxx, Esparta]

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/05/how-to-get-your-butt-and-travel-world.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/05/how-to-get-your-butt-and-travel-world.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7fe90cc --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/05/how-to-get-your-butt-and-travel-world.txt @@ -0,0 +1,193 @@ +How to Get Off Your Butt and Travel the World +============================================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 03 May 2009 + +How do you make the leap from cubicle daydreams to life on to the road? + +There are plenty of guides on the practicalities of traveling the world -- like planning an itinerary, booking cheap flights or living in hostels -- but sometimes the harder questions go unanswered -- how do you find the courage to travel? + +[Endless road by TheFriendlyFiend, Flickr][8]Even for those that want nothing more than to escape a life of monotony, even for those that hate their jobs, even for those that feel like they have no life and desperately need some excitement, it still isn't easy to actually get on a plane and go. + +I know. I've been there. I decided to travel to world when I was 24. I left to travel the world when I was 29. + +For five years I found excuses to postpone my dreams, not consciously of course, but there was always some excuse to stay. Only years later, once I'd made it all the way to India, did I realize what held me back -- **fear born of inertia**. + +Inertia is a powerful thing -- both imprisoning and liberating at the same time. The negative aspect is the inertia that imbues our lives in the form of habit. We get up, we go to work, we come home, and the same thing happens the next day. + +The first law of thermodynamics says, more or less, that bodies in crappy ruts tend to remain in crappy ruts. + +The good news is that bodies on the road tend to remain on the road. + +The question is: how do we make inertia work for us rather than against us? + +The answer is that it's going to take some energy. You have to make the change happen. You must decide to save yourself. + +One thing that I think is absolutely key to understand is that traveling doesn't have to be turning your back on your life at home. I don't think of travel as escaping from my life at home (which I like), but as something that enhances and informs the life I live when I return home. + +###Eliminate Excuses + +The best way to change your habits is to look at what's stopping you from changing. + +You want to travel the world, but, like me, you have a million excuses stopping you. + +Let's take a look at some common reasons to not travel (this is not an exhaustive list, but it reflects both my experiences and those of people I've met in my travels). + +Most of these reasons (excuses) complete the phrase *i'd love to travel the world, but...* + +**I don't have the money** + +Generally speaking this is a less self-indicting way of saying, *I already spent the money on something else*. + +[Money...What Money, by stuartpilbrow, Flickr][9]Very few of us are so poor we can't save money to travel the world. It doesn't take nearly as much money as you think; I spent $12,000 including airfare ($2000), traveling for three months in Europe and seven months in Asia. That averages out to $1,200 a month, far less than most of us spend at home (and for the record I was not pinching pennies as I traveled, I ate well, slept in nice, clean guesthouses and didn't pass on anything I wanted to do just because it was expensive). + +So how do you save for a trip? That depends, but here's a good place to start: **stop buying so much stuff**. We all spend a shocking amount of money on stuff we don't need, and this is the number one habit to break if you're serious about traveling the world. Live simply and save your money. Here's how [Rolf Potts recently addressed the question of money][7]: + +>The specifics are less important than your attitude. That is, whatever job you take to travel the world and/or fund your journeys, the most important thing is to stay positive, live simply, and discipline yourself in such a way that you save your money. For my first vagabonding journey around the North America when I was 23, I worked as a landscaper for 8 months. This wasn't a super high-paying job, but by living simply I was able to save enough money to travel the USA by van for eight months. + +My experience was similar, I was running a restaurant kitchen (not a good way to get rich), and I mananged to save the money I needed. To expedite the savings I also did some web development on the side. + +Start a savings account and, instead of buying stuff, put your money in the account. If you're new to saving, check out [Get Rich Slowly][111] for some tips and inspiration and [The Art of Nonconformity][222] for some reasons why stuff leads to mediocrity, not the sort of life changing experiences we all crave. + +The key to letting go of stuff is realizing how much more valuable experience is -- this is a profound shift of priorities and, in my experience, goes far beyond just saving to travel. + +I'm not big on being frugal, but if you simply eliminate stuff from your life, you'll suddenly discover you have quite a bit of extra money. + +**I can't quit my job** + +This one is doubly powerful in today's economy. + +[I HATE MY JOB by mikecolvin82, Flickr][10]There are probably some of you who have found completely fulfilling work and are in the place you should be. I understand that, I haven't done a long trip in three years because I had such a job. But if that was really true, you wouldn't be reading this post. + +And if your job is not fulfilling and not making you feel like you are doing your best work for the world, then there is absolutely nothing to lose by quitting it. + +Think of it this way: the world needs you and you're ignoring it. Working at job you dislike is cheating the world out of your creative genius and passion. Don't be that guy. + +As for the current economic situation... if you're really worried about the long-term viability of your job, then what's the harm in quitting? + +**I only speak English** + +80 percent of the world is desperately trying to learn something you already know. You're way ahead of the curve here. + +Would it be nice to speak Nepalese and chat with the sherpas by a campfire in Nepal? Absolutely, but trust me, no one is going to hate you because you can't (that said, a phrasebook is always a good idea, just making a tiny effort will get you a long way). I have the utmost respect for those who can learn languages, but I suck at it and it has never gotten in the way of my travels. + +Besides what better way to learn a language than to immerse yourself in the country? + +**I'm too old** + +No, you're not. + +**I'll do that when I'm older** + +[Old People Sign by rileyroxx, Flickr][11]Sadly, from what I've seen, you probably won't. I've never understood long term deferred gratification -- why would you assume that you will in fact be old? Why take that risk? + +If you've never seen it, watch Rady Pausch's [The Last Lecture][1], which is heartbreaking, but very inspiring as well. And bear in mind one of his central messages: "We don't beat the Reaper by living longer. We beat the Reaper by living well." + + +**Isn't traveling just running away from my problems?** + +Possibly, but not necessarily; you'll never know until you go. Even if you are running, it may not be away, it could easily be toward. There's really no way to answer this one until you go. And don't be afraid to fail. If you head out to travel the world and discover that you absolutely hate it, hey, you can always go home. But you'll never be able to answer that question until you leave. + +**I don't have anyone to travel with** + +I'm an only child so I'll admit that this one had never actually occurred to me, but I can say that being alone, even being lonely, can be a very healthy experience. + +However, the truth is, unless you willfully decide to be alone, you're going to meet tons of people on the road. Even if you leave home alone, you won't be alone for long (which is both a blessing and curse, depending on your personality). + + +###Inspire Yourself + +Eliminating your excuses is only half the challenge. + +Excuses are the result of movement in the wrong direction, and to stop moving in the wrong direction is progress, but only so much. + +Once you have stopped your old habits, you must shift directions and move again somewhere new. + +Start with something very simple, like taking a different route to work, ride the bus (which also saves money), walking somewhere you usually drive, or otherwise physically alter the way you see the world around you. + +[I used to have Super Human Powers by Esparta, Flickr][12]Start photographing your day, not only will you get a new perspective on things, but if the results are rather dull then you'll have even more inspiration to change. + +Start a journal, write down what you like about your life, what you don't like and how travel is going to change that (this will prove hilarious about halfway through your trip). + +These things might sound silly to you, they might seem unimportant. But traveling is about much more than just going somewhere else; it can offer all variety of life changing experiences, but only if you're ready for them, so get yourself ready by changing *before* you leave. + +###Start Planning + +So you're looking at the world around you a bit differently, now it's time to get serious about this trip you want to do. + +It's time for a concrete plan. The simple action of planning can easily become the inertia you need to propel yourself onto the road. + +Head to your local library and check out some books. Buy them if you must, but remember we're trying eliminating stuff, so try not to buy too many. And don't get guidebooks just yet, pick something like Rolf Potts' book, [Vagabonding: An Uncommon Guide to the Art of Long-term World Travel][2] [1] or Edward Hasbrouck's [The Practical Nomad: How to Travel Around the World][3], both are excellent and will inspire you in numerous ways. + +Delve in into the practicalities of living on the road, sell your stuff, rent a storage unit if you really can't part with all of it, get rid of the things that block your path. + +Also start doing some research on how to travel. It sounds silly, but there is an art to traveling. Read travel blogs of those who have gone before you, [vagabonding.com][4] is a great site (though it's no longer updated), as is [World Hum][5] and [Vagabondish.com.][6] Half of what you learn will be wrong and most of your preconceptions will be shot to hell the minute you land, but it doesn't matter, make yourself part of the travel world and eventually you will end up living in it. + +Figure out where you want to go and how you want to get there. I suggest you buy round the world plane tickets, you'll save a lot of money that way, but be sure that your tickets include overland travel as well[2]. Unless you're hopping islands in the South Pacific, ground travel is almost always cheaper (and infinitely more fun). + +But chances are you will need some plane tickets, so when you're ready to kick your butt in high gear, go ahead and buy them. I used Airtreks, there are others that will work just as well. Or cash in your frequent flyer miles if you have them. + +Buy a ticket, set a date and make the new path real. + +Give notice at work. There are few more personally liberating acts than quitting a job. + +Once you know where you're headed, it's off to the bookstore in your spare time. Read the latest editions of relevant guidebooks, but don't buy any. If you must, buy the guide to the first country you'll visit, wait and buy the rest when on the road. + +But while you're digging through the guidebooks, wander over to the fiction and memoirs sections as well to see if you can find some novels or travel narratives on the area you've chosen. Headed to Asia? Read Graham Green's The Quiet American. Headed to Europe? read Kafka, Dickens or my personal favorite, W.G. Sebald. Headed to South America? Read some Borges, some Marquez or some Neruda. Headed to Central America? Read Arturo Bolano, Ernesto Cardenal or any of the many accounts of the civil wars in the region. + +Here's another one some people will find silly: go have a meal a restaurant that serves food from an area where you're headed. + +Read, eat, sleep and breathe your travel ambitions. Make them real. + +###Conclusion + +Congratulations, you've almost made it. By this point you have tickets in hand, you have some idea of what living on the road will be like, you have some gear and maybe you've even have packed. You've kissed the job goodbye, shed the stuff that was holding you back and you're nearly there. + +About the only thing left to do is get on the plane (or bus or train or whatever). + +It's difficult to describe what that will feel like, I've rewritten this sentence about twenty times now and I still can't do it justice. It's a sense of liberation that you will rarely get a chance to feel. Embrace it. + +Not very many people create the opportunities to live out their dreams; think about how lucky you are when you walk down the concourse and step on that plane. + +###A Word about Failure + +Not every trip happens. When it's your first trip, failure is hard swallow. But the truth is, there's is no such thing as a failed trip, there are just postponed trips. + +For every long trip I've gone on (and that would really only be two long trips, totaling almost two years of traveling), there's half a dozen well-laid plans that have fallen through for one reason or another. I should be writing this from Paris, but I'm not. I bought a house instead -- I failed to travel to Paris. + +Like anything, travel is the result of choices, sometimes you go, sometimes you don't just yet. + +Don't beat yourself up if your initial plan doesn't work out. Hang a map on the wall, keep saving and eventually you'll get there. + + +
    +
      +
    1. +

      1. Full disclosure: I write for Rolf's vagablogging.net, it's not a paid job and Rolf has never suggested that I pimp his books. I just happen to genuinely think that his book is one of the best meditations on extended, budget travel that's out there.↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      2. One of my only real regrets in my own trip is that I didn't go overland from India to Nepal. I already had the (non-refundable) ticket so I got on the plane. Everyone I've ever talked to loved the journey from India to Kathmandu and I wish I had done it. Next time.↩

      +
      3. +
    + + +

    [photo credits, from top down: TheFriendlyFiend,stuartpilbrow, mikecolvin82, rileyroxx, Esparta]

    + + + +[1]: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ji5_MqicxSo +[2]: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0812992180?ie=UTF8&tag=librograf-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0812992180 +[3]: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1566918286?ie=UTF8&tag=librograf-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=1566918286 +[4]: http://www.vagabonding.com/ +[5]: http://www.worldhum.com/ +[6]: http://www.vagabondish.com/ +[7]: http://www.vagablogging.net/3727.html +[8]: http://www.flickr.com/photos/98063470@N00/326044514/ +[9]: http://www.flickr.com/photos/stuartpilbrow/2942333106/ +[10]: http://www.flickr.com/photos/mikecolvin82/730140838/ +[11]: http://www.flickr.com/photos/rileyroxx/151985627/ +[12]: http://www.flickr.com/photos/esparta/482348262/ +[111]: http://www.getrichslowly.org/blog/ +[222]: http://chrisguillebeau.com/3x5/ diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/05/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/05/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0890cd3 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/05/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,104 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: May 2009

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f801d8d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2009/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,116 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    2009, on luxagraf

    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/03/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/03/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..60e47d0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/03/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,104 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: March 2010

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/03/so-far-i-have-not-found-science.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/03/so-far-i-have-not-found-science.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ce17b92 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/03/so-far-i-have-not-found-science.amp @@ -0,0 +1,218 @@ + + + + + + +So Far, I Have Not Found The Science + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    So Far, I Have Not Found The Science

    + + + +
    +
    +

    Kingfisher Landing, on the edge of the Okefenokee Swamp, is quiet. A few warblers are flitting around in the fetterbush and holly-like shrubs that line the channel around the put in. I unroll a sleeping pad and stretch out in the sun. It's the first warm day I've seen in months.

    +

    Eventually the others return from the car shuttle run. Gear piles into the canoes and we after it.

    +

    The swamp water is inky black here. Dead still everywhere.

    +

    +

    When the water becomes shallower on day two it reveals its true colors, a deep cinnamon red that's often compared to well-steeped Earl Grey tea. The color comes from the acid in the myriad decaying plants. The stillness comes from something else.

    +

    The water is so still that even following another canoe, provided you hang back a hundred yards, the water never appears disturbed -- the ripples of previous paddles quickly fade, absorbed into the marshland around the narrow channels.

    +

    It isn't more than a couple of hours paddling before we run across the first alligator, sunning itself on a boggy patch of mud, one of the countless floating islands of the swamp.

    +

    Some of these islands are hardly worthy of the name, a patch of mud barely big enough to support a six-foot alligator, others are immense, supporting swamp cypress, pines and who knows what else lurking deep in the impenetrable thickets of grass and shrubs and undergrowth.

    +

    Okefenokee is a Creek Indian word, O-ke-fin-o-cau, "Land of the Trembling Earth."

    +

    Standing on the islands would be akin to walking on a waterbed. Full of alligators. None of us try it.

    +

    Our route through the swamp takes us mainly through the prairie areas -- grasses and sedges with patches of peat, water lilies starting to bloom, clumps of pitcher plants luring unsuspecting insects.

    +

    +

    The first two days we see no one. Once, as the channel swings back toward the edge of the swamp we hear distant murmur of a train whistle. The rest of the time the only sounds are the splash of paddles in the water. The cries of Red Tailed Hawks, Wood Ducks and Cowbirds. The occasional groan of an alligator.

    +

    In the evenings Ibis and Sand Hill Cranes can be heard calling in the shadows of larger islands. The silhouettes of Sand Hills glide across the horizon, their enormous wingspans black against the orange of the setting sun.

    +

    +

    We paddle for six hours a day. Muscles complain. The shoulders, the triceps, the back. Something called the rotator cuff. It is hard not to suddenly wonder about the exact names of these new pinpoints of pain, muscles previously unaccounted for in daily activities.

    +

    The aches start in the shoulders and generally cascades down the back. But it's bearable. An acceptable trade off for solitude, Sand Hills and a land of trembling earth.

    +

    When the channel narrows and weaves through the dense thickets of forest on day two, our pace slows to only one mile an hour. Otherwise we are able to do two, even three at times, depending on midday beer consumption.

    +

    The last night a smallish alligator, no bigger than your leg really, shows up right around dinner time, circling the front of the platform in what looks like a reptilian attempt to beg for food. At some point the alligator has no doubt been fed a leftover clump of cold pasta, a extra Oreo cookie or some other paddler morsel and is now attempting, as best its species can, to beg for more.

    +

    Strange though it might sound, it's hard not to find the alligator (hereafter, Steve), well, scaly yes, but also somehow strangely, yes, perhaps even cute.

    +

    +

    It's likewise difficult to not regard Steve's dark watery eyes, nearly unblinking in their stare, as quite simply curious. An alligator in the midst of teenage curiosity and rebellion.

    +

    It's hard not to anthropomorphize. It's also hard not to see any single alligator as possessing the entire history of the species. True, Steve in particular has not been alive since the Late Cretaceous Age, but the species has. It found its niche and did so well that evolution decided it was done, perfection attained, no need for further change. And it survived shifting continents, disappearing oceans, possibly comets, ice ages and all other manner of geologic apocalypse.

    +

    Alligators are one of the only living links back to the dinosaurs. 100 million odd years of continuous existence on earth.

    +

    There is something Zen-like about the alligator. A creature which has not only not changed in 100 million years, but found a way to spend the majority of its day simply lying in the sun, eating when it wants, doing nothing when it wants.

    +

    It is the apex of evolution in many ways. Perhaps not the top, perhaps not the goal, but nevertheless able to be here now, then, and like the swamp itself, perhaps here forever.

    +

    In the mean time, we will have to move on.

    +

    Assorted notes and further thoughts:

    +
    +
    to the person or persons who complained in the registration book at the Bluff Lake shelter that some "jerks" left a large bundle of plastic piled under the cooking table
    +
    The "jerks" are the rangers who left it there so your hemp sleeping bag won't get wet should the rain become horizontal. Are you by chance the owners of the DIY wooden camper we saw in the parking lot with the license plate VEGANS?
    +
    to people buying things made of alligator skin.
    +
    Desist.
    +
    to the only live armadillo I have ever seen, which was running at breakneck speed toward the very cars and highway that reduced its brethren to the far more familiar smear of blood and guts and flattened shell
    +
    Stop.
    +
    to the very loud, very drunk retirees camping in the monstrous bus-size vehicle near the water at Laura Walker state park who quite clearly were not worried what the neighbors might think
    +
    Rock on.
    +
    to the wonderful people of Stinton's barbecue in Lumber City, Georgia
    +
    The ribs were delicious. We hope that Mrs _____ finds a buyer for her land and that coons are not too much trouble (we can't help thinking six acres for $20,000 is a steal, inquire within). We do not, however, think that the girl sitting at the table by the windows was really old enough to get married. We are assuming this is some sort of inside joke played on passersby like ourselves. In any case, the mustard sauce was excellent.
    +
    to the person or persons who erected the dogmatic, and frankly, quite alarming, religious billboards in Lumber City
    +
    We are concerned about your soul and hope that your view of humanity is soon profoundly improved by something beautiful.
    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/03/so-far-i-have-not-found-science.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/03/so-far-i-have-not-found-science.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e44aa39 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/03/so-far-i-have-not-found-science.html @@ -0,0 +1,403 @@ + + + + + So Far, I Have Not Found The Science - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    So Far, I Have Not Found The Science

    + +
    +
    +

    Okefenokee Swamp, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Kingfisher Landing, on the edge of the Okefenokee Swamp, is quiet. A few warblers are flitting around in the fetterbush and holly-like shrubs that line the channel around the put in. I unroll a sleeping pad and stretch out in the sun. It’s the first warm day I’ve seen in months.

    +

    Eventually the others return from the car shuttle run. Gear piles into the canoes and we after it.

    +

    The swamp water is inky black here. Dead still everywhere.

    +

    Kingfisher Channel, Okefenokee Swamp

    +

    When the water becomes shallower on day two it reveals its true colors, a deep cinnamon red that’s often compared to well-steeped Earl Grey tea. The color comes from the acid in the myriad decaying plants. The stillness comes from something else.

    +

    The water is so still that even following another canoe, provided you hang back a hundred yards, the water never appears disturbed — the ripples of previous paddles quickly fade, absorbed into the marshland around the narrow channels.

    +

    It isn’t more than a couple of hours paddling before we run across the first alligator, sunning itself on a boggy patch of mud, one of the countless floating islands of the swamp.

    +

    Some of these islands are hardly worthy of the name, a patch of mud barely big enough to support a six-foot alligator, others are immense, supporting swamp cypress, pines and who knows what else lurking deep in the impenetrable thickets of grass and shrubs and undergrowth.

    +

    Okefenokee is a Creek Indian word, O-ke-fin-o-cau, “Land of the Trembling Earth.”

    +

    Standing on the islands would be akin to walking on a waterbed. Full of alligators. None of us try it.

    +

    Our route through the swamp takes us mainly through the prairie areas — grasses and sedges with patches of peat, water lilies starting to bloom, clumps of pitcher plants luring unsuspecting insects.

    +

    Matt paddling a canoe, Okefenokee Swamp

    +

    The first two days we see no one. Once, as the channel swings back toward the edge of the swamp we hear distant murmur of a train whistle. The rest of the time the only sounds are the splash of paddles in the water. The cries of Red Tailed Hawks, Wood Ducks and Cowbirds. The occasional groan of an alligator.

    +

    In the evenings Ibis and Sand Hill Cranes can be heard calling in the shadows of larger islands. The silhouettes of Sand Hills glide across the horizon, their enormous wingspans black against the orange of the setting sun.

    +

    Sunset at Bluff Lake, Okefenokee Swamp

    +

    We paddle for six hours a day. Muscles complain. The shoulders, the triceps, the back. Something called the rotator cuff. It is hard not to suddenly wonder about the exact names of these new pinpoints of pain, muscles previously unaccounted for in daily activities.

    +

    The aches start in the shoulders and generally cascades down the back. But it’s bearable. An acceptable trade off for solitude, Sand Hills and a land of trembling earth.

    +

    When the channel narrows and weaves through the dense thickets of forest on day two, our pace slows to only one mile an hour. Otherwise we are able to do two, even three at times, depending on midday beer consumption.

    +

    The last night a smallish alligator, no bigger than your leg really, shows up right around dinner time, circling the front of the platform in what looks like a reptilian attempt to beg for food. At some point the alligator has no doubt been fed a leftover clump of cold pasta, a extra Oreo cookie or some other paddler morsel and is now attempting, as best its species can, to beg for more.

    +

    Strange though it might sound, it’s hard not to find the alligator (hereafter, Steve), well, scaly yes, but also somehow strangely, yes, perhaps even cute.

    +

    Alligator, Roundtop Shelter, Okefenokee Swamp

    +

    It’s likewise difficult to not regard Steve’s dark watery eyes, nearly unblinking in their stare, as quite simply curious. An alligator in the midst of teenage curiosity and rebellion.

    +

    It’s hard not to anthropomorphize. It’s also hard not to see any single alligator as possessing the entire history of the species. True, Steve in particular has not been alive since the Late Cretaceous Age, but the species has. It found its niche and did so well that evolution decided it was done, perfection attained, no need for further change. And it survived shifting continents, disappearing oceans, possibly comets, ice ages and all other manner of geologic apocalypse.

    +

    Alligators are one of the only living links back to the dinosaurs. 100 million odd years of continuous existence on earth.

    +

    There is something Zen-like about the alligator. A creature which has not only not changed in 100 million years, but found a way to spend the majority of its day simply lying in the sun, eating when it wants, doing nothing when it wants.

    +

    It is the apex of evolution in many ways. Perhaps not the top, perhaps not the goal, but nevertheless able to be here now, then, and like the swamp itself, perhaps here forever.

    +

    In the mean time, we will have to move on.

    +

    Assorted notes and further thoughts:

    + +
    + +
    to the person or persons who complained in the registration book at the Bluff Lake shelter that some “jerks” left a large bundle of plastic piled under the cooking table
    + +
    The “jerks” are the rangers who left it there so your hemp sleeping bag won’t get wet should the rain become horizontal. Are you by chance the owners of the DIY wooden camper we saw in the parking lot with the license plate VEGANS?
    + +
    to people buying things made of alligator skin.
    + +
    Desist.
    + +
    to the only live armadillo I have ever seen, which was running at breakneck speed toward the very cars and highway that reduced its brethren to the far more familiar smear of blood and guts and flattened shell
    + +
    Stop.
    + +
    to the very loud, very drunk retirees camping in the monstrous bus-size vehicle near the water at Laura Walker state park who quite clearly were not worried what the neighbors might think
    + +
    Rock on.
    + +
    to the wonderful people of Stinton’s barbecue in Lumber City, Georgia
    + +
    The ribs were delicious. We hope that Mrs _____ finds a buyer for her land and that coons are not too much trouble (we can’t help thinking six acres for $20,000 is a steal, inquire within). We do not, however, think that the girl sitting at the table by the windows was really old enough to get married. We are assuming this is some sort of inside joke played on passersby like ourselves. In any case, the mustard sauce was excellent.
    + +
    to the person or persons who erected the dogmatic, and frankly, quite alarming, religious billboards in Lumber City
    + +
    We are concerned about your soul and hope that your view of humanity is soon profoundly improved by something beautiful.
    + +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/03/so-far-i-have-not-found-science.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/03/so-far-i-have-not-found-science.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2f27dde --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/03/so-far-i-have-not-found-science.txt @@ -0,0 +1,94 @@ +So Far, I Have Not Found The Science +==================================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 13 March 2010 + +Kingfisher Landing, on the edge of the Okefenokee Swamp, is quiet. A few warblers are flitting around in the fetterbush and holly-like shrubs that line the channel around the put in. I unroll a sleeping pad and stretch out in the sun. It's the first warm day I've seen in months. + +Eventually the others return from the car shuttle run. Gear piles into the canoes and we after it. + +The swamp water is inky black here. Dead still everywhere. + +Kingfisher Channel, Okefenokee Swamp + +When the water becomes shallower on day two it reveals its true colors, a deep cinnamon red that's often compared to well-steeped Earl Grey tea. The color comes from the acid in the myriad decaying plants. The stillness comes from something else. + +The water is so still that even following another canoe, provided you hang back a hundred yards, the water never appears disturbed -- the ripples of previous paddles quickly fade, absorbed into the marshland around the narrow channels. + +It isn't more than a couple of hours paddling before we run across the first alligator, sunning itself on a boggy patch of mud, one of the countless floating islands of the swamp. + +Some of these islands are hardly worthy of the name, a patch of mud barely big enough to support a six-foot alligator, others are immense, supporting swamp cypress, pines and who knows what else lurking deep in the impenetrable thickets of grass and shrubs and undergrowth. + +Okefenokee is a Creek Indian word, O-ke-fin-o-cau, "Land of the Trembling Earth." + +Standing on the islands would be akin to walking on a waterbed. Full of alligators. None of us try it. + +Our route through the swamp takes us mainly through the prairie areas -- grasses and sedges with patches of peat, water lilies starting to bloom, clumps of pitcher plants luring unsuspecting insects. + +Matt paddling a canoe, Okefenokee Swamp + +The first two days we see no one. Once, as the channel swings back toward the edge of the swamp we hear distant murmur of a train whistle. The rest of the time the only sounds are the splash of paddles in the water. The cries of Red Tailed Hawks, Wood Ducks and Cowbirds. The occasional groan of an alligator. + +In the evenings Ibis and Sand Hill Cranes can be heard calling in the shadows of larger islands. The silhouettes of Sand Hills glide across the horizon, their enormous wingspans black against the orange of the setting sun. + +Sunset at Bluff Lake, Okefenokee Swamp + +We paddle for six hours a day. Muscles complain. The shoulders, the triceps, the back. Something called the rotator cuff. It is hard not to suddenly wonder about the exact names of these new pinpoints of pain, muscles previously unaccounted for in daily activities. + +The aches start in the shoulders and generally cascades down the back. But it's bearable. An acceptable trade off for solitude, Sand Hills and a land of trembling earth. + +When the channel narrows and weaves through the dense thickets of forest on day two, our pace slows to only one mile an hour. Otherwise we are able to do two, even three at times, depending on midday beer consumption. + +The last night a smallish alligator, no bigger than your leg really, shows up right around dinner time, circling the front of the platform in what looks like a reptilian attempt to beg for food. At some point the alligator has no doubt been fed a leftover clump of cold pasta, a extra Oreo cookie or some other paddler morsel and is now attempting, as best its species can, to beg for more. + +Strange though it might sound, it's hard not to find the alligator (hereafter, Steve), well, scaly yes, but also somehow strangely, yes, perhaps even cute. + +Alligator, Roundtop Shelter, Okefenokee Swamp + +It's likewise difficult to not regard Steve's dark watery eyes, nearly unblinking in their stare, as quite simply curious. An alligator in the midst of teenage curiosity and rebellion. + +It's hard not to anthropomorphize. It's also hard not to see any single alligator as possessing the entire history of the species. True, Steve in particular has not been alive since the Late Cretaceous Age, but the species has. It found its niche and did so well that evolution decided it was done, perfection attained, no need for further change. And it survived shifting continents, disappearing oceans, possibly comets, ice ages and all other manner of geologic apocalypse. + +Alligators are one of the only living links back to the dinosaurs. 100 million odd years of continuous existence on earth. + +There is something Zen-like about the alligator. A creature which has not only not changed in 100 million years, but found a way to spend the majority of its day simply lying in the sun, eating when it wants, doing nothing when it wants. + +It is the apex of evolution in many ways. Perhaps not the top, perhaps not the goal, but nevertheless able to be here now, then, and like the swamp itself, perhaps here forever. + +In the mean time, we will have to move on. + +

    Assorted notes and further thoughts:

    + +
    + +
    to the person or persons who complained in the registration book at the Bluff Lake shelter that some "jerks" left a large bundle of plastic piled under the cooking table
    + +
    The "jerks" are the rangers who left it there so your hemp sleeping bag won't get wet should the rain become horizontal. Are you by chance the owners of the DIY wooden camper we saw in the parking lot with the license plate VEGANS?
    + +
    to people buying things made of alligator skin.
    + +
    Desist.
    + +
    to the only live armadillo I have ever seen, which was running at breakneck speed toward the very cars and highway that reduced its brethren to the far more familiar smear of blood and guts and flattened shell
    + +
    Stop.
    + +
    to the very loud, very drunk retirees camping in the monstrous bus-size vehicle near the water at Laura Walker state park who quite clearly were not worried what the neighbors might think
    + +
    Rock on.
    + +
    to the wonderful people of Stinton's barbecue in Lumber City, Georgia
    + +
    The ribs were delicious. We hope that Mrs _____ finds a buyer for her land and that coons are not too much trouble (we can't help thinking six acres for $20,000 is a steal, inquire within). We do not, however, think that the girl sitting at the table by the windows was really old enough to get married. We are assuming this is some sort of inside joke played on passersby like ourselves. In any case, the mustard sauce was excellent.
    + +
    to the person or persons who erected the dogmatic, and frankly, quite alarming, religious billboards in Lumber City
    + +
    We are concerned about your soul and hope that your view of humanity is soon profoundly improved by something beautiful.
    + +
    diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/04/death-valley.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/04/death-valley.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dcbf0af --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/04/death-valley.amp @@ -0,0 +1,201 @@ + + + + + + +(There'll Be) Peace in the Valley + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    (There’ll Be) Peace in the Valley

    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    It's well before dawn when we arrive at Zabriskie Point. Stars still fill the western sky, above the snow capped Panamint Mountains. Down the hill from the roadside overlook is a short trail that cuts through the chalky, barren ground.

    +

    The land in front of us looks like the moon. In technicolor. Multi-colored layers of rock and sand, hardly a plant to be found. It's an alien looking place, once a lake, now a sinking basin full of salt and dust.

    +

    When we arrived there was only one other lone traveler standing around the point, which made it seem even more desolate, but by the time the sun begins to paint its way down the distant ridges of the Panamints, the overlook is chock full of people.

    +

    Still, hardly anyone makes a sound, and when they do it's only the soft footfalls of boots treading the alkaline gravel or hushed whispers that fade in the empty stillness and silence of the desert.

    +
    +

    +

    I lived just four hours from Death Valley for twenty-five years. I've been all over Europe and Asia, but I never made the trip out here. Until now. Now that I live clear across the country from Death Valley, I finally arrive. Sometimes you miss what's right in front of you. Sometimes you think you have to go around the world to find the exotic when in fact it's just down the road.

    +

    After the sun is well up and the light on Zabriskie Point has become the even glow of mid-morning we drive down the valley to Badwater, the lowest point in the United States.

    +

    There's no one around. The desert is utterly silent save the crunching of our boots as we walk out on the salt flats. Even in the morning light the salt is almost blindingly bright, by mid-afternoon it will be painful to look at.

    +

    +

    Only one person died to give Death Valley its name. And that was during the winter. Death Valley is also not technically a valley. Valleys have entrances and exits, streams that feed through them. Death Valley is a basin, no entrance, no exit. Whatever little rain falls in Death Valley returns back into the ground, the excess eventually making its way here to Badwater, where it mixes with the salt and slowly sinks into the rock or evaporates off into the air.

    +

    Badwater is where Death Valley ends in that respect. It is the exit point, where the basin returns its water back into the earth, taking the land with it -- Badwater continues to sink down a little bit every year.

    +

    But it's hard to imagine Death Valley as the lake it once was when you're standing in the middle of a salt flat feeling parched, salt caked to your shoes and nothing but pure featureless white as far as you can see.

    +

    The previous day we drove through Titus Canyon. The drive starts on the eastern side of the park where a four wheel drive trail veers off the main road and cuts straight through the high desert. The flat expanses of desert to the east are carpeted with yellow flowers, the product of a relatively wet (by Death Valley standards) spring.

    +

    Eventually the road begins to slowly wind upward, past barren, red rock outcroppings and on toward the appropriately named Red Pass, which crosses the main ridge of the Grapevine Mountains, where the road begins the descent into Titus Canyon proper.

    +

    The canyon itself is an impressive display of geology and the power of earthquakes -- massive, jagged walls of thrust up strata loom at every side. Looking down the canyon is like staring into the history of the earth.

    +

    Black limestone has been thrust up through red and white layers creating a rainbow palate of rock. The dark black rock dates from the Cambrian period when Death Valley was awash in the algae that would later become the limestone that surrounds us.

    +

    The further on we go, heading west back toward Death Valley proper, the narrower the canyon becomes. The rock walls creep closer and closer, eventually squeezing the road and the dry stream bed it has been following into one single track.

    +

    We get out and walk around for while. It's cool here in the narrows, the walls are too steep for the afternoon sun to penetrate. The ranger said there are hanging gardens up on the rock face above us, but the walls here are too steep to see much.

    +

    The next day, after watching the sunrise and seeing Badwater, we drove up to Aguereberry Point, midway up in the Panamint mountains. At the end of the road a short trail leads out to the point where the ridge line drops off into the vast basin below.

    +

    Death Valley is white from above. Slat flats and borax. Once people came here to dig up borax, copper, gold and handful of other metals that have been thrust up from the depths of the earth.

    +

    Pete Aguereberry, for whom the point is named, mined in the area until he died in 1945. But Aguereberry didn't build the road to get the mines, he built his road to the point simply because he liked the view.

    +

    Today the National Park service has built a newer road (still dirt and somewhat rough) but along the way you can still catch glimpses of Aguereberry's original work snaking its way through the sagebrush.

    +

    It must have been a brutal job back when Aguereberry did it. But it is a commanding view, the hills seem to fall away at your feet, offering a glimpse of the land far beyond the basin to the east and up and down it to the north and south.

    +

    Far below, running along the opposite side of the salt flats, I can make out the road that will take us down to the south and eventually out of Death Valley.

    +

    Later, as the car winds down that same road I stare out the window thinking that I should really go to Savannah, Georgia, a place I have heard about for years, but never, in the ten years I've lived in Georgia, have I been. Sometimes you just forget about things that are right there in front of you.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/04/death-valley.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/04/death-valley.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7dae9a4 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/04/death-valley.html @@ -0,0 +1,355 @@ + + + + + (There’ll Be) Peace In The Valley - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    (There’ll Be) Peace in the Valley

    + +
    +
    +

    Death Valley, California, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    +

    It’s well before dawn when we arrive at Zabriskie Point. Stars still fill the western sky, above the snow capped Panamint Mountains. Down the hill from the roadside overlook is a short trail that cuts through the chalky, barren ground.

    + +

    The land in front of us looks like the moon. In technicolor. Multi-colored layers of rock and sand, hardly a plant to be found. It’s an alien looking place, once a lake, now a sinking basin full of salt and dust.

    + + +

    When we arrived there was only one other lone traveler standing around the point, which made it seem even more desolate, but by the time the sun begins to paint its way down the distant ridges of the Panamints, the overlook is chock full of people.

    + +

    Still, hardly anyone makes a sound, and when they do it’s only the soft footfalls of boots treading the alkaline gravel or hushed whispers that fade in the empty stillness and silence of the desert.

    + +
    + +

    sunrise, Zabriskie Point, Death Valley National Park, CA

    +

    I lived just four hours from Death Valley for twenty-five years. I’ve been all over Europe and Asia, but I never made the trip out here. Until now. Now that I live clear across the country from Death Valley, I finally arrive. Sometimes you miss what’s right in front of you. Sometimes you think you have to go around the world to find the exotic when in fact it’s just down the road.

    +

    After the sun is well up and the light on Zabriskie Point has become the even glow of mid-morning we drive down the valley to Badwater, the lowest point in the United States.

    +

    There’s no one around. The desert is utterly silent save the crunching of our boots as we walk out on the salt flats. Even in the morning light the salt is almost blindingly bright, by mid-afternoon it will be painful to look at.

    +

    Salt Flats, Badwater Basin, Death Valley National Park, CA

    +

    Only one person died to give Death Valley its name. And that was during the winter. Death Valley is also not technically a valley. Valleys have entrances and exits, streams that feed through them. Death Valley is a basin, no entrance, no exit. Whatever little rain falls in Death Valley returns back into the ground, the excess eventually making its way here to Badwater, where it mixes with the salt and slowly sinks into the rock or evaporates off into the air.

    +

    Badwater is where Death Valley ends in that respect. It is the exit point, where the basin returns its water back into the earth, taking the land with it — Badwater continues to sink down a little bit every year.

    +

    But it’s hard to imagine Death Valley as the lake it once was when you’re standing in the middle of a salt flat feeling parched, salt caked to your shoes and nothing but pure featureless white as far as you can see.

    +

    The previous day we drove through Titus Canyon. The drive starts on the eastern side of the park where a four wheel drive trail veers off the main road and cuts straight through the high desert. The flat expanses of desert to the east are carpeted with yellow flowers, the product of a relatively wet (by Death Valley standards) spring.

    +

    Eventually the road begins to slowly wind upward, past barren, red rock outcroppings and on toward the appropriately named Red Pass, which crosses the main ridge of the Grapevine Mountains, where the road begins the descent into Titus Canyon proper.

    +

    The canyon itself is an impressive display of geology and the power of earthquakes — massive, jagged walls of thrust up strata loom at every side. Looking down the canyon is like staring into the history of the earth.

    +

    Black limestone has been thrust up through red and white layers creating a rainbow palate of rock. The dark black rock dates from the Cambrian period when Death Valley was awash in the algae that would later become the limestone that surrounds us.

    +

    Titus Canyon Narrows, Death Valley National Park, CAThe further on we go, heading west back toward Death Valley proper, the narrower the canyon becomes. The rock walls creep closer and closer, eventually squeezing the road and the dry stream bed it has been following into one single track.

    +

    We get out and walk around for while. It’s cool here in the narrows, the walls are too steep for the afternoon sun to penetrate. The ranger said there are hanging gardens up on the rock face above us, but the walls here are too steep to see much.

    +

    The next day, after watching the sunrise and seeing Badwater, we drove up to Aguereberry Point, midway up in the Panamint mountains. At the end of the road a short trail leads out to the point where the ridge line drops off into the vast basin below.

    +

    Death Valley is white from above. Slat flats and borax. Once people came here to dig up borax, copper, gold and handful of other metals that have been thrust up from the depths of the earth.

    +

    View from Aguereberry Point, Death Valley National Park, CAPete Aguereberry, for whom the point is named, mined in the area until he died in 1945. But Aguereberry didn’t build the road to get the mines, he built his road to the point simply because he liked the view.

    +

    Today the National Park service has built a newer road (still dirt and somewhat rough) but along the way you can still catch glimpses of Aguereberry’s original work snaking its way through the sagebrush.

    +

    It must have been a brutal job back when Aguereberry did it. But it is a commanding view, the hills seem to fall away at your feet, offering a glimpse of the land far beyond the basin to the east and up and down it to the north and south.

    +

    Far below, running along the opposite side of the salt flats, I can make out the road that will take us down to the south and eventually out of Death Valley.

    +

    Later, as the car winds down that same road I stare out the window thinking that I should really go to Savannah, Georgia, a place I have heard about for years, but never, in the ten years I’ve lived in Georgia, have I been. Sometimes you just forget about things that are right there in front of you.

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
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    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/04/death-valley.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/04/death-valley.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ea71e1d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/04/death-valley.txt @@ -0,0 +1,62 @@ +(There'll Be) Peace in the Valley +================================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 24 April 2010 + +
    +

    It's well before dawn when we arrive at Zabriskie Point. Stars still fill the western sky, above the snow capped Panamint Mountains. Down the hill from the roadside overlook is a short trail that cuts through the chalky, barren ground.

    + +

    The land in front of us looks like the moon. In technicolor. Multi-colored layers of rock and sand, hardly a plant to be found. It's an alien looking place, once a lake, now a sinking basin full of salt and dust.

    + + +

    When we arrived there was only one other lone traveler standing around the point, which made it seem even more desolate, but by the time the sun begins to paint its way down the distant ridges of the Panamints, the overlook is chock full of people.

    + +

    Still, hardly anyone makes a sound, and when they do it's only the soft footfalls of boots treading the alkaline gravel or hushed whispers that fade in the empty stillness and silence of the desert.

    + +
    + +sunrise, Zabriskie Point, Death Valley National Park, CA + + +I lived just four hours from Death Valley for twenty-five years. I've been all over Europe and Asia, but I never made the trip out here. Until now. Now that I live clear across the country from Death Valley, I finally arrive. Sometimes you miss what's right in front of you. Sometimes you think you have to go around the world to find the exotic when in fact it's just down the road. + +After the sun is well up and the light on Zabriskie Point has become the even glow of mid-morning we drive down the valley to Badwater, the lowest point in the United States. + +There's no one around. The desert is utterly silent save the crunching of our boots as we walk out on the salt flats. Even in the morning light the salt is almost blindingly bright, by mid-afternoon it will be painful to look at. + +Salt Flats, Badwater Basin, Death Valley National Park, CA + +Only one person died to give Death Valley its name. And that was during the winter. Death Valley is also not technically a valley. Valleys have entrances and exits, streams that feed through them. Death Valley is a basin, no entrance, no exit. Whatever little rain falls in Death Valley returns back into the ground, the excess eventually making its way here to Badwater, where it mixes with the salt and slowly sinks into the rock or evaporates off into the air. + +Badwater is where Death Valley ends in that respect. It is the exit point, where the basin returns its water back into the earth, taking the land with it -- Badwater continues to sink down a little bit every year. + +But it's hard to imagine Death Valley as the lake it once was when you're standing in the middle of a salt flat feeling parched, salt caked to your shoes and nothing but pure featureless white as far as you can see. + +The previous day we drove through Titus Canyon. The drive starts on the eastern side of the park where a four wheel drive trail veers off the main road and cuts straight through the high desert. The flat expanses of desert to the east are carpeted with yellow flowers, the product of a relatively wet (by Death Valley standards) spring. + +Eventually the road begins to slowly wind upward, past barren, red rock outcroppings and on toward the appropriately named Red Pass, which crosses the main ridge of the Grapevine Mountains, where the road begins the descent into Titus Canyon proper. + +The canyon itself is an impressive display of geology and the power of earthquakes -- massive, jagged walls of thrust up strata loom at every side. Looking down the canyon is like staring into the history of the earth. + +Black limestone has been thrust up through red and white layers creating a rainbow palate of rock. The dark black rock dates from the Cambrian period when Death Valley was awash in the algae that would later become the limestone that surrounds us. + +Titus Canyon Narrows, Death Valley National Park, CAThe further on we go, heading west back toward Death Valley proper, the narrower the canyon becomes. The rock walls creep closer and closer, eventually squeezing the road and the dry stream bed it has been following into one single track. + +We get out and walk around for while. It's cool here in the narrows, the walls are too steep for the afternoon sun to penetrate. The ranger said there are hanging gardens up on the rock face above us, but the walls here are too steep to see much. + +The next day, after watching the sunrise and seeing Badwater, we drove up to Aguereberry Point, midway up in the Panamint mountains. At the end of the road a short trail leads out to the point where the ridge line drops off into the vast basin below. + +Death Valley is white from above. Slat flats and borax. Once people came here to dig up borax, copper, gold and handful of other metals that have been thrust up from the depths of the earth. + +View from Aguereberry Point, Death Valley National Park, CAPete Aguereberry, for whom the point is named, mined in the area until he died in 1945. But Aguereberry didn't build the road to get the mines, he built his road to the point simply because he liked the view. + +Today the National Park service has built a newer road (still dirt and somewhat rough) but along the way you can still catch glimpses of Aguereberry's original work snaking its way through the sagebrush. + +It must have been a brutal job back when Aguereberry did it. But it is a commanding view, the hills seem to fall away at your feet, offering a glimpse of the land far beyond the basin to the east and up and down it to the north and south. + +Far below, running along the opposite side of the salt flats, I can make out the road that will take us down to the south and eventually out of Death Valley. + +Later, as the car winds down that same road I stare out the window thinking that I should really go to Savannah, Georgia, a place I have heard about for years, but never, in the ten years I've lived in Georgia, have I been. Sometimes you just forget about things that are right there in front of you. + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/04/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/04/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5e94e85 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/04/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,104 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: April 2010

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/05/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/05/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d0b1599 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/05/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,104 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: May 2010

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/05/los-angeles-im-yours.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/05/los-angeles-im-yours.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..37768da --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/05/los-angeles-im-yours.amp @@ -0,0 +1,220 @@ + + + + + + +Los Angeles, I'm Yours + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Los Angeles, I’m Yours

    + + + +
    +
    +

    1.

    +

    As the plane sweeps in low over eastern Los Angeles the heat of the engine exhaust smears the top portion of the view from my window. Everything warbles and blurs in the heat. It ends up looking like a natural, persistent, tilt-shift distortion, turning the building below into a miniature, toy world.

    +

    The effect is odd, transfixing and a bit disconcerting after a while, a feeling heightened by the Hare Krishna sitting next me incessantly chanting the Maha Mantra.

    +

    Later, outside the terminal a sign reads: Welcome to Los Angeles.

    +

    2.

    +

    +

    Around the time I was in high school Los Angeles built a subway system. I remember it showing up on page 15 of the newspapers. The universal consensus among those of us used to living under the constant threat of earthquake was that voluntarily going underground for extended periods of time would be tantamount to suicide.

    +

    Besides, Los Angeles is all about the car. Shiny, air-conditioned comfort, gliding you soundlessly from one place to another without the need to interact with anything in between.

    +

    Like most, I forgot about the subway as soon as it was done. The only time the L.A. metro system entered my consciousness was when a train accidentally hit someone crossing the tracks. Again, subway == death.

    +

    +

    Then I moved across the country.

    +

    Just before I left to visit L.A., I stumbled upon some photographs of Union Station, which might well be the pinnacle of Moderne/Art Deco architecture. I decided I must see Union Station, and what better way to arrive than by subway?[1]

    +

    So into the subway I went. It was uneventful, an ordinary subway -- commuters sitting stoically, staring into space, a homeless man muttering in the corner, a older woman with a small trolley full of grocery bags, a fanatic handing out flyers for some cause. But Union Station is more than ordinary.

    +

    Coming up out of the subway into the passenger rail terminal at Union Station is a fantastically beautiful step back in time -- back in time to moment when trains were travel, when building were more than containers for retail stores, when architecture mattered, even in otherwise dull places like a train station.

    +

    From the ceiling in the entrance to the heavy, ornate waiting room chairs, Union Station feels more like a cathedral than a train depot -- inlaid marble abounds, backlit windows glow like stained glass.

    +

    L.A.'s Union Station feels like a cathedral in part because the architecture far exceeds the purely utilitarian function it serves -- you can't help feeling that there is some hidden message in its design. Walking under the magnificent heavy ceiling beams in the waiting room, you begin to feel the same sense of tiny insignificance you feel in the Gothic cathedrals of Europe.

    +

    +

    3.

    +

    It's a strange thing to be a tourist in the area you grew up in. I didn't grow up in L.A. proper, but many of my memories of the area are tied to L.A. because that's where everything fun happened -- live music, art shows, restaurants, movies... did I mention live music?

    +

    Aside from the beach, which was closer to home, L.A. was where everything happened and so it figures larger in my memory than in actual waking hours. And yet I've never really bothered to pay any attention to Los Angeles the city, the streets, the buildings, the people.

    +

    It's an easy thing to miss. Los Angeles seems designed to be unreal, a land where everything is plastic and shrunken like set pieces in a toy train set[2].

    +

    I'm convinced that part of the reason behind the toy train illusion is to protect L.A.'s residents from certain unpleasant facts, like, for example, the fact that there is no ground below the ground in L.A -- there is no real earth.

    +

    I don't mean like a bit of earth showing where the lawn has been worn by foot traffic, but actual earth, large undisturbed expanses of it. It simply isn't there.

    +

    I spent most of my life in Southern California and I could never find the ground below the ground. The actual earth. The sand at the beaches is trucked in from elsewhere and everything is paved. The roads lead to driveways, to kitchen floors, to backyard patio slabs with that strange pock-marked concrete. Even the riverbeds are poured concrete. Who paves a river?

    +

    You might think New york is the same way; it's not. There's plenty of earth in New York. Central Park, Prospect park, any neighborhood park. Subways leak water, betraying what is behind them, under them, around them. New Yorkers have plenty of reminders about the ground under the ground.

    +

    4.

    +

    I still haven't found the ground under the ground in Los Angeles (the subways don't leak, the concrete tubes under the city are still unbroken), but I have discovered that if you get out of your car and walk, the toy train set illusion reverts at least to a life size city.

    +

    The tallest building on the west coast towers overhead; in the distance City Hall looms and the ultra-modern hideousness of the Disney Concert Hall glitters in the afternoon sun. Further up the hill the Department of Power and Water building seems to float, an island in the middle of a man-made lake.

    +

    Everything is very real. We walk down to a park, the tiniest park I've ever seen, but a park nonetheless. Everything seems very real.

    +

    But only for a moment. A few streets later we stop off for a pint at a pirate bar. Fake sailing detritus litters the walls -- ships wheels, heavy braided hemp ropes, portals to nowhere, flags bearing the skull and crossbones.

    +

    Our table is a fake oak barrel, fake pirate insignia decorate the ceiling. The bar looks like a post-production yard sale from the Pirates of the Caribbean.

    +

    The illusion of reality collapses.

    +

    Los Angeles cultivates that aspect of itself, it enjoys the rest of the world seeing it as a completely unreal world. A world of pirate bars and movie stars. You either have to embrace it or get the hell out.

    +

    I went with the latter, but I enjoy returning, trying to find little moments of the real where L.A. drops its pretense and becomes a real city.

    +

    5.

    +

    The next day I walk a mile or two down Wilshire Blvd to Lincoln where I catch the bus to the airport. I drop my change in the box and find a seat near the back of the bus. Someone has scratched the window, initials carved, then crossed out and more initials carved.

    +

    Out of the corner of my eye the scratched window makes the view turn blurry again, the building begin to look more plastic, shrunken. I'm back on the ride.

    +

    The tilt-shift world will go on without me. Nothing to do now but punch your tickets for the toy train and watch the shrunken madness as you slowly click home on the tiny plastic tracks.

    +
      +
    1. +

      1. Actually there is a better way: to arrive on some trans-continental train. Sadly, that was not an option for this trip. ↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      2. I know what you're thinking, to talk about Los Angeles as singular entity is sloppy writing, sweeping generalizations being the number one fallacy of self-appointed prognosticators. Of course you're right, there is no Los Angeles. And yet there is. ↩

      +
      3. +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/05/los-angeles-im-yours.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/05/los-angeles-im-yours.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4a103e0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/05/los-angeles-im-yours.html @@ -0,0 +1,373 @@ + + + + + Los Angeles, I’M Yours - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Los Angeles, I’m Yours

    + +
    +
    +

    Los Angeles, California, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    1.

    +

    As the plane sweeps in low over eastern Los Angeles the heat of the engine exhaust smears the top portion of the view from my window. Everything warbles and blurs in the heat. It ends up looking like a natural, persistent, tilt-shift distortion, turning the building below into a miniature, toy world.

    +

    The effect is odd, transfixing and a bit disconcerting after a while, a feeling heightened by the Hare Krishna sitting next me incessantly chanting the Maha Mantra.

    +

    Later, outside the terminal a sign reads: Welcome to Los Angeles.

    +

    2.

    +

    Union Station Subway Stop, Los Angeles

    +

    Around the time I was in high school Los Angeles built a subway system. I remember it showing up on page 15 of the newspapers. The universal consensus among those of us used to living under the constant threat of earthquake was that voluntarily going underground for extended periods of time would be tantamount to suicide.

    +

    Besides, Los Angeles is all about the car. Shiny, air-conditioned comfort, gliding you soundlessly from one place to another without the need to interact with anything in between.

    +

    Like most, I forgot about the subway as soon as it was done. The only time the L.A. metro system entered my consciousness was when a train accidentally hit someone crossing the tracks. Again, subway == death.

    +

    +

    Then I moved across the country.

    +

    Just before I left to visit L.A., I stumbled upon some photographs of Union Station, which might well be the pinnacle of Moderne/Art Deco architecture. I decided I must see Union Station, and what better way to arrive than by subway?[1]

    +

    The Old Ticket room, Union Station, Los AngelesSo into the subway I went. It was uneventful, an ordinary subway — commuters sitting stoically, staring into space, a homeless man muttering in the corner, a older woman with a small trolley full of grocery bags, a fanatic handing out flyers for some cause. But Union Station is more than ordinary.

    +

    Coming up out of the subway into the passenger rail terminal at Union Station is a fantastically beautiful step back in time — back in time to moment when trains were travel, when building were more than containers for retail stores, when architecture mattered, even in otherwise dull places like a train station.

    +

    From the ceiling in the entrance to the heavy, ornate waiting room chairs, Union Station feels more like a cathedral than a train depot — inlaid marble abounds, backlit windows glow like stained glass.

    +

    L.A.’s Union Station feels like a cathedral in part because the architecture far exceeds the purely utilitarian function it serves — you can’t help feeling that there is some hidden message in its design. Walking under the magnificent heavy ceiling beams in the waiting room, you begin to feel the same sense of tiny insignificance you feel in the Gothic cathedrals of Europe.

    +

    Union Station Ceiling, Los Angeles

    +

    3.

    +

    It’s a strange thing to be a tourist in the area you grew up in. I didn’t grow up in L.A. proper, but many of my memories of the area are tied to L.A. because that’s where everything fun happened — live music, art shows, restaurants, movies… did I mention live music?

    +

    Aside from the beach, which was closer to home, L.A. was where everything happened and so it figures larger in my memory than in actual waking hours. And yet I’ve never really bothered to pay any attention to Los Angeles the city, the streets, the buildings, the people.

    +

    It’s an easy thing to miss. Los Angeles seems designed to be unreal, a land where everything is plastic and shrunken like set pieces in a toy train set[2].

    +

    I’m convinced that part of the reason behind the toy train illusion is to protect L.A.’s residents from certain unpleasant facts, like, for example, the fact that there is no ground below the ground in L.A — there is no real earth.

    +

    I don’t mean like a bit of earth showing where the lawn has been worn by foot traffic, but actual earth, large undisturbed expanses of it. It simply isn’t there.

    +

    I spent most of my life in Southern California and I could never find the ground below the ground. The actual earth. The sand at the beaches is trucked in from elsewhere and everything is paved. The roads lead to driveways, to kitchen floors, to backyard patio slabs with that strange pock-marked concrete. Even the riverbeds are poured concrete. Who paves a river?

    +

    You might think New york is the same way; it’s not. There’s plenty of earth in New York. Central Park, Prospect park, any neighborhood park. Subways leak water, betraying what is behind them, under them, around them. New Yorkers have plenty of reminders about the ground under the ground.

    +

    4.

    +

    I still haven’t found the ground under the ground in Los Angeles (the subways don’t leak, the concrete tubes under the city are still unbroken), but I have discovered that if you get out of your car and walk, the toy train set illusion reverts at least to a life size city.

    +

    Los AngelesThe tallest building on the west coast towers overhead; in the distance City Hall looms and the ultra-modern hideousness of the Disney Concert Hall glitters in the afternoon sun. Further up the hill the Department of Power and Water building seems to float, an island in the middle of a man-made lake.

    +

    Everything is very real. We walk down to a park, the tiniest park I’ve ever seen, but a park nonetheless. Everything seems very real.

    +

    But only for a moment. A few streets later we stop off for a pint at a pirate bar. Fake sailing detritus litters the walls — ships wheels, heavy braided hemp ropes, portals to nowhere, flags bearing the skull and crossbones.

    +

    Our table is a fake oak barrel, fake pirate insignia decorate the ceiling. The bar looks like a post-production yard sale from the Pirates of the Caribbean.

    +

    The illusion of reality collapses.

    +

    Los Angeles cultivates that aspect of itself, it enjoys the rest of the world seeing it as a completely unreal world. A world of pirate bars and movie stars. You either have to embrace it or get the hell out.

    +

    I went with the latter, but I enjoy returning, trying to find little moments of the real where L.A. drops its pretense and becomes a real city.

    +

    5.

    +

    The next day I walk a mile or two down Wilshire Blvd to Lincoln where I catch the bus to the airport. I drop my change in the box and find a seat near the back of the bus. Someone has scratched the window, initials carved, then crossed out and more initials carved.

    +

    Out of the corner of my eye the scratched window makes the view turn blurry again, the building begin to look more plastic, shrunken. I’m back on the ride.

    +

    The tilt-shift world will go on without me. Nothing to do now but punch your tickets for the toy train and watch the shrunken madness as you slowly click home on the tiny plastic tracks.

    +
      +
    1. +

      1. Actually there is a better way: to arrive on some trans-continental train. Sadly, that was not an option for this trip. ↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      2. I know what you’re thinking, to talk about Los Angeles as singular entity is sloppy writing, sweeping generalizations being the number one fallacy of self-appointed prognosticators. Of course you’re right, there is no Los Angeles. And yet there is. ↩

      +
      3. +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/05/los-angeles-im-yours.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/05/los-angeles-im-yours.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cd95e88 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/05/los-angeles-im-yours.txt @@ -0,0 +1,92 @@ +Los Angeles, I'm Yours +====================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 17 May 2010 + +1. + +As the plane sweeps in low over eastern Los Angeles the heat of the engine exhaust smears the top portion of the view from my window. Everything warbles and blurs in the heat. It ends up looking like a natural, persistent, tilt-shift distortion, turning the building below into a miniature, toy world. + +The effect is odd, transfixing and a bit disconcerting after a while, a feeling heightened by the Hare Krishna sitting next me incessantly chanting the Maha Mantra. + +Later, outside the terminal a sign reads: Welcome to Los Angeles. + +2. + +Union Station Subway Stop, Los Angeles + +Around the time I was in high school Los Angeles built a subway system. I remember it showing up on page 15 of the newspapers. The universal consensus among those of us used to living under the constant threat of earthquake was that voluntarily going underground for extended periods of time would be tantamount to suicide. + +Besides, Los Angeles is all about the car. Shiny, air-conditioned comfort, gliding you soundlessly from one place to another without the need to interact with anything in between. + +Like most, I forgot about the subway as soon as it was done. The only time the L.A. metro system entered my consciousness was when a train accidentally hit someone crossing the tracks. Again, subway == death. + + + +Then I moved across the country. + +Just before I left to visit L.A., I stumbled upon some photographs of Union Station, which might well be the pinnacle of Moderne/Art Deco architecture. I decided I must see Union Station, and what better way to arrive than by subway?[1] + +The Old Ticket room, Union Station, Los AngelesSo into the subway I went. It was uneventful, an ordinary subway -- commuters sitting stoically, staring into space, a homeless man muttering in the corner, a older woman with a small trolley full of grocery bags, a fanatic handing out flyers for some cause. But Union Station is more than ordinary. + +Coming up out of the subway into the passenger rail terminal at Union Station is a fantastically beautiful step back in time -- back in time to moment when trains were travel, when building were more than containers for retail stores, when architecture mattered, even in otherwise dull places like a train station. + +From the ceiling in the entrance to the heavy, ornate waiting room chairs, Union Station feels more like a cathedral than a train depot -- inlaid marble abounds, backlit windows glow like stained glass. + +L.A.'s Union Station feels like a cathedral in part because the architecture far exceeds the purely utilitarian function it serves -- you can't help feeling that there is some hidden message in its design. Walking under the magnificent heavy ceiling beams in the waiting room, you begin to feel the same sense of tiny insignificance you feel in the Gothic cathedrals of Europe. + +Union Station Ceiling, Los Angeles + +3. + +It's a strange thing to be a tourist in the area you grew up in. I didn't grow up in L.A. proper, but many of my memories of the area are tied to L.A. because that's where everything fun happened -- live music, art shows, restaurants, movies... did I mention live music? + +Aside from the beach, which was closer to home, L.A. was where everything happened and so it figures larger in my memory than in actual waking hours. And yet I've never really bothered to pay any attention to Los Angeles the city, the streets, the buildings, the people. + +It's an easy thing to miss. Los Angeles seems designed to be unreal, a land where everything is plastic and shrunken like set pieces in a toy train set[2]. + +I'm convinced that part of the reason behind the toy train illusion is to protect L.A.'s residents from certain unpleasant facts, like, for example, the fact that there is no ground below the ground in L.A -- there is no real earth. + +I don't mean like a bit of earth showing where the lawn has been worn by foot traffic, but actual earth, large undisturbed expanses of it. It simply isn't there. + +I spent most of my life in Southern California and I could never find the ground below the ground. The actual earth. The sand at the beaches is trucked in from elsewhere and everything is paved. The roads lead to driveways, to kitchen floors, to backyard patio slabs with that strange pock-marked concrete. Even the riverbeds are poured concrete. Who paves a river? + +You might think New york is the same way; it's not. There's plenty of earth in New York. Central Park, Prospect park, any neighborhood park. Subways leak water, betraying what is behind them, under them, around them. New Yorkers have plenty of reminders about the ground under the ground. + +4. + +I still haven't found the ground under the ground in Los Angeles (the subways don't leak, the concrete tubes under the city are still unbroken), but I have discovered that if you get out of your car and walk, the toy train set illusion reverts at least to a life size city. + +Los AngelesThe tallest building on the west coast towers overhead; in the distance City Hall looms and the ultra-modern hideousness of the Disney Concert Hall glitters in the afternoon sun. Further up the hill the Department of Power and Water building seems to float, an island in the middle of a man-made lake. + +Everything is very real. We walk down to a park, the tiniest park I've ever seen, but a park nonetheless. Everything seems very real. + +But only for a moment. A few streets later we stop off for a pint at a pirate bar. Fake sailing detritus litters the walls -- ships wheels, heavy braided hemp ropes, portals to nowhere, flags bearing the skull and crossbones. + +Our table is a fake oak barrel, fake pirate insignia decorate the ceiling. The bar looks like a post-production yard sale from the *Pirates of the Caribbean*. + +The illusion of reality collapses. + +Los Angeles cultivates that aspect of itself, it enjoys the rest of the world seeing it as a completely unreal world. A world of pirate bars and movie stars. You either have to embrace it or get the hell out. + +I went with the latter, but I enjoy returning, trying to find little moments of the real where L.A. drops its pretense and becomes a real city. + +5. + +The next day I walk a mile or two down Wilshire Blvd to Lincoln where I catch the bus to the airport. I drop my change in the box and find a seat near the back of the bus. Someone has scratched the window, initials carved, then crossed out and more initials carved. + +Out of the corner of my eye the scratched window makes the view turn blurry again, the building begin to look more plastic, shrunken. I'm back on the ride. + +The tilt-shift world will go on without me. Nothing to do now but punch your tickets for the toy train and watch the shrunken madness as you slowly click home on the tiny plastic tracks. + +
      +
    1. +

      1. Actually there is a better way: to arrive on some trans-continental train. Sadly, that was not an option for this trip. ↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      2. I know what you're thinking, to talk about Los Angeles as singular entity is sloppy writing, sweeping generalizations being the number one fallacy of self-appointed prognosticators. Of course you're right, there is no Los Angeles. And yet there is. ↩

      +
      3. +
    + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/backpacking-grand-tetons.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/backpacking-grand-tetons.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2e0a6fd --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/backpacking-grand-tetons.amp @@ -0,0 +1,193 @@ + + + + + + +Backpacking in the Grand Tetons + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Backpacking in the Grand Tetons

    + + + +
    +
    +

    The sun has moved behind the peaks. In the distance the light begins to retreat up the jagged, snow-patched granite walls. A soft twilight falls over the rocky meadow in front of me where a marmot is rooting through the grasses and purple lupines. Some where farther up the hillside from the granite boulder I am leaning against a pair of deer are grazing. Everything seems hushed and perfect.

    +

    +

    Further down the stream that runs through this meadow a couple of late arrivals are setting up their tents. The wind that has been blowing all afternoon has died down a bit, though it still gusts and will pick up again before night falls.

    +

    +

    This place feels limitless. The high alpine country of Grand Teton seems to stretch forever in every direction, the sheer granite peaks reach up into the clear blue doom overhead. The wind begins to howl again, blasting at the gnarled Whitebark Pines to my left compounding the wild feeling of the backcountry.

    +

    Here in the meadow the wind is less severe, the pines block the full force of it and it slows to something more like a strong breeze. The lupines sway slightly, the light is retreating up the granite walls on the opposite side of the canyon. I eat dinner, watch the light retreat.

    +

    Just beyond the pines, over a small ridge where my tent is pitched in relative shelter from the wind, lies Holly Lake, a small, sapphire lake nestled at the base of Mount Woodring. Near the exit of Holly Lake is a smaller pond, cut off from the lake by a rocky moraine, the remnants left by retreating glaciers. To the west is Paintbrush Divide, some 2000 feet higher and still choked with snow. Beyond that lies the seemingly endless Teton Range -- wild mountains stretching clear over into Idaho.

    +

    The Tetons are about as spectacular and dramatic a mountain range as you'll find. These mountains are young (in geological timescales anyway) and jagged, with majestic peaks, pristine lakes and gorgeous meadows carpeted with wildflowers even in July. The meadow in front of me is littered with the purple of lupines, yellow Balsalmroot and the occasional red tuft of paintbrush flowers.

    +

    Part of the reason the Tetons are so striking is that they seem to arise from nowhere. Just a few miles east of my camp is a nearly flat sage-covered valley. There's not much in the way of foothills, the mountains simply begin. That abruptness is part of what makes the Tetons feel so utterly wild -- there is something raw and elemental about the Tetons that sets them apart from other mountains I have hiked through, only the Himalayas convey a similar sense of being in the real wild.

    +

    Of course you probably won't get that sense of wildness if you stick to the paved roads. Grand Teton National Park gets very crowded in the summer. Still, as with most places on earth, if you get our of your vehicle and walk a few miles in any direction you'll quickly find yourself alone in the remarkable wilderness and beauty that exists here.

    +

    That wilderness can bite though. Yesterday when I arrived a storm hung over the peaks raining hail, snow and lightening on a number of climbers trying to summit Grand Teton. All afternoon rescue helicopters flew back and forth, up and down the mountain plucking a total of 16 climbers off the peak, some of whom had been struck by lightening several times. It was the single largest rescue effort in the history of the park. Tragically, one person was killed. (For more details check out this harrowing account of the rescue on Grand Teton).

    +

    I used to climb, but these days I'm content to just walk. To get away from the crowded campgrounds clustered around the lake area at the base of the peaks I strapped on a pack and hiked up here, to Holly Lake, where I was, for the most part, totally alone.

    +

    I'm not one for covering long distance in short periods of time. I set out early and was at Holly Lake by noon. It's only a six mile walk, though you do go up some 3000 feet. I felt no need to keep going. Part of letting the world slip away in the backcountry means you can let go of that endless need to keep pushing. The exercise is good, but so is the doing nothing. The relaxing.

    +

    I set up camp and walked over to the meadow where I watched the clouds roll by, sometimes finding images in them, sometimes not. Eventually I dozed off for a while and woke up feeling refreshed. I spent the afternoon walking around the lake, exploring the hillsides and the meadow. A few day hikers came up, ate their lunches and left.

    +

    As evening fell -- late at these latitudes, it did not get completely dark until nearly ten -- I made a small dinner and sat in the meadow watching a pair of deer eat their own dinner. They watched me, perhaps a bit more warily than I them, but they did not run.

    +

    By the time the stars came out it was too cold for lounging in the meadow, I retreated to my tent, crawled in my sleeping bag and stared up through the mesh top at the stars above.

    +

    Hiking into the wilderness empties your mind. You fall into the silence of the mountains and you can relax in a way that's very difficult to do in the midst of civilization. The white noise that surrounds us in our everyday lives, that noise we don't even notice as it adds thin layers of stress that build up over days, weeks, years, does not seem capable of following us into the mountains.

    +

    Perhaps something about the quiet of the land, the stillness of the evening, the silence of the night, something out here that makes all of that back there fade away for a time. The wilderness is a reviver, a giver of perspective, all you have to do is step out into it.

    +

    [Note: this story is park of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the National Parks Project page.]

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/backpacking-grand-tetons.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/backpacking-grand-tetons.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6070927 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/backpacking-grand-tetons.html @@ -0,0 +1,346 @@ + + + + + Backpacking In The Grand Tetons - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Backpacking in the Grand Tetons

    + +
    +
    +

    Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The sun has moved behind the peaks. In the distance the light begins to retreat up the jagged, snow-patched granite walls. A soft twilight falls over the rocky meadow in front of me where a marmot is rooting through the grasses and purple lupines. Some where farther up the hillside from the granite boulder I am leaning against a pair of deer are grazing. Everything seems hushed and perfect.

    +

    Meadow near Holly Lake, Grand Teton National Park

    +

    Further down the stream that runs through this meadow a couple of late arrivals are setting up their tents. The wind that has been blowing all afternoon has died down a bit, though it still gusts and will pick up again before night falls.

    +

    +

    This place feels limitless. The high alpine country of Grand Teton seems to stretch forever in every direction, the sheer granite peaks reach up into the clear blue doom overhead. The wind begins to howl again, blasting at the gnarled Whitebark Pines to my left compounding the wild feeling of the backcountry.

    +

    Here in the meadow the wind is less severe, the pines block the full force of it and it slows to something more like a strong breeze. The lupines sway slightly, the light is retreating up the granite walls on the opposite side of the canyon. I eat dinner, watch the light retreat.

    +

    Smaller Lake near the exit of Holly Lake, Grand Teton National Park Just beyond the pines, over a small ridge where my tent is pitched in relative shelter from the wind, lies Holly Lake, a small, sapphire lake nestled at the base of Mount Woodring. Near the exit of Holly Lake is a smaller pond, cut off from the lake by a rocky moraine, the remnants left by retreating glaciers. To the west is Paintbrush Divide, some 2000 feet higher and still choked with snow. Beyond that lies the seemingly endless Teton Range — wild mountains stretching clear over into Idaho.

    +

    The Tetons are about as spectacular and dramatic a mountain range as you’ll find. These mountains are young (in geological timescales anyway) and jagged, with majestic peaks, pristine lakes and gorgeous meadows carpeted with wildflowers even in July. The meadow in front of me is littered with the purple of lupines, yellow Balsalmroot and the occasional red tuft of paintbrush flowers.

    +

    Part of the reason the Tetons are so striking is that they seem to arise from nowhere. Just a few miles east of my camp is a nearly flat sage-covered valley. There’s not much in the way of foothills, the mountains simply begin. That abruptness is part of what makes the Tetons feel so utterly wild — there is something raw and elemental about the Tetons that sets them apart from other mountains I have hiked through, only the Himalayas convey a similar sense of being in the real wild.

    +

    Of course you probably won’t get that sense of wildness if you stick to the paved roads. Grand Teton National Park gets very crowded in the summer. Still, as with most places on earth, if you get our of your vehicle and walk a few miles in any direction you’ll quickly find yourself alone in the remarkable wilderness and beauty that exists here.

    +

    That wilderness can bite though. Yesterday when I arrived a storm hung over the peaks raining hail, snow and lightening on a number of climbers trying to summit Grand Teton. All afternoon rescue helicopters flew back and forth, up and down the mountain plucking a total of 16 climbers off the peak, some of whom had been struck by lightening several times. It was the single largest rescue effort in the history of the park. Tragically, one person was killed. (For more details check out this harrowing account of the rescue on Grand Teton).

    +

    Trail through Paintbrush Canyon, Grand Teton National Park I used to climb, but these days I’m content to just walk. To get away from the crowded campgrounds clustered around the lake area at the base of the peaks I strapped on a pack and hiked up here, to Holly Lake, where I was, for the most part, totally alone.

    +

    I’m not one for covering long distance in short periods of time. I set out early and was at Holly Lake by noon. It’s only a six mile walk, though you do go up some 3000 feet. I felt no need to keep going. Part of letting the world slip away in the backcountry means you can let go of that endless need to keep pushing. The exercise is good, but so is the doing nothing. The relaxing.

    +

    I set up camp and walked over to the meadow where I watched the clouds roll by, sometimes finding images in them, sometimes not. Eventually I dozed off for a while and woke up feeling refreshed. I spent the afternoon walking around the lake, exploring the hillsides and the meadow. A few day hikers came up, ate their lunches and left.

    +

    Sunset over Holly Lake, Grand Teton National ParkAs evening fell — late at these latitudes, it did not get completely dark until nearly ten — I made a small dinner and sat in the meadow watching a pair of deer eat their own dinner. They watched me, perhaps a bit more warily than I them, but they did not run.

    +

    By the time the stars came out it was too cold for lounging in the meadow, I retreated to my tent, crawled in my sleeping bag and stared up through the mesh top at the stars above.

    +

    Hiking into the wilderness empties your mind. You fall into the silence of the mountains and you can relax in a way that’s very difficult to do in the midst of civilization. The white noise that surrounds us in our everyday lives, that noise we don’t even notice as it adds thin layers of stress that build up over days, weeks, years, does not seem capable of following us into the mountains.

    +

    Perhaps something about the quiet of the land, the stillness of the evening, the silence of the night, something out here that makes all of that back there fade away for a time. The wilderness is a reviver, a giver of perspective, all you have to do is step out into it.

    +

    [Note: this story is park of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the National Parks Project page.]

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/backpacking-grand-tetons.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/backpacking-grand-tetons.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0791332 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/backpacking-grand-tetons.txt @@ -0,0 +1,49 @@ +Backpacking in the Grand Tetons +=============================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 22 July 2010 + +The sun has moved behind the peaks. In the distance the light begins to retreat up the jagged, snow-patched granite walls. A soft twilight falls over the rocky meadow in front of me where a marmot is rooting through the grasses and purple lupines. Some where farther up the hillside from the granite boulder I am leaning against a pair of deer are grazing. Everything seems hushed and perfect. + +Meadow near Holly Lake, Grand Teton National Park + +Further down the stream that runs through this meadow a couple of late arrivals are setting up their tents. The wind that has been blowing all afternoon has died down a bit, though it still gusts and will pick up again before night falls. + + + +This place feels limitless. The high alpine country of Grand Teton seems to stretch forever in every direction, the sheer granite peaks reach up into the clear blue doom overhead. The wind begins to howl again, blasting at the gnarled Whitebark Pines to my left compounding the wild feeling of the backcountry. + +Here in the meadow the wind is less severe, the pines block the full force of it and it slows to something more like a strong breeze. The lupines sway slightly, the light is retreating up the granite walls on the opposite side of the canyon. I eat dinner, watch the light retreat. + + +Smaller Lake near the exit of Holly Lake, Grand Teton National Park Just beyond the pines, over a small ridge where my tent is pitched in relative shelter from the wind, lies Holly Lake, a small, sapphire lake nestled at the base of Mount Woodring. Near the exit of Holly Lake is a smaller pond, cut off from the lake by a rocky moraine, the remnants left by retreating glaciers. To the west is Paintbrush Divide, some 2000 feet higher and still choked with snow. Beyond that lies the seemingly endless Teton Range -- wild mountains stretching clear over into Idaho. + +The Tetons are about as spectacular and dramatic a mountain range as you'll find. These mountains are young (in geological timescales anyway) and jagged, with majestic peaks, pristine lakes and gorgeous meadows carpeted with wildflowers even in July. The meadow in front of me is littered with the purple of lupines, yellow Balsalmroot and the occasional red tuft of paintbrush flowers. + +Part of the reason the Tetons are so striking is that they seem to arise from nowhere. Just a few miles east of my camp is a nearly flat sage-covered valley. There's not much in the way of foothills, the mountains simply begin. That abruptness is part of what makes the Tetons feel so utterly wild -- there is something raw and elemental about the Tetons that sets them apart from other mountains I have hiked through, only the Himalayas convey a similar sense of being in the real wild. + +Of course you probably won't get that sense of wildness if you stick to the paved roads. Grand Teton National Park gets very crowded in the summer. Still, as with most places on earth, if you get our of your vehicle and walk a few miles in any direction you'll quickly find yourself alone in the remarkable wilderness and beauty that exists here. + +That wilderness can bite though. Yesterday when I arrived a storm hung over the peaks raining hail, snow and lightening on a number of climbers trying to summit Grand Teton. All afternoon rescue helicopters flew back and forth, up and down the mountain plucking a total of 16 climbers off the peak, some of whom had been struck by lightening several times. It was the single largest rescue effort in the history of the park. Tragically, one person was killed. (For more details check out this [harrowing account of the rescue on Grand Teton][1]). + +Trail through Paintbrush Canyon, Grand Teton National Park I used to climb, but these days I'm content to just walk. To get away from the crowded campgrounds clustered around the lake area at the base of the peaks I strapped on a pack and hiked up here, to Holly Lake, where I was, for the most part, totally alone. + +I'm not one for covering long distance in short periods of time. I set out early and was at Holly Lake by noon. It's only a six mile walk, though you do go up some 3000 feet. I felt no need to keep going. Part of letting the world slip away in the backcountry means you can let go of that endless need to keep pushing. The exercise is good, but so is the doing nothing. The relaxing. + +I set up camp and walked over to the meadow where I watched the clouds roll by, sometimes finding images in them, sometimes not. Eventually I dozed off for a while and woke up feeling refreshed. I spent the afternoon walking around the lake, exploring the hillsides and the meadow. A few day hikers came up, ate their lunches and left. + +Sunset over Holly Lake, Grand Teton National ParkAs evening fell -- late at these latitudes, it did not get completely dark until nearly ten -- I made a small dinner and sat in the meadow watching a pair of deer eat their own dinner. They watched me, perhaps a bit more warily than I them, but they did not run. + +By the time the stars came out it was too cold for lounging in the meadow, I retreated to my tent, crawled in my sleeping bag and stared up through the mesh top at the stars above. + +Hiking into the wilderness empties your mind. You fall into the silence of the mountains and you can relax in a way that's very difficult to do in the midst of civilization. The white noise that surrounds us in our everyday lives, that noise we don't even notice as it adds thin layers of stress that build up over days, weeks, years, does not seem capable of following us into the mountains. + +Perhaps something about the quiet of the land, the stillness of the evening, the silence of the night, something out here that makes all of that back there fade away for a time. The wilderness is a reviver, a giver of perspective, all you have to do is step out into it. + + +[1]: http://www.jhnewsandguide.com/article.php?art_id=6281 + + +[Note: this story is park of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the National Parks Project page.] diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/begin-the-begin.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/begin-the-begin.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4e1ad05 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/begin-the-begin.amp @@ -0,0 +1,189 @@ + + + + + + +Begin the Begin + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Begin the Begin

    + + + +
    +
    +

    When I first arrived in South Asia I stayed near a Spanish Fort in Cochin, India. The first night of this trip I found myself in Spanish Fort, Alabama. Unfortunately, while both may have been erected by the Spanish (lovers of forts the Spanish), there the similarities end.

    +

    Where Fort Cochin India had cantilevered Chinese fishing nets, massive, ancient trees and endless thalis of fish and sauces, Spanish Fort Alabama can only claim corporate chain restaurants and shoddy, overpriced motels.

    +

    About the only real upside to the southern Alabama I've seen is the plethora of rainbows -- double rainbows, single rainbows, rainbows where the beginning and the end are visible, rainbows that came down and ended right in front of my truck. Sadly, not a pot of gold to be found.

    +

    +

    We left town on the fourth of July -- what better day to start a road trip around the United States?

    +

    I'm not an especially patriotic person, but, were I patriotic about anything in the United States, it would be the land. There are few, if any, other places on the earth with the diversity and beauty you'll find in America. That is, I suppose, what we are all looking for when we travel -- beauty. Beauty in places, beauty in people, perhaps even beauty in ourselves.

    +

    +

    The first day we drove as far as Spanish Fort, near Mobile on the Alabama coast. The next morning we started out early, cutting off the interstate in favor of the coast road, down to Gulf Shores to have a last look at the beach before BP's oil spill washes ashore.

    +

    Gulf Port already feels like a ghost town. Hardly anyone seemed to have spent their fourth on the coast, hotel parking lots were empty, the roads virtually deserted and we had the white sands of the beach to ourselves. At the actual port the shrimp and fishing boats sat idle, some already being pulled into dry docks, avoiding the coming oil.

    +

    Further down the coast we saw the first cluster of what would be turn out to be hundreds of orange-vested people wandering the beaches, some with plastic garbage bags fluttering in the wind, others with rakes thrown over their shoulders, all waiting. There is nothing to do just yet. For now the oil is still at sea. But the weather forecasts put the oil onshore either tomorrow or the next day.

    +

    Across the street from the beach are the remnants of another disaster that arrived from the sea -- hurricane Katrina.

    +

    It's been nearly five years, but Gulf Port is still littered with empty lots that look like scars amidst houses that remain. Empty foundations are half-obscured in weeds, brick porches lead to nothing, empty swimming pools are cracked, plants growing out their drains. Here and there a tire swing hangs from an Oak tree, still waiting for someone no longer thinking about returning.

    +

    And somewhere out at sea the next disaster is getting ready to arrive.

    +

    I wander the beach for a while, watching the morning sun stream through the dark, sullen clouds that cover the horizon in every direction. I've never seen an oil spill, just pictures and video. It's hard to imagine all the what this beach will will look like when the oil and dead animals begin to wash up.

    +

    For now it is just sugary white sand that squeaks under your bare feet. Small waves lap at the shore, then hiss softly as they retract back to the ocean.

    +

    I return to the truck and head off again, west -- always west, into the future as it were. The road winds along the shoreline. Buses and volunteers are stationed every few miles. The shoreline will be temporarily destroyed, it is a tragedy, all the moreso because it need not have happened, but there are people here who do their best to right the wrongs.

    +

    The land may be beautiful, but it's always in peril. Fortunately, there are people trying to protect it, to restore it, to preserve it. The light turns green and beach begins to fade in the rearview mirror. It's a somber, but perhaps not inappropriate, beginning for a trip around the United States.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/begin-the-begin.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/begin-the-begin.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ecde075 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/begin-the-begin.html @@ -0,0 +1,344 @@ + + + + + Begin The Begin - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Begin the Begin

    + +
    +
    +

    Gulf Port, Mississippi, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    When I first arrived in South Asia I stayed near a Spanish Fort in Cochin, India. The first night of this trip I found myself in Spanish Fort, Alabama. Unfortunately, while both may have been erected by the Spanish (lovers of forts the Spanish), there the similarities end.

    +

    Rainbow in Gulf Shores MississippiWhere Fort Cochin India had cantilevered Chinese fishing nets, massive, ancient trees and endless thalis of fish and sauces, Spanish Fort Alabama can only claim corporate chain restaurants and shoddy, overpriced motels.

    +

    About the only real upside to the southern Alabama I’ve seen is the plethora of rainbows — double rainbows, single rainbows, rainbows where the beginning and the end are visible, rainbows that came down and ended right in front of my truck. Sadly, not a pot of gold to be found.

    +

    +

    We left town on the fourth of July — what better day to start a road trip around the United States?

    +

    I’m not an especially patriotic person, but, were I patriotic about anything in the United States, it would be the land. There are few, if any, other places on the earth with the diversity and beauty you’ll find in America. That is, I suppose, what we are all looking for when we travel — beauty. Beauty in places, beauty in people, perhaps even beauty in ourselves.

    +

    Union Station Subway Stop, Los Angeles

    +

    The first day we drove as far as Spanish Fort, near Mobile on the Alabama coast. The next morning we started out early, cutting off the interstate in favor of the coast road, down to Gulf Shores to have a last look at the beach before BP’s oil spill washes ashore.

    +

    Gulf Port already feels like a ghost town. Hardly anyone seemed to have spent their fourth on the coast, hotel parking lots were empty, the roads virtually deserted and we had the white sands of the beach to ourselves. At the actual port the shrimp and fishing boats sat idle, some already being pulled into dry docks, avoiding the coming oil.

    +

    Further down the coast we saw the first cluster of what would be turn out to be hundreds of orange-vested people wandering the beaches, some with plastic garbage bags fluttering in the wind, others with rakes thrown over their shoulders, all waiting. There is nothing to do just yet. For now the oil is still at sea. But the weather forecasts put the oil onshore either tomorrow or the next day.

    +

    Across the street from the beach are the remnants of another disaster that arrived from the sea — hurricane Katrina.

    +

    It’s been nearly five years, but Gulf Port is still littered with empty lots that look like scars amidst houses that remain. Empty foundations are half-obscured in weeds, brick porches lead to nothing, empty swimming pools are cracked, plants growing out their drains. Here and there a tire swing hangs from an Oak tree, still waiting for someone no longer thinking about returning.

    +

    And somewhere out at sea the next disaster is getting ready to arrive.

    +

    I wander the beach for a while, watching the morning sun stream through the dark, sullen clouds that cover the horizon in every direction. I’ve never seen an oil spill, just pictures and video. It’s hard to imagine all the what this beach will will look like when the oil and dead animals begin to wash up.

    +

    For now it is just sugary white sand that squeaks under your bare feet. Small waves lap at the shore, then hiss softly as they retract back to the ocean.

    +

    I return to the truck and head off again, west — always west, into the future as it were. The road winds along the shoreline. Buses and volunteers are stationed every few miles. The shoreline will be temporarily destroyed, it is a tragedy, all the moreso because it need not have happened, but there are people here who do their best to right the wrongs.

    +

    The land may be beautiful, but it’s always in peril. Fortunately, there are people trying to protect it, to restore it, to preserve it. The light turns green and beach begins to fade in the rearview mirror. It’s a somber, but perhaps not inappropriate, beginning for a trip around the United States.

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/begin-the-begin.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/begin-the-begin.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..24fe519 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/begin-the-begin.txt @@ -0,0 +1,41 @@ +Begin the Begin +=============== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 05 July 2010 + +When I first arrived in South Asia I stayed near a Spanish Fort in Cochin, India. The first night of this trip I found myself in Spanish Fort, Alabama. Unfortunately, while both may have been erected by the Spanish (lovers of forts the Spanish), there the similarities end. + +Rainbow in Gulf Shores MississippiWhere Fort Cochin India had cantilevered Chinese fishing nets, massive, ancient trees and endless thalis of fish and sauces, Spanish Fort Alabama can only claim corporate chain restaurants and shoddy, overpriced motels. + +About the only real upside to the southern Alabama I've seen is the plethora of rainbows -- double rainbows, single rainbows, rainbows where the beginning and the end are visible, rainbows that came down and ended right in front of my truck. Sadly, not a pot of gold to be found. + + + +We left town on the fourth of July -- what better day to start a road trip around the United States? + +I'm not an especially patriotic person, but, were I patriotic about anything in the United States, it would be the land. There are few, if any, other places on the earth with the diversity and beauty you'll find in America. That is, I suppose, what we are all looking for when we travel -- beauty. Beauty in places, beauty in people, perhaps even beauty in ourselves. + +Union Station Subway Stop, Los Angeles + + +The first day we drove as far as Spanish Fort, near Mobile on the Alabama coast. The next morning we started out early, cutting off the interstate in favor of the coast road, down to Gulf Shores to have a last look at the beach before BP's oil spill washes ashore. + +Gulf Port already feels like a ghost town. Hardly anyone seemed to have spent their fourth on the coast, hotel parking lots were empty, the roads virtually deserted and we had the white sands of the beach to ourselves. At the actual port the shrimp and fishing boats sat idle, some already being pulled into dry docks, avoiding the coming oil. + +Further down the coast we saw the first cluster of what would be turn out to be hundreds of orange-vested people wandering the beaches, some with plastic garbage bags fluttering in the wind, others with rakes thrown over their shoulders, all waiting. There is nothing to do just yet. For now the oil is still at sea. But the weather forecasts put the oil onshore either tomorrow or the next day. + +Across the street from the beach are the remnants of another disaster that arrived from the sea -- hurricane Katrina. + +It's been nearly five years, but Gulf Port is still littered with empty lots that look like scars amidst houses that remain. Empty foundations are half-obscured in weeds, brick porches lead to nothing, empty swimming pools are cracked, plants growing out their drains. Here and there a tire swing hangs from an Oak tree, still waiting for someone no longer thinking about returning. + +And somewhere out at sea the next disaster is getting ready to arrive. + +I wander the beach for a while, watching the morning sun stream through the dark, sullen clouds that cover the horizon in every direction. I've never seen an oil spill, just pictures and video. It's hard to imagine all the what this beach will will look like when the oil and dead animals begin to wash up. + +For now it is just sugary white sand that squeaks under your bare feet. Small waves lap at the shore, then hiss softly as they retract back to the ocean. + +I return to the truck and head off again, west -- always west, into the future as it were. The road winds along the shoreline. Buses and volunteers are stationed every few miles. The shoreline will be temporarily destroyed, it is a tragedy, all the moreso because it need not have happened, but there are people here who do their best to right the wrongs. + +The land may be beautiful, but it's always in peril. Fortunately, there are people trying to protect it, to restore it, to preserve it. The light turns green and beach begins to fade in the rearview mirror. It's a somber, but perhaps not inappropriate, beginning for a trip around the United States. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/comanche-national-grasslands.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/comanche-national-grasslands.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..38bb8b0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/comanche-national-grasslands.amp @@ -0,0 +1,193 @@ + + + + + + +Comanche National Grasslands + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Comanche National Grasslands

    + + + +
    +
    +

    From Amarillo I headed north, taking small county roads through the northern section of the Texas panhandle, into Oklahoma and on to Colorado, where I turned off on a dirt road that claimed it would take me to the Comanche National Grasslands.

    +

    +

    To say the Comanche National Grasslands is off the grid would be an understatement. With the exception of Highway 50 in Nevada, I've never driven through such isolation and vast openness anywhere in the world. And it's easy to get lost. There are no signs, no road names even, just dirt paths crisscrossing a wide, perfectly flat expanses of grass.

    +

    +

    I followed what I thought was the main dirt road through some ranch lands, wheat fields and open grasslands to a cattle grate and a fork in the road where a small sign noted that the Grasslands preserve had begun.

    +

    I had not seen another car since I turned off the main road. Nor would I for the rest of my time in the Comanche National Grasslands.

    +

    Instead there was simply immense, wide open space. Space so big it begins to close in on you, the sky seems so endlessly massive and close that it's disconcerting. The only real limits to your field of vision are the curvature of the earth. You begin to get some sense of how small a thing you really are. If you spend too much time thinking about infinity, you can't help but feel incredibly finite.

    +

    Few of the early settlers who wrote about crossing the plains failed to note the epic proportions of open space. While that space, and the original scale, are long gone, you can get some sense of what it must have been like in the Comanche National Grasslands. If you spend too much time out here, you can still get lost in the vastness of infinity.

    +

    I distracted myself by watching the birds. There were birds everywhere -- red-tailed hawks on a telephone pole, doves lurking in the sunflower plants that lined the road and meadowlarks that took flight at the first sound of the truck, their cream-colored bellies streaking by my window as they peeled off into the open. At one point I even saw a relatively uncommon pigmy burrowing owl.

    +

    Eventually the road began to drop into some lowlands, small rolling depressions cut by the now dry streams that pass though the area. Eventually I came to the head of Chisolm Canyon (which is actually labeled with a small sign), a much larger gash carved by a still flowing river. On a crest just before the road dropped into the canyon proper I stopped and ate lunch.

    +

    As soon as I turned off the truck engine I was engulfed in silence. It was as utter quiet as anywhere I've been. Only the occasional chirping click of grasshoppers and the eerie moaning of the wind sweeping through the juniper bushes broke the stillness. The only other time I've been somewhere as quiet was in the backcountry of the Sierra Nevada during a snowstorm.

    +

    It was quiet enough that every footstep I took seemed like thunder, the crunch of the gravel giving me away to every other living thing. I could even hear myself chewing as I ate. But the silence was peaceful too, so, not having anywhere particular to be, I climbed on the hood of the truck, leaned back against the windshield and took a nap.

    +

    +

    Later, rested and refreshed, I descended out of the limitless plain into Chisolm Canyon where a river has carved down some four or five hundred feet of red rock that is slowly crumbling into mesas and bluffs. Come back in a few million years and there may well be a Grand Canyon here.

    +

    I pulled off near the river and went down to have a swim and sit in the shade of the Cottonwood trees. The river proved too shallow for swimming, though I dipped my shirt in it to cool off. I sat in the shade for bit, letting the truck rest and watching the Cottonwood trees' seeds drift by, little tufts of white seed casing -- the Cottonwood's namesake -- floating in the air.

    +

    I continued down the canyon until it opened up into another flatland and the road began to loop back around and head east again. Eventually I came to the same spot I had started at, but since I was half lost when I got there it wasn't much help. I hadn't intended to spend much time in the grasslands, but sometimes a place just grabs you and you have to stay a while.

    +

    Unfortunately I still had a good bit of ground to cover before I got to Great Sand Dunes National Park, where I was planning to stay for the night. The dirt roads around me were far too small to be on my atlas. With no cell signal I couldn't consult Google, and there were no signs to rely on.

    +

    In the end I decided that, since Comanche National Grasslands is more or less a square block of land on the map, if I went in any one direction eventually I'd hit some tarmac. I picked north since that would most likely lead to highway 160, which eventually takes you to Great Sand Dunes.

    +

    It proved a sound strategy. After half and hour or so I was back to a paved road, though there were still no signs indicating which way to go. Great Sand Dunes National Park was west, so I just pointed to truck toward the sun and started driving, figuring eventually I'd get somewhere.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/comanche-national-grasslands.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/comanche-national-grasslands.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1b15db2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/comanche-national-grasslands.html @@ -0,0 +1,385 @@ + + + + + Comanche National Grasslands - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Comanche National Grasslands

    +

    Exploring a little-known corner of Colorado

    +
    +
    +

    Comanche National Grasslands, Colorado, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    From Amarillo I headed north, taking small county roads through the northern section of the Texas panhandle, into Oklahoma and on to Colorado, where I turned off on a dirt road that claimed it would take me to the Comanche National Grasslands.

    +
    + + Comanche National grassland photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    To say the Comanche National Grasslands is off the grid would be an understatement. With the exception of Highway 50 in Nevada, I’ve never driven through such isolation and vast openness anywhere in the world. And it’s easy to get lost. There are no signs, no road names even, just dirt paths crisscrossing a wide, perfectly flat expanses of grass.

    +

    I followed what I thought was the main dirt road through some ranch land. Endless wheat fields stretching to the horizon eventually gave way to open grasslands.

    +
    + + wheat fields, comanche national grassland, colorado photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I crossed cattle grate and came to a fork in the road where a small sign noted that the Grasslands preserve had begun. I had not seen another car since I turned off the main road. Nor would I for the rest of my time in the Comanche National Grasslands.

    +
    + + Comanche National Grasslands, Colorado photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Instead there was simply immense, wide open space. Space so big it begins to close in on you, the sky seems so endlessly massive and close that it’s disconcerting. The only real limits to your field of vision are the curvature of the earth. You begin to get some sense of how small a thing you really are. If you spend too much time thinking about infinity, you can’t help but feel incredibly finite.

    +

    Few of the early settlers who wrote about crossing the plains failed to note the epic proportions of open space. While that space, and the original scale, are long gone, you can get some sense of what it must have been like in the Comanche National Grasslands. If you spend too much time out here, you can still get lost in the vastness of infinity.

    +

    I distracted myself by watching the birds. There were birds everywhere — red-tailed hawks on a telephone pole, doves lurking in the sunflower plants that lined the road and meadowlarks that took flight at the first sound of the truck, their cream-colored bellies streaking by my window as they peeled off into the open. At one point I even saw a relatively uncommon pigmy burrowing owl.

    +
    + + Red tailed hawk, comanche national grassland, colorado photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Eventually the road began to drop into some lowlands, small rolling depressions cut by the now dry streams that pass though the area. Eventually I came to the head of Chisolm Canyon (which is actually labeled with a small sign), a much larger gash carved by a still flowing river. On a crest just before the road dropped into the canyon proper I stopped and ate lunch.

    +

    As soon as I turned off the truck engine I was engulfed in silence. It was as utter quiet as anywhere I’ve been. Only the occasional chirping click of grasshoppers and the eerie moaning of the wind sweeping through the juniper bushes broke the stillness. The only other time I’ve been somewhere as quiet was in the backcountry of the Sierra Nevada during a snowstorm.

    +

    It was quiet enough that every footstep I took seemed like thunder, the crunch of the gravel giving me away to every other living thing. I could even hear myself chewing as I ate. But the silence was peaceful too, so, not having anywhere particular to be, I climbed on the hood of the truck, leaned back against the windshield and took a nap.

    +
    + + 1969 Ford f150, Comanche National Grasslands, Colorado photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Later, rested and refreshed, I descended out of the limitless plain into Chisolm Canyon where a river has carved down some four or five hundred feet of red rock that is slowly crumbling into mesas and bluffs. Come back in a few million years and there may well be a Grand Canyon here.

    +
    + + Chisom canyone area, comanche national grasslands photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I pulled off near the river and went down to have a swim and sit in the shade of the Cottonwood trees. The river proved too shallow for swimming, though I dipped my shirt in it to cool off. I sat in the shade for bit, letting the truck rest and watching the Cottonwood trees’ seeds drift by, little tufts of white seed casing — the Cottonwood’s namesake — floating in the air.

    +

    I continued down the canyon until it opened up into another flatland and the road began to loop back around and head east again. Eventually I came to the same spot I had started at, but since I was half lost when I got there it wasn’t much help. I hadn’t intended to spend much time in the grasslands, but sometimes a place just grabs you and you have to stay a while.

    +

    Unfortunately I still had a good bit of ground to cover before I got to Great Sand Dunes National Park, where I was planning to stay for the night. The dirt roads around me were far too small to be on my atlas. With no cell signal I couldn’t consult Google, and there were no signs to rely on.

    +
    + + Road stretching to horizon, Comanche National grasslands, Colorado photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    In the end I decided that, since Comanche National Grasslands is more or less a square block of land on the map, if I went in any one direction eventually I’d hit some tarmac. I picked north since that would most likely lead to highway 160, which eventually takes you to Great Sand Dunes.

    +

    It proved a sound strategy. After half and hour or so I was back to a paved road, though there were still no signs indicating which way to go. Great Sand Dunes National Park was west, so I just pointed to truck toward the sun and started driving, figuring eventually I’d get somewhere.

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/comanche-national-grasslands.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/comanche-national-grasslands.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..168f808 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/comanche-national-grasslands.txt @@ -0,0 +1,52 @@ +Comanche National Grasslands +============================ + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Friday, 16 July 2010 + +From Amarillo I headed north, taking small county roads through the northern section of the Texas panhandle, into Oklahoma and on to Colorado, where I turned off on a dirt road that claimed it would take me to the Comanche National Grasslands. + + + +To say the Comanche National Grasslands is off the grid would be an understatement. With the exception of Highway 50 in Nevada, I've never driven through such isolation and vast openness anywhere in the world. And it's easy to get lost. There are no signs, no road names even, just dirt paths crisscrossing a wide, perfectly flat expanses of grass. + +I followed what I thought was the main dirt road through some ranch land. Endless wheat fields stretching to the horizon eventually gave way to open grasslands. + + + +I crossed cattle grate and came to a fork in the road where a small sign noted that the Grasslands preserve had begun. I had not seen another car since I turned off the main road. Nor would I for the rest of my time in the Comanche National Grasslands. + + + +Instead there was simply immense, wide open space. Space so big it begins to close in on you, the sky seems so endlessly massive and close that it's disconcerting. The only real limits to your field of vision are the curvature of the earth. You begin to get some sense of how small a thing you really are. If you spend too much time thinking about infinity, you can't help but feel incredibly finite. + +Few of the early settlers who wrote about crossing the plains failed to note the epic proportions of open space. While that space, and the original scale, are long gone, you can get some sense of what it must have been like in the Comanche National Grasslands. If you spend too much time out here, you can still get lost in the vastness of infinity. + +I distracted myself by watching the birds. There were birds everywhere -- red-tailed hawks on a telephone pole, doves lurking in the sunflower plants that lined the road and meadowlarks that took flight at the first sound of the truck, their cream-colored bellies streaking by my window as they peeled off into the open. At one point I even saw a relatively uncommon pigmy burrowing owl. + + + +Eventually the road began to drop into some lowlands, small rolling depressions cut by the now dry streams that pass though the area. Eventually I came to the head of Chisolm Canyon (which is actually labeled with a small sign), a much larger gash carved by a still flowing river. On a crest just before the road dropped into the canyon proper I stopped and ate lunch. + +As soon as I turned off the truck engine I was engulfed in silence. It was as utter quiet as anywhere I've been. Only the occasional chirping click of grasshoppers and the eerie moaning of the wind sweeping through the juniper bushes broke the stillness. The only other time I've been somewhere as quiet was in the backcountry of the Sierra Nevada during a snowstorm. + +It was quiet enough that every footstep I took seemed like thunder, the crunch of the gravel giving me away to every other living thing. I could even hear myself chewing as I ate. But the silence was peaceful too, so, not having anywhere particular to be, I climbed on the hood of the truck, leaned back against the windshield and took a nap. + + + +Later, rested and refreshed, I descended out of the limitless plain into Chisolm Canyon where a river has carved down some four or five hundred feet of red rock that is slowly crumbling into mesas and bluffs. Come back in a few million years and there may well be a Grand Canyon here. + + + +I pulled off near the river and went down to have a swim and sit in the shade of the Cottonwood trees. The river proved too shallow for swimming, though I dipped my shirt in it to cool off. I sat in the shade for bit, letting the truck rest and watching the Cottonwood trees' seeds drift by, little tufts of white seed casing -- the Cottonwood's namesake -- floating in the air. + +I continued down the canyon until it opened up into another flatland and the road began to loop back around and head east again. Eventually I came to the same spot I had started at, but since I was half lost when I got there it wasn't much help. I hadn't intended to spend much time in the grasslands, but sometimes a place just grabs you and you have to stay a while. + +Unfortunately I still had a good bit of ground to cover before I got to Great Sand Dunes National Park, where I was planning to stay for the night. The dirt roads around me were far too small to be on my atlas. With no cell signal I couldn't consult Google, and there were no signs to rely on. + + + +In the end I decided that, since Comanche National Grasslands is more or less a square block of land on the map, if I went in any one direction eventually I'd hit some tarmac. I picked north since that would most likely lead to highway 160, which eventually takes you to Great Sand Dunes. + +It proved a sound strategy. After half and hour or so I was back to a paved road, though there were still no signs indicating which way to go. Great Sand Dunes National Park was west, so I just pointed to truck toward the sun and started driving, figuring eventually I'd get somewhere. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dinosaur-national-monument-part-one-echo-park.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dinosaur-national-monument-part-one-echo-park.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f86c93c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dinosaur-national-monument-part-one-echo-park.amp @@ -0,0 +1,205 @@ + + + + + + +Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park

    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Damn. The steak was half-cooked before I realized I didn't have any salt and pepper. I was not at the sort of campground where there's a general store just up the road. In fact, it was twelve miles to the nearest paved road, twenty-five more until you hit something that actually had a highway number and some forty miles beyond that before you'd find anything resembling a store.

    +

    While I weighed my options -- none really -- the corn fell off the grill and landed right on the coals. Damn.

    +

    You make do I suppose. I pulled the corn out of the fire, gave it a quick rinse and called it done. I ate the steak straight off the grill, pioneer style -- no seasoning at all. Well, maybe not true pioneer-style. Maybe the style of pioneers with piss-poor planning skills. The sort of pioneers that probably busted on the whole "Oregon or bust" thing.

    +

    Whatever the case, the steak wasn't half bad, even without salt. I was just happy enough to have found some peace and quiet. I didn't much care what I was eating.

    +
    +

    +

    After days of wading through the crowds in Yellowstone I was finally in a place where the loudest sounds were the birds and the rush of the wind through the canyon, somewhere without SUVs and obnoxious children screaming from the doorway of their parents' motorhome about the lack of stuffed bears.

    +

    I ended up here in Dinosaur National Monument on a whim. I was planning to drive straight through to Grand Junction, but then I thought, what the heck, it's right there. I detoured off the road up to the rather ramshackle Ranger Station. It turned out the double-wide ranger station is a temporary thing. I went inside and listened to the ranger patiently explain to a very disappointed French couple, that the fossil quarry -- the namesake and main draw of Dinosaur National Monument -- was in fact closed to the public.

    +

    That's when I decided to stay. I've never really been interested in fossils. They're pretty much just rocks at this point. There's plenty of data to be gleaned from them, I get that, but I leave it to paleontologists and geologists to put that in story form for me. Close encounters with the raw materials leave me feeling like I'm missing something -- sort of like looking at a Warhol.

    +

    The truth is, if you really want to see dinosaur bones, you're better off heading to the Smithsonian. All the best fossils have long since been carted off to museums.

    +

    So, in short, this is the perfect time for someone like me to visit Dinosaur National Monument, because, as it turns out, this place was poorly named. The best parts of it are not the fossils but the canyon country -- some of the best, most remote canyon country you'll find in this part of the world.

    +

    +

    Whether it was the the closed quarry or just the out-of-the-way nature of Dinosaur I don't know, but Dinosaur National Monument is almost completely deserted. On the drive in to Echo Park I saw only one other car in nearly fifty miles. The campground was similarly deserted, five or six other cars had staked out spots.

    +

    Aside from the tributary canyon that provides vehicle access to Echo Park, the area -- maybe five acres -- is completely ringed in sheer sandstone cliffs. As dusk settles in somewhere on top of the mesas above us, Swallows and bats emerge from the cliffs to prey on the insects.

    +

    The wind dies down and mosquitos come out. They are annoying, the most annoying I've encountered on this trip. But world travel gives you different perspective on mosquitos. Here is the U.S. mosquitos are just annoying, they do not carry malaria or dengue fever or yellow fever or any other horrifying diseases (at least for now). The worst thing that happens is you itch a little.

    +

    A small price to pay for peace and quiet and beauty.

    +

    Echo Park1 is really a sand bar that got out of hand. Just a stone's throw from here the Green and Yampa rivers meet. The confluence happens at the start of a very sharp horseshoe bend which means the excess sand and silt of both rivers ends up here, on the far side of the horseshoe.

    +

    At some point in the geologic past the sand deposit got to be too much for the river to carry away, even in floods. Then the grasses took hold, anchoring the sand and sediment. Over time the ground solidified and trees sprung up. That part of nature that needs solidity formed a semi-permanent beachhead -- Echo Park. And yes, it does echo, more on that in part two.

    +

    Of course there's no guarantee Echo Park will be here forever. Look at what the river did to the sandstone that surrounds Echo Park -- it's cut through thousands of feet of sandstone. If the wants its overgrown sandbar back, the river will have it. Rivers always win in the end, but for this geologic moment it's here and it's quite spectacular.

    +

    It's also incredibly quiet and peaceful. As I write this my fingers clicking on the keys are the loudest sound in Echo Park. The songbirds have settled down for the night, the fire crackles softly.

    +

    The people who lived here called Echo Park "The Center of the Universe." It's not hard to see why, the huge, silent ring of cliff walls seem knowing, having watched over this river since the world was made. The rock walls remain whether the swallows come or go, whether the mosquitoes bite or not, whether the river floods or doesn't, whether I keep typing or stop. They simply exist as they have for millions of years -- massive and silent, watching as we, mere blips on the geologic radar, come and go, looking up at them, admiring their near eternity in our momentary passing.

    +

    [Note: this story is part of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the National Parks Project page.]

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      Why is every flat piece of land in Colorado called a park? (Estes Park, Echo Park, Island Park, etc) Is that a tourism board thing? Or just a quirk of naming conventions? Cause we have the same sort of things back east, we just call them meadows or valleys or canyons or whatever. But now I think we might be missing out on something... ↩

      +
      2. +
    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dinosaur-national-monument-part-one-echo-park.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dinosaur-national-monument-part-one-echo-park.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..566cbdd --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dinosaur-national-monument-part-one-echo-park.html @@ -0,0 +1,372 @@ + + + + + Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park

    + +
    +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    +

    Damn. The steak was half-cooked before I realized I didn’t have any salt and pepper. I was not at the sort of campground where there’s a general store just up the road. In fact, it was twelve miles to the nearest paved road, twenty-five more until you hit something that actually had a highway number and some forty miles beyond that before you’d find anything resembling a store.

    + +

    While I weighed my options — none really — the corn fell off the grill and landed right on the coals. Damn.

    + +

    You make do I suppose. I pulled the corn out of the fire, gave it a quick rinse and called it done. I ate the steak straight off the grill, pioneer style — no seasoning at all. Well, maybe not true pioneer-style. Maybe the style of pioneers with piss-poor planning skills. The sort of pioneers that probably busted on the whole “Oregon or bust” thing.

    + +

    Whatever the case, the steak wasn’t half bad, even without salt. I was just happy enough to have found some peace and quiet. I didn’t much care what I was eating.

    +
    + +

    Evening in Echo Park, Dinosaur National Monument, Co

    +

    After days of wading through the crowds in Yellowstone I was finally in a place where the loudest sounds were the birds and the rush of the wind through the canyon, somewhere without SUVs and obnoxious children screaming from the doorway of their parents’ motorhome about the lack of stuffed bears.

    + +

    I ended up here in Dinosaur National Monument on a whim. I was planning to drive straight through to Grand Junction, but then I thought, what the heck, it’s right there. I detoured off the road up to the rather ramshackle Ranger Station. It turned out the double-wide ranger station is a temporary thing. I went inside and listened to the ranger patiently explain to a very disappointed French couple, that the fossil quarry — the namesake and main draw of Dinosaur National Monument — was in fact closed to the public.

    + +

    That’s when I decided to stay. I’ve never really been interested in fossils. They’re pretty much just rocks at this point. There’s plenty of data to be gleaned from them, I get that, but I leave it to paleontologists and geologists to put that in story form for me. Close encounters with the raw materials leave me feeling like I’m missing something — sort of like looking at a Warhol.

    + +

    The truth is, if you really want to see dinosaur bones, you’re better off heading to the Smithsonian. All the best fossils have long since been carted off to museums.

    + +

    So, in short, this is the perfect time for someone like me to visit Dinosaur National Monument, because, as it turns out, this place was poorly named. The best parts of it are not the fossils but the canyon country — some of the best, most remote canyon country you’ll find in this part of the world.

    + +

    +

    Whether it was the the closed quarry or just the out-of-the-way nature of Dinosaur I don’t know, but Dinosaur National Monument is almost completely deserted. On the drive in to Echo Park I saw only one other car in nearly fifty miles. The campground was similarly deserted, five or six other cars had staked out spots.

    + +

    Cliff Walls, Echo Park, Dinosaur National Monument Aside from the tributary canyon that provides vehicle access to Echo Park, the area — maybe five acres — is completely ringed in sheer sandstone cliffs. As dusk settles in somewhere on top of the mesas above us, Swallows and bats emerge from the cliffs to prey on the insects.

    + +

    The wind dies down and mosquitos come out. They are annoying, the most annoying I’ve encountered on this trip. But world travel gives you different perspective on mosquitos. Here is the U.S. mosquitos are just annoying, they do not carry malaria or dengue fever or yellow fever or any other horrifying diseases (at least for now). The worst thing that happens is you itch a little.

    + +

    A small price to pay for peace and quiet and beauty.

    + +

    Echo Park1 is really a sand bar that got out of hand. Just a stone’s throw from here the Green and Yampa rivers meet. The confluence happens at the start of a very sharp horseshoe bend which means the excess sand and silt of both rivers ends up here, on the far side of the horseshoe.

    + +

    River Entrance to Echo Park, Dinosaur National MonumentAt some point in the geologic past the sand deposit got to be too much for the river to carry away, even in floods. Then the grasses took hold, anchoring the sand and sediment. Over time the ground solidified and trees sprung up. That part of nature that needs solidity formed a semi-permanent beachhead — Echo Park. And yes, it does echo, more on that in part two.

    + +

    Of course there’s no guarantee Echo Park will be here forever. Look at what the river did to the sandstone that surrounds Echo Park — it’s cut through thousands of feet of sandstone. If the wants its overgrown sandbar back, the river will have it. Rivers always win in the end, but for this geologic moment it’s here and it’s quite spectacular.

    + +

    It’s also incredibly quiet and peaceful. As I write this my fingers clicking on the keys are the loudest sound in Echo Park. The songbirds have settled down for the night, the fire crackles softly.

    + +

    The people who lived here called Echo Park “The Center of the Universe.” It’s not hard to see why, the huge, silent ring of cliff walls seem knowing, having watched over this river since the world was made. The rock walls remain whether the swallows come or go, whether the mosquitoes bite or not, whether the river floods or doesn’t, whether I keep typing or stop. They simply exist as they have for millions of years — massive and silent, watching as we, mere blips on the geologic radar, come and go, looking up at them, admiring their near eternity in our momentary passing.

    + +

    [Note: this story is part of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the National Parks Project page.]

    + +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      Why is every flat piece of land in Colorado called a park? (Estes Park, Echo Park, Island Park, etc) Is that a tourism board thing? Or just a quirk of naming conventions? Cause we have the same sort of things back east, we just call them meadows or valleys or canyons or whatever. But now I think we might be missing out on something… ↩

      +
      2. +
    +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dinosaur-national-monument-part-one-echo-park.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dinosaur-national-monument-part-one-echo-park.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e7b9f54 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dinosaur-national-monument-part-one-echo-park.txt @@ -0,0 +1,60 @@ +Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park +=============================================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 28 July 2010 + +
    +

    Damn. The steak was half-cooked before I realized I didn't have any salt and pepper. I was not at the sort of campground where there's a general store just up the road. In fact, it was twelve miles to the nearest paved road, twenty-five more until you hit something that actually had a highway number and some forty miles beyond that before you'd find anything resembling a store.

    + +

    While I weighed my options -- none really -- the corn fell off the grill and landed right on the coals. Damn.

    + +

    You make do I suppose. I pulled the corn out of the fire, gave it a quick rinse and called it done. I ate the steak straight off the grill, pioneer style -- no seasoning at all. Well, maybe not true pioneer-style. Maybe the style of pioneers with piss-poor planning skills. The sort of pioneers that probably busted on the whole "Oregon or bust" thing.

    + +

    Whatever the case, the steak wasn't half bad, even without salt. I was just happy enough to have found some peace and quiet. I didn't much care what I was eating.

    +
    + +Evening in Echo Park, Dinosaur National Monument, Co + +

    After days of wading through the crowds in Yellowstone I was finally in a place where the loudest sounds were the birds and the rush of the wind through the canyon, somewhere without SUVs and obnoxious children screaming from the doorway of their parents' motorhome about the lack of stuffed bears.

    + +

    I ended up here in Dinosaur National Monument on a whim. I was planning to drive straight through to Grand Junction, but then I thought, what the heck, it's right there. I detoured off the road up to the rather ramshackle Ranger Station. It turned out the double-wide ranger station is a temporary thing. I went inside and listened to the ranger patiently explain to a very disappointed French couple, that the fossil quarry -- the namesake and main draw of Dinosaur National Monument -- was in fact closed to the public.

    + +

    That's when I decided to stay. I've never really been interested in fossils. They're pretty much just rocks at this point. There's plenty of data to be gleaned from them, I get that, but I leave it to paleontologists and geologists to put that in story form for me. Close encounters with the raw materials leave me feeling like I'm missing something -- sort of like looking at a Warhol.

    + +

    The truth is, if you really want to see dinosaur bones, you're better off heading to the Smithsonian. All the best fossils have long since been carted off to museums.

    + +

    So, in short, this is the perfect time for someone like me to visit Dinosaur National Monument, because, as it turns out, this place was poorly named. The best parts of it are not the fossils but the canyon country -- some of the best, most remote canyon country you'll find in this part of the world.

    + + + +

    Whether it was the the closed quarry or just the out-of-the-way nature of Dinosaur I don't know, but Dinosaur National Monument is almost completely deserted. On the drive in to Echo Park I saw only one other car in nearly fifty miles. The campground was similarly deserted, five or six other cars had staked out spots.

    + +

    Cliff Walls, Echo Park, Dinosaur National Monument Aside from the tributary canyon that provides vehicle access to Echo Park, the area -- maybe five acres -- is completely ringed in sheer sandstone cliffs. As dusk settles in somewhere on top of the mesas above us, Swallows and bats emerge from the cliffs to prey on the insects.

    + +

    The wind dies down and mosquitos come out. They are annoying, the most annoying I've encountered on this trip. But world travel gives you different perspective on mosquitos. Here is the U.S. mosquitos are just annoying, they do not carry malaria or dengue fever or yellow fever or any other horrifying diseases (at least for now). The worst thing that happens is you itch a little.

    + +

    A small price to pay for peace and quiet and beauty.

    + +

    Echo Park1 is really a sand bar that got out of hand. Just a stone's throw from here the Green and Yampa rivers meet. The confluence happens at the start of a very sharp horseshoe bend which means the excess sand and silt of both rivers ends up here, on the far side of the horseshoe.

    + +

    River Entrance to Echo Park, Dinosaur National MonumentAt some point in the geologic past the sand deposit got to be too much for the river to carry away, even in floods. Then the grasses took hold, anchoring the sand and sediment. Over time the ground solidified and trees sprung up. That part of nature that needs solidity formed a semi-permanent beachhead -- Echo Park. And yes, it does echo, more on that in part two.

    + +

    Of course there's no guarantee Echo Park will be here forever. Look at what the river did to the sandstone that surrounds Echo Park -- it's cut through thousands of feet of sandstone. If the wants its overgrown sandbar back, the river will have it. Rivers always win in the end, but for this geologic moment it's here and it's quite spectacular.

    + +

    It's also incredibly quiet and peaceful. As I write this my fingers clicking on the keys are the loudest sound in Echo Park. The songbirds have settled down for the night, the fire crackles softly.

    + +

    The people who lived here called Echo Park "The Center of the Universe." It's not hard to see why, the huge, silent ring of cliff walls seem knowing, having watched over this river since the world was made. The rock walls remain whether the swallows come or go, whether the mosquitoes bite or not, whether the river floods or doesn't, whether I keep typing or stop. They simply exist as they have for millions of years -- massive and silent, watching as we, mere blips on the geologic radar, come and go, looking up at them, admiring their near eternity in our momentary passing.

    + +

    [Note: this story is part of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the National Parks Project page.]

    + +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      Why is every flat piece of land in Colorado called a park? (Estes Park, Echo Park, Island Park, etc) Is that a tourism board thing? Or just a quirk of naming conventions? Cause we have the same sort of things back east, we just call them meadows or valleys or canyons or whatever. But now I think we might be missing out on something... ↩

      +
      2. +
    +
    + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dixie-drug-store.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dixie-drug-store.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..41f1fcc --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dixie-drug-store.amp @@ -0,0 +1,204 @@ + + + + + + +The Dixie Drug Store + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The Dixie Drug Store

    + + + +
    +
    +

    New Orleans is a blur. It started with a pint over lunch just after we arrived and then there were a few more pints at the coffeeshop down the street from our hotel, where an obnoxious group of people scouting locations for a movie eventually drove us on, to the statue of Ignatius Reilly, then a casino, a slightly lighter wallet, the best muffaletta I've ever had, some very old graves, an unlikely amount of pork, a transvestite beauty pageant and then we hit the road again.

    +

    Which is not to say I was drunk the whole time, just that somewhere between the beer and the stifling humidity and wholly unique character of New Orleans, everything becomes less distinct.

    +

    New Orleans is only technically part of the United States, a act of map making more than anything else. For me, New Orleans has always been the one foreign country I can visit without a passport.

    +

    +

    New Orleans is it's own world. So much so that's it's impossible to put your finger on what it is that makes it different. New Orleans is a place where the line between consensus reality and private dream seems to have never fully developed. And a wonderful world it is.

    +

    The New Orleans Pharmacy museum sticks out amidst the blurry series of events, perhaps because it was air conditioned, perhaps because of the Grant Lee Buffalo song from which the title of this entry is taken, or perhaps because pharmacology is simply fascinating no matter where you are, New Orleans just happens to have the perfect shrine to it.

    +

    Whatever the case, the museum is a brilliant glimpse of the halcyon days of early chemical experimenters -- that early world where chemicals were understood well enough to be occasionally useful and not well enough to be occasionally dangerous. A time of self-taught chemists, enthusiastic, evangelical drug fiends, pioneers and yes, outright quacks.

    +

    It seems everyone used to be mixing up some sort of medicine in the basement.

    +

    +

    In New Orleans there's also a strong connection between the old Vodun religious practices and the potions, cure-alls, medicines and straight quackery that used to be the local drugstore.

    +

    If, like me, you've ever wondered what happened to the days when Coke actually contained cocaine, every woman kept a laudanum tin by the bedside and anyone was generally free to put whatever they liked -- for good or bad -- in their body, then you are no doubt aware of the Harrison Narcotic Act of 1914.

    +

    The bill, which overnight made a series of plants and their by-products illegal, is one of those lines in the sand, a marker where, on one side, is total anarchistic freedom (that would be prior to the Harrison Act) and on the other side restrictions, regulations and a government that is suddenly in charge of what you can and cannot do with your body and mind.

    +

    I don't have any strong opinions on the Harrison Act -- it is what it is, and it's far too late to change it. But I do think that time before it sounds like more fun. Sure, there were some wacky chemicals for sale, things that would poison and kill you, but there are still hundreds of lawsuits every year against so-called medicines that have caused people harm.

    +

    The difference is that now we have a huge multi-billion dollar pharmaceutical industry that gets to crank out the drugs that kill us. At the end of the day the pharmaceutical industry is about as interested in your health as the smiling shysters hawking jars of god-knows-what out the back of a gaudily painted wagon.

    +

    Walking the rooms of the New Orleans Pharmacy Museum with their seemingly endless shelves full of oils and sprays and pipes and potions proudly proclaiming to cure everything from hiccups to money, luck and love, was a beautiful trip back to time when people did things for themselves; when things were not simpler, they were more complicated and risky in fact, but you were in charge. It was your job to educate yourself, to make decisions, to experiment if you wished, abstain if you did not.

    +

    Stepping back out into the humid heat of Rue de Chartres was like being rudely sucked back to the present world. Fortunately New Orleans is there to cushion your abrupt arrival in the present, more strangeness is right around the corner, you just have to keep walking.

    +

    We walked up to the St. Louis Cemetery, not because it's especially strange, but because I had not been there for sixteen years. So much has changed between then and now it boggled my mind and I mostly walked in silence thinking about the road trip I took sixteen years ago. We had no cellphones then, we wrote on paper with pens, we used paper maps to get around. We were nineteen. The world was utterly different.

    +

    Except for the graveyard. Not much changes in graveyards. The neighborhood around St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 has improved somewhat. There was a giant pyramid crypt that I don't remember from the last trip, but otherwise the graveyard looked just as it did when I was nineteen years old.

    +

    I even managed to take the same picture:

    +
    + +Angel on a crypt, St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, New Orleans 1995 +
    +
    + +Angel on a crypt, St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, New Orleans 2010 +
    +

    The 2010 version needed to be carefully framed to avoid some new buildings to the south and a bit of Photoshop was necessary to get rid of a stoplight that didn't use to be there, but I do find it remarkable, given how much the world around us has changed in fifteen years, that this scene is still there.

    +

    No one wants to live in a world that never changes, but sometimes it's nice to know that bits of the world remain as they ever are.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dixie-drug-store.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dixie-drug-store.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..31f9f20 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dixie-drug-store.html @@ -0,0 +1,388 @@ + + + + + The Dixie Drug Store - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The Dixie Drug Store

    + +
    +
    +

    New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    New Orleans is a blur. It started with a pint over lunch just after we arrived and then there were a few more pints at the coffeeshop down the street from our hotel, where an obnoxious group of people scouting locations for a movie eventually drove us on, to the statue of Ignatius Reilly, then a casino, a slightly lighter wallet, the best muffaletta I’ve ever had, some very old graves, an unlikely amount of pork, a transvestite beauty pageant and then we hit the road again.

    +

    The corner of Decatur and Barracks, New Orleans, LA Which is not to say I was drunk the whole time, just that somewhere between the beer and the stifling humidity and wholly unique character of New Orleans, everything becomes less distinct.

    +

    New Orleans is only technically part of the United States, a act of map making more than anything else. For me, New Orleans has always been the one foreign country I can visit without a passport.

    +

    +

    New Orleans is it’s own world. So much so that’s it’s impossible to put your finger on what it is that makes it different. New Orleans is a place where the line between consensus reality and private dream seems to have never fully developed. And a wonderful world it is.

    +

    The New Orleans Pharmacy museum sticks out amidst the blurry series of events, perhaps because it was air conditioned, perhaps because of the Grant Lee Buffalo song from which the title of this entry is taken, or perhaps because pharmacology is simply fascinating no matter where you are, New Orleans just happens to have the perfect shrine to it.

    +

    Whatever the case, the museum is a brilliant glimpse of the halcyon days of early chemical experimenters — that early world where chemicals were understood well enough to be occasionally useful and not well enough to be occasionally dangerous. A time of self-taught chemists, enthusiastic, evangelical drug fiends, pioneers and yes, outright quacks.

    +

    It seems everyone used to be mixing up some sort of medicine in the basement.

    +

    Pharmacy Museum shelves, New Orleans, LA

    +

    In New Orleans there’s also a strong connection between the old Vodun religious practices and the potions, cure-alls, medicines and straight quackery that used to be the local drugstore.

    +

    If, like me, you’ve ever wondered what happened to the days when Coke actually contained cocaine, every woman kept a laudanum tin by the bedside and anyone was generally free to put whatever they liked — for good or bad — in their body, then you are no doubt aware of the Harrison Narcotic Act of 1914.

    +

    The bill, which overnight made a series of plants and their by-products illegal, is one of those lines in the sand, a marker where, on one side, is total anarchistic freedom (that would be prior to the Harrison Act) and on the other side restrictions, regulations and a government that is suddenly in charge of what you can and cannot do with your body and mind.

    +

    Sarsaparilla, for what ails ya, Pharmacy Museum, New Orleans, LAI don’t have any strong opinions on the Harrison Act — it is what it is, and it’s far too late to change it. But I do think that time before it sounds like more fun. Sure, there were some wacky chemicals for sale, things that would poison and kill you, but there are still hundreds of lawsuits every year against so-called medicines that have caused people harm.

    +

    The difference is that now we have a huge multi-billion dollar pharmaceutical industry that gets to crank out the drugs that kill us. At the end of the day the pharmaceutical industry is about as interested in your health as the smiling shysters hawking jars of god-knows-what out the back of a gaudily painted wagon.

    +

    Walking the rooms of the New Orleans Pharmacy Museum with their seemingly endless shelves full of oils and sprays and pipes and potions proudly proclaiming to cure everything from hiccups to money, luck and love, was a beautiful trip back to time when people did things for themselves; when things were not simpler, they were more complicated and risky in fact, but you were in charge. It was your job to educate yourself, to make decisions, to experiment if you wished, abstain if you did not.

    +

    Stepping back out into the humid heat of Rue de Chartres was like being rudely sucked back to the present world. Fortunately New Orleans is there to cushion your abrupt arrival in the present, more strangeness is right around the corner, you just have to keep walking.

    +

    We walked up to the St. Louis Cemetery, not because it’s especially strange, but because I had not been there for sixteen years. So much has changed between then and now it boggled my mind and I mostly walked in silence thinking about the road trip I took sixteen years ago. We had no cellphones then, we wrote on paper with pens, we used paper maps to get around. We were nineteen. The world was utterly different.

    +

    Except for the graveyard. Not much changes in graveyards. The neighborhood around St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 has improved somewhat. There was a giant pyramid crypt that I don’t remember from the last trip, but otherwise the graveyard looked just as it did when I was nineteen years old.

    +

    I even managed to take the same picture:

    +
    + Angel in 1995 + Angel on a crypt, St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, New Orleans 1995 +
    + +
    + Angel in 2010 + Angel on a crypt, St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, New Orleans 2010 +
    + +

    The 2010 version needed to be carefully framed to avoid some new buildings to the south and a bit of Photoshop was necessary to get rid of a stoplight that didn’t use to be there, but I do find it remarkable, given how much the world around us has changed in fifteen years, that this scene is still there.

    +

    No one wants to live in a world that never changes, but sometimes it’s nice to know that bits of the world remain as they ever are.

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
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    + + + +
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    +
    + + + +
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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dixie-drug-store.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dixie-drug-store.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..aa5ed28 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/dixie-drug-store.txt @@ -0,0 +1,60 @@ +The Dixie Drug Store +==================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 08 July 2010 + +New Orleans is a blur. It started with a pint over lunch just after we arrived and then there were a few more pints at the coffeeshop down the street from our hotel, where an obnoxious group of people scouting locations for a movie eventually drove us on, to the statue of Ignatius Reilly, then a casino, a slightly lighter wallet, the best muffaletta I've ever had, some very old graves, an unlikely amount of pork, a transvestite beauty pageant and then we hit the road again. + +The corner of Decatur and Barracks, New Orleans, LA Which is not to say I was drunk the whole time, just that somewhere between the beer and the stifling humidity and wholly unique character of New Orleans, everything becomes less distinct. + +New Orleans is only technically part of the United States, a act of map making more than anything else. For me, New Orleans has always been the one foreign country I can visit without a passport. + + + +New Orleans is it's own world. So much so that's it's impossible to put your finger on what it is that makes it different. New Orleans is a place where the line between consensus reality and private dream seems to have never fully developed. And a wonderful world it is. + +The New Orleans Pharmacy museum sticks out amidst the blurry series of events, perhaps because it was air conditioned, perhaps because of the Grant Lee Buffalo song from which the title of this entry is taken, or perhaps because pharmacology is simply fascinating no matter where you are, New Orleans just happens to have the perfect shrine to it. + +Whatever the case, the museum is a brilliant glimpse of the halcyon days of early chemical experimenters -- that early world where chemicals were understood well enough to be occasionally useful and not well enough to be occasionally dangerous. A time of self-taught chemists, enthusiastic, evangelical drug fiends, pioneers and yes, outright quacks. + +It seems everyone used to be mixing up some sort of medicine in the basement. + +Pharmacy Museum shelves, New Orleans, LA + +In New Orleans there's also a strong connection between the old Vodun religious practices and the potions, cure-alls, medicines and straight quackery that used to be the local drugstore. + +If, like me, you've ever wondered what happened to the days when Coke actually contained cocaine, every woman kept a laudanum tin by the bedside and anyone was generally free to put whatever they liked -- for good or bad -- in their body, then you are no doubt aware of the Harrison Narcotic Act of 1914. + +The bill, which overnight made a series of plants and their by-products illegal, is one of those lines in the sand, a marker where, on one side, is total anarchistic freedom (that would be prior to the Harrison Act) and on the other side restrictions, regulations and a government that is suddenly in charge of what you can and cannot do with your body and mind. + +Sarsaparilla, for what ails ya, Pharmacy Museum, New Orleans, LAI don't have any strong opinions on the Harrison Act -- it is what it is, and it's far too late to change it. But I do think that time before it sounds like more fun. Sure, there were some wacky chemicals for sale, things that would poison and kill you, but there are still hundreds of lawsuits every year against so-called medicines that have caused people harm. + +The difference is that now we have a huge multi-billion dollar pharmaceutical industry that gets to crank out the drugs that kill us. At the end of the day the pharmaceutical industry is about as interested in your health as the smiling shysters hawking jars of god-knows-what out the back of a gaudily painted wagon. + +Walking the rooms of the New Orleans Pharmacy Museum with their seemingly endless shelves full of oils and sprays and pipes and potions proudly proclaiming to cure everything from hiccups to money, luck and love, was a beautiful trip back to time when people did things for themselves; when things were not simpler, they were more complicated and risky in fact, but you were in charge. It was your job to educate yourself, to make decisions, to experiment if you wished, abstain if you did not. + +Stepping back out into the humid heat of Rue de Chartres was like being rudely sucked back to the present world. Fortunately New Orleans is there to cushion your abrupt arrival in the present, more strangeness is right around the corner, you just have to keep walking. + +We walked up to the St. Louis Cemetery, not because it's especially strange, but because I had not been there for sixteen years. So much has changed between then and now it boggled my mind and I mostly walked in silence thinking about the road trip I took sixteen years ago. We had no cellphones then, we wrote on paper with pens, we used paper maps to get around. We were nineteen. The world was utterly different. + +Except for the graveyard. Not much changes in graveyards. The neighborhood around St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 has improved somewhat. There was a giant pyramid crypt that I don't remember from the last trip, but otherwise the graveyard looked just as it did when I was nineteen years old. + +I even managed to take the same picture: + +
    + Angel in 1995 + Angel on a crypt, St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, New Orleans 1995 +
    + +
    + Angel in 2010 + Angel on a crypt, St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, New Orleans 2010 +
    + +The 2010 version needed to be carefully framed to avoid some new buildings to the south and a bit of Photoshop was necessary to get rid of a stoplight that didn't use to be there, but I do find it remarkable, given how much the world around us has changed in fifteen years, that this scene is still there. + +No one wants to live in a world that never changes, but sometimes it's nice to know that bits of the world remain as they ever are. + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/endless-crowds-yellowstone.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/endless-crowds-yellowstone.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..133901d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/endless-crowds-yellowstone.amp @@ -0,0 +1,202 @@ + + + + + + +The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone

    + + + +
    +
    +

    It's four o'clock by the time I reach Old Faithful and, strange as it may seem, I can't help feeling like I'm back in Angkor Wat. Thankfully it's nowhere near as hot and humid as Siem Reap. And here in Yellowstone National Park it's geothermal weirdness, not ancient temples, that are the main draw, but the draw is similar and like few places I've ever been.

    +

    People. People everywhere.

    +

    The crowds are a testament to the beauty of Yellowstone, but it can be overwhelming, especially if you happen to arrive fresh from the wilds of Grand Teton National Park.

    +

    Crowds can be fun though. Like Angkor Wat, every fashion faux pas you've ever dreamed of is represented somewhere in the Old Faithful vicinity. I'm partial to the plaid bermuda shorts with collared short-sleeved shirt look, but that's just because I can't figure out where people buy plaid bermuda shorts in this day and age.

    +

    +

    One of the things that is repeated over and over again in Ken Burns' The National Parks series is that the early park advocates wanted to ensure that Yellowstone and Yosemite (the first two parks) did not "become another Niagara Falls." The over-commercialization of Niagara Falls had made America the laughing stock of Europe's late 19th century elite.

    +

    One of the goals of those early parks was to make sure that didn't happen everywhere.

    +

    My first thought on arriving at Old Faithful in Yellowstone National Park was, well, guess we screwed that one up.

    +

    There may not be the neon banners and giant lighted arrows you'll find at Niagara Falls (now itself a "National Heritage Area"), but it's pretty much the same idea. There's a service station, several giant hotels, half a dozen restaurants and a colossal new Visitor Center (opening August 25, 2010).

    +

    Old Faithful is about as commercialized as it gets in the National Park system and it's a shame. But it could be worse. Before Yellowstone was protected visitors used to take an axe to Old Faithful and break off a chunk to take home as a souvenir. Stay classy America.

    +

    On the plus side, you always know where the wildlife is because there will be a giant traffic jam for every buffalo, moose, elk or grizzly bear that's within visible range of the road.

    +

    As it stands, at least that no longer happens, but Yellowstone is very much a "park" as opposed to any sort of wilderness.

    +

    If you get out in the backcountry you'll find plenty of wilderness, but the geothermal pools and fountains are, for the most part, not in the backcountry. If you arrive in peak season like I did, expect crowds. Disneyland-size crowds.

    +

    The key to any overly-crowded place is either give up and leave or slow down and force yourself to relax. I considered the former, but ended up doing the latter, though not necessarily by choice in the beginning.

    +

    Thanks to some sort of knee strain I acquired up in the Teton backcountry, I spent most of my time in Yellowstone hobbling, limping around the pools at about half-speed. It hurt, as did the blister on my foot, but if I stopped frequently enough and walked slow enough on the downhill stretches it wasn't to bad. And it had an auxiliary benefit -- I saw more.

    +

    +

    I saw considerably more than I might have if I had just strolled around. After all, at first glance if you've seen one geothermal pool you've essentially seen them all. But if you spend some time with them (sitting on the benches, rubbing your knee or reading the signs while standing on one leg) you start to notice the little differences -- the way the water changes the limestone structure of the pools right before your eyes or the way the colors are subtly different shades in each pool (the product of slight temperature differences or different solar exposures or the amount of sulfur in the water).

    +

    The famous colors of Yellowstone's thermal pools are the result of bacteria, which, like plants, respond to changes in environment. The water color in the larger pools varies as well -- from a deep sapphire blue to bright teal. The more interesting ones are surrounded by a kaleidoscope of colors created by the bacteria.

    +

    Beyond the colors, Yellowstone is a land of textures -- the bacterial mats form intricate patterns and the movement of the water sculpts them into miniature scenes that look like something from another world.

    +

    In the end there is wilderness here, even if it's just inches from the boardwalks that transport thousands around the geothermal pools. It may not be wildness on a grand scale -- the sweeping mountain peaks or wild rivers of other parks -- but in some ways that makes it more enticing. As one Ranger told me, Yellowstone isn't about the big picture, the grand scenery, it's about the tiny details within each pool. To really see Yellowstone, he said, you have to take your time, move slowly and look closely.

    +

    Yellowstone may be about the tiny details within the surreal world of it's geothermal pools, but for me the most surreal experience in Yellowstone is not the wild colors, but the Firehole River.

    +

    To all appearances the Firehole River looks like an icy cold mountain stream cutting its way through the mountain meadows and pine forests of Yellowstone. But thanks to all the heat just below the surface, and the runoff from the fountains and pools that it flows by, when you stick your foot in the river it feels like the Gulf of Thailand -- crystal clear, lukewarm and inviting. The sensation is disconcerting, a disconnect between expectation and reality, but it's great for swimming on an otherwise mild day.

    +

    The river betrays it's strangeness in other ways too -- look a bit closer and you'll find giant fans of algae, something you'd never expect in a typical, chilly, mountain stream. In fact the river is more like a tropical sea than something running through the mountains.

    +

    Another of my favorite moments in Ken Burns' National Parks series is something the famously whimsical John Muir used to do: Muir liked to put his head down between his knees and look at the world upside down, to see what he called its "upness." It's a great reminder that the world is always what you see, nothing more, nothing less. But that vision is not something static, it is something you are always taking in, always making new. That even something as simple as looking at it upside down can reveal everything all over again is remarkable when you stop and think about it.

    +

    Yes, Yellowstone is crowded, so is Angkor Wat, but both are still what they are -- beautiful, fantastic, extraordinary. If you take a bit of time, slow down, ignore the bermuda shorts and just look in your own way there is always something out there that no crowds can take away from you, there is always something out there that is you. There is always something out there.

    +

    [Note: this story is park of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the National Parks Project page.]

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/endless-crowds-yellowstone.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/endless-crowds-yellowstone.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d8888e8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/endless-crowds-yellowstone.html @@ -0,0 +1,353 @@ + + + + + The Endless Crowds Of Yellowstone - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone

    + +
    +
    +

    Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    It’s four o’clock by the time I reach Old Faithful and, strange as it may seem, I can’t help feeling like I’m back in Angkor Wat. Thankfully it’s nowhere near as hot and humid as Siem Reap. And here in Yellowstone National Park it’s geothermal weirdness, not ancient temples, that are the main draw, but the draw is similar and like few places I’ve ever been.

    +

    Old FaithfulPeople. People everywhere.

    +

    The crowds are a testament to the beauty of Yellowstone, but it can be overwhelming, especially if you happen to arrive fresh from the wilds of Grand Teton National Park.

    +

    Crowds can be fun though. Like Angkor Wat, every fashion faux pas you’ve ever dreamed of is represented somewhere in the Old Faithful vicinity. I’m partial to the plaid bermuda shorts with collared short-sleeved shirt look, but that’s just because I can’t figure out where people buy plaid bermuda shorts in this day and age.

    +

    +

    One of the things that is repeated over and over again in Ken Burns’ The National Parks series is that the early park advocates wanted to ensure that Yellowstone and Yosemite (the first two parks) did not “become another Niagara Falls.” The over-commercialization of Niagara Falls had made America the laughing stock of Europe’s late 19th century elite.

    +

    One of the goals of those early parks was to make sure that didn’t happen everywhere.

    +

    My first thought on arriving at Old Faithful in Yellowstone National Park was, well, guess we screwed that one up.

    +

    There may not be the neon banners and giant lighted arrows you’ll find at Niagara Falls (now itself a “National Heritage Area”), but it’s pretty much the same idea. There’s a service station, several giant hotels, half a dozen restaurants and a colossal new Visitor Center (opening August 25, 2010).

    +

    Traffic jam in Yellowstone National ParkOld Faithful is about as commercialized as it gets in the National Park system and it’s a shame. But it could be worse. Before Yellowstone was protected visitors used to take an axe to Old Faithful and break off a chunk to take home as a souvenir. Stay classy America.

    +

    On the plus side, you always know where the wildlife is because there will be a giant traffic jam for every buffalo, moose, elk or grizzly bear that’s within visible range of the road.

    +

    As it stands, at least that no longer happens, but Yellowstone is very much a “park” as opposed to any sort of wilderness.

    +

    If you get out in the backcountry you’ll find plenty of wilderness, but the geothermal pools and fountains are, for the most part, not in the backcountry. If you arrive in peak season like I did, expect crowds. Disneyland-size crowds.

    +

    The key to any overly-crowded place is either give up and leave or slow down and force yourself to relax. I considered the former, but ended up doing the latter, though not necessarily by choice in the beginning.

    +

    Thanks to some sort of knee strain I acquired up in the Teton backcountry, I spent most of my time in Yellowstone hobbling, limping around the pools at about half-speed. It hurt, as did the blister on my foot, but if I stopped frequently enough and walked slow enough on the downhill stretches it wasn’t to bad. And it had an auxiliary benefit — I saw more.

    +

    Grand Prismatic Spring, Yellowstone National Park

    +

    I saw considerably more than I might have if I had just strolled around. After all, at first glance if you’ve seen one geothermal pool you’ve essentially seen them all. But if you spend some time with them (sitting on the benches, rubbing your knee or reading the signs while standing on one leg) you start to notice the little differences — the way the water changes the limestone structure of the pools right before your eyes or the way the colors are subtly different shades in each pool (the product of slight temperature differences or different solar exposures or the amount of sulfur in the water).

    +

    The famous colors of Yellowstone’s thermal pools are the result of bacteria, which, like plants, respond to changes in environment. The water color in the larger pools varies as well — from a deep sapphire blue to bright teal. The more interesting ones are surrounded by a kaleidoscope of colors created by the bacteria.

    +

    Patterns, Yellowstone National ParkBeyond the colors, Yellowstone is a land of textures — the bacterial mats form intricate patterns and the movement of the water sculpts them into miniature scenes that look like something from another world.

    +

    In the end there is wilderness here, even if it’s just inches from the boardwalks that transport thousands around the geothermal pools. It may not be wildness on a grand scale — the sweeping mountain peaks or wild rivers of other parks — but in some ways that makes it more enticing. As one Ranger told me, Yellowstone isn’t about the big picture, the grand scenery, it’s about the tiny details within each pool. To really see Yellowstone, he said, you have to take your time, move slowly and look closely.

    +

    The Firehole River, Yellowstone National ParkYellowstone may be about the tiny details within the surreal world of it’s geothermal pools, but for me the most surreal experience in Yellowstone is not the wild colors, but the Firehole River.

    +

    To all appearances the Firehole River looks like an icy cold mountain stream cutting its way through the mountain meadows and pine forests of Yellowstone. But thanks to all the heat just below the surface, and the runoff from the fountains and pools that it flows by, when you stick your foot in the river it feels like the Gulf of Thailand — crystal clear, lukewarm and inviting. The sensation is disconcerting, a disconnect between expectation and reality, but it’s great for swimming on an otherwise mild day.

    +

    Algae fans in the Firehole River, Yellowstone National ParkThe river betrays it’s strangeness in other ways too — look a bit closer and you’ll find giant fans of algae, something you’d never expect in a typical, chilly, mountain stream. In fact the river is more like a tropical sea than something running through the mountains.

    +

    Another of my favorite moments in Ken Burns’ National Parks series is something the famously whimsical John Muir used to do: Muir liked to put his head down between his knees and look at the world upside down, to see what he called its “upness.” It’s a great reminder that the world is always what you see, nothing more, nothing less. But that vision is not something static, it is something you are always taking in, always making new. That even something as simple as looking at it upside down can reveal everything all over again is remarkable when you stop and think about it.

    +

    Yes, Yellowstone is crowded, so is Angkor Wat, but both are still what they are — beautiful, fantastic, extraordinary. If you take a bit of time, slow down, ignore the bermuda shorts and just look in your own way there is always something out there that no crowds can take away from you, there is always something out there that is you. There is always something out there.

    +

    [Note: this story is park of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the National Parks Project page.]

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/endless-crowds-yellowstone.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/endless-crowds-yellowstone.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..408e2bf --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/endless-crowds-yellowstone.txt @@ -0,0 +1,63 @@ +The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone +================================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 25 July 2010 + +It's four o'clock by the time I reach Old Faithful and, strange as it may seem, I can't help feeling like I'm back in [Angkor Wat][1]. Thankfully it's nowhere near as hot and humid as Siem Reap. And here in Yellowstone National Park it's geothermal weirdness, not ancient temples, that are the main draw, but the draw is similar and like few places I've ever been. + + +Old FaithfulPeople. People everywhere. + +The crowds are a testament to the beauty of Yellowstone, but it can be overwhelming, especially if you happen to arrive fresh from [the wilds of Grand Teton National Park][2]. + +Crowds can be fun though. Like Angkor Wat, every fashion faux pas you've ever dreamed of is represented somewhere in the Old Faithful vicinity. I'm partial to the plaid bermuda shorts with collared short-sleeved shirt look, but that's just because I can't figure out where people buy plaid bermuda shorts in this day and age. + + + +One of the things that is repeated over and over again in Ken Burns' The National Parks series is that the early park advocates wanted to ensure that Yellowstone and Yosemite (the first two parks) did not "become another Niagara Falls." The over-commercialization of Niagara Falls had made America the laughing stock of Europe's late 19th century elite. + +One of the goals of those early parks was to make sure that didn't happen everywhere. + +My first thought on arriving at Old Faithful in Yellowstone National Park was, well, guess we screwed that one up. + +There may not be the neon banners and giant lighted arrows you'll find at Niagara Falls (now itself a "National Heritage Area"), but it's pretty much the same idea. There's a service station, several giant hotels, half a dozen restaurants and a colossal new Visitor Center (opening August 25, 2010). + +Traffic jam in Yellowstone National ParkOld Faithful is about as commercialized as it gets in the National Park system and it's a shame. But it could be worse. Before Yellowstone was protected visitors used to take an axe to Old Faithful and break off a chunk to take home as a souvenir. Stay classy America. + +On the plus side, you always know where the wildlife is because there will be a giant traffic jam for every buffalo, moose, elk or grizzly bear that's within visible range of the road. + +As it stands, at least that no longer happens, but Yellowstone is very much a "park" as opposed to any sort of wilderness. + +If you get out in the backcountry you'll find plenty of wilderness, but the geothermal pools and fountains are, for the most part, not in the backcountry. If you arrive in peak season like I did, expect crowds. Disneyland-size crowds. + +The key to any overly-crowded place is either give up and leave or slow down and force yourself to relax. I considered the former, but ended up doing the latter, though not necessarily by choice in the beginning. + +Thanks to some sort of knee strain I acquired up in the Teton backcountry, I spent most of my time in Yellowstone hobbling, limping around the pools at about half-speed. It hurt, as did the blister on my foot, but if I stopped frequently enough and walked slow enough on the downhill stretches it wasn't to bad. And it had an auxiliary benefit -- I saw more. + +Grand Prismatic Spring, Yellowstone National Park + +I saw considerably more than I might have if I had just strolled around. After all, at first glance if you've seen one geothermal pool you've essentially seen them all. But if you spend some time with them (sitting on the benches, rubbing your knee or reading the signs while standing on one leg) you start to notice the little differences -- the way the water changes the limestone structure of the pools right before your eyes or the way the colors are subtly different shades in each pool (the product of slight temperature differences or different solar exposures or the amount of sulfur in the water). + +The famous colors of Yellowstone's thermal pools are the result of bacteria, which, like plants, respond to changes in environment. The water color in the larger pools varies as well -- from a deep sapphire blue to bright teal. The more interesting ones are surrounded by a kaleidoscope of colors created by the bacteria. + +Patterns, Yellowstone National ParkBeyond the colors, Yellowstone is a land of textures -- the bacterial mats form intricate patterns and the movement of the water sculpts them into miniature scenes that look like something from another world. + +In the end there is wilderness here, even if it's just inches from the boardwalks that transport thousands around the geothermal pools. It may not be wildness on a grand scale -- the sweeping mountain peaks or wild rivers of other parks -- but in some ways that makes it more enticing. As one Ranger told me, Yellowstone isn't about the big picture, the grand scenery, it's about the tiny details within each pool. To really see Yellowstone, he said, you have to take your time, move slowly and look closely. + +The Firehole River, Yellowstone National ParkYellowstone may be about the tiny details within the surreal world of it's geothermal pools, but for me the most surreal experience in Yellowstone is not the wild colors, but the Firehole River. + +To all appearances the Firehole River looks like an icy cold mountain stream cutting its way through the mountain meadows and pine forests of Yellowstone. But thanks to all the heat just below the surface, and the runoff from the fountains and pools that it flows by, when you stick your foot in the river it feels like the Gulf of Thailand -- crystal clear, lukewarm and inviting. The sensation is disconcerting, a disconnect between expectation and reality, but it's great for swimming on an otherwise mild day. + +Algae fans in the Firehole River, Yellowstone National ParkThe river betrays it's strangeness in other ways too -- look a bit closer and you'll find giant fans of algae, something you'd never expect in a typical, chilly, mountain stream. In fact the river is more like a tropical sea than something running through the mountains. + +Another of my favorite moments in Ken Burns' National Parks series is something the famously whimsical John Muir used to do: Muir liked to put his head down between his knees and look at the world upside down, to see what he called its "upness." It's a great reminder that the world is always what you see, nothing more, nothing less. But that vision is not something static, it is something you are always taking in, always making new. That even something as simple as looking at it upside down can reveal everything all over again is remarkable when you stop and think about it. + +Yes, Yellowstone is crowded, so is Angkor Wat, but both are still what they are -- beautiful, fantastic, extraordinary. If you take a bit of time, slow down, ignore the bermuda shorts and just look in your own way there is always something out there that no crowds can take away from you, there is always something out there that is you. There is always something out there. + +[Note: this story is park of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the National Parks Project page.] + + +[1]: http://luxagraf.net/2006/mar/21/angkor-wat/ +[2]: http://luxagraf.net//2010/jul/22/backpacking-grand-tetons/ diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/great-sand-dunes-national-park.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/great-sand-dunes-national-park.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8b8307b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/great-sand-dunes-national-park.amp @@ -0,0 +1,191 @@ + + + + + + +Great Sand Dunes National Park + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Great Sand Dunes National Park

    + + + +
    +
    +

    The sun is threatening to peak over the ridge before I even get to the top of the first row of dunes. I give up on making the top and sit down to watch the first rays of light slowly crest over the peaks of the Sangre de Christo Mountains and fall on the cool sand beneath my feet.

    +

    +

    It doesn't take long for the sun to get rid of the morning chill. In half an hour's time the sand will be warm on my bare feet and by the time I make it all the way back to the truck it's too hot to hike barefoot anymore.

    +

    But just as the sun comes up, most of us on the dunes, and there aren't many, are still wearing fleece jackets and wrapping our arms around our legs for warmth. I consider heading back after the sun is up, but that highest ridge of dunes is taunting me, some five hundred vertical feet of sand -- and no telling what lies beyond it, just another, higher ridge? -- that eventually gets the best of me.

    +

    +

    I climb it.

    +

    Looking back where I came from is impressive, people look like ants scurrying over the dunes.

    +

    The dunes themselves are also different up here, the sand is looser, your feet sink deeper and the patterns in the sand, the ridges and ripples shaped by the wind and avalanches are completely different here than they were down below. There are no signs of grass or any other plants up on the top of the larger dunes, just a few track marks from beetles and other creatures that somehow eek out an existence here.

    +

    The view over the ridge is not what I had hoped for. Instead of a vast vista of sand dunes there is simply another higher ridge of dunes -- maybe two hundred feet up from the summit I've already reached. I sit down and enjoy the view, panting, trying to catch my breath. I'm tired, my legs are burning. Climbing in sand is not like hiking through the mountains. For every step you take up, you sink back half the distance, sometimes all of it.

    +

    I rest too long. My legs seem capable of only one direction -- down. I can see the truck from here and even if I head down now I will have nearly an hour of walking before I get back.

    +

    I give up.

    +

    I'm tired and I've hiked through enough mountains in my life to know that there is always another ridge beyond the one you're on. There is only one true exception to this rule -- Mount Everest. As you approach the final ridge of Everest you can have the distinct and completely assured satisfaction of knowing that there is no ridge beyond it. Actually there are other exceptions as well, but they are few and far between. Usually ridges lead to more ridges.

    +

    However, if you were the sort of person that reads signs, you would know that that slightly higher ridge I stared at before giving up on the idea of climbing is in fact the highest ridge on the dunes.

    +

    If you're more like me you wouldn't read the sign until after your hike, when you're back in the parking lot again.

    +

    Yes, it turns out there is no ridge beyond the one I saw, just thirty miles of endless -- lower -- dunes. It's quiet a view I am told. I wouldn't know.

    +

    Some times you win. Some times the mountain wins.

    +

    For minute I consider going back up, but my legs already feel like small fires have been lit inside each of my calves and I've got miles to go before I sleep.

    +

    [Note: this story is park of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the National Parks Project page.]

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/great-sand-dunes-national-park.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/great-sand-dunes-national-park.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e2314fe --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/great-sand-dunes-national-park.html @@ -0,0 +1,345 @@ + + + + + Great Sand Dunes National Park - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    + + +
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    + + + +
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    +

    Great Sand Dunes National Park

    + +
    +
    +

    Great Sand Dunes National Park, Colorado, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The sun is threatening to peak over the ridge before I even get to the top of the first row of dunes. I give up on making the top and sit down to watch the first rays of light slowly crest over the peaks of the Sangre de Christo Mountains and fall on the cool sand beneath my feet.

    +

    Mountains and Clouds Behind the Great Sand Dunes, Great Sand Dunes National Park

    +

    It doesn’t take long for the sun to get rid of the morning chill. In half an hour’s time the sand will be warm on my bare feet and by the time I make it all the way back to the truck it’s too hot to hike barefoot anymore.

    +

    But just as the sun comes up, most of us on the dunes, and there aren’t many, are still wearing fleece jackets and wrapping our arms around our legs for warmth. I consider heading back after the sun is up, but that highest ridge of dunes is taunting me, some five hundred vertical feet of sand — and no telling what lies beyond it, just another, higher ridge? — that eventually gets the best of me.

    +

    +

    I climb it.

    +

    Looking back where I came from is impressive, people look like ants scurrying over the dunes.

    +

    Dunes ridgeline, Great Sand Dunes National ParkThe dunes themselves are also different up here, the sand is looser, your feet sink deeper and the patterns in the sand, the ridges and ripples shaped by the wind and avalanches are completely different here than they were down below. There are no signs of grass or any other plants up on the top of the larger dunes, just a few track marks from beetles and other creatures that somehow eek out an existence here.

    +

    The view over the ridge is not what I had hoped for. Instead of a vast vista of sand dunes there is simply another higher ridge of dunes — maybe two hundred feet up from the summit I’ve already reached. I sit down and enjoy the view, panting, trying to catch my breath. I’m tired, my legs are burning. Climbing in sand is not like hiking through the mountains. For every step you take up, you sink back half the distance, sometimes all of it.

    +

    I rest too long. My legs seem capable of only one direction — down. I can see the truck from here and even if I head down now I will have nearly an hour of walking before I get back.

    +

    I give up.

    +

    I’m tired and I’ve hiked through enough mountains in my life to know that there is always another ridge beyond the one you’re on. There is only one true exception to this rule — Mount Everest. As you approach the final ridge of Everest you can have the distinct and completely assured satisfaction of knowing that there is no ridge beyond it. Actually there are other exceptions as well, but they are few and far between. Usually ridges lead to more ridges.

    +

    Dunes, Great Sand Dunes National ParkHowever, if you were the sort of person that reads signs, you would know that that slightly higher ridge I stared at before giving up on the idea of climbing is in fact the highest ridge on the dunes.

    +

    If you’re more like me you wouldn’t read the sign until after your hike, when you’re back in the parking lot again.

    +

    Yes, it turns out there is no ridge beyond the one I saw, just thirty miles of endless — lower — dunes. It’s quiet a view I am told. I wouldn’t know.

    +

    Some times you win. Some times the mountain wins.

    +

    For minute I consider going back up, but my legs already feel like small fires have been lit inside each of my calves and I’ve got miles to go before I sleep.

    +

    [Note: this story is park of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the National Parks Project page.]

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
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    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/great-sand-dunes-national-park.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/great-sand-dunes-national-park.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3802691 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/great-sand-dunes-national-park.txt @@ -0,0 +1,42 @@ +Great Sand Dunes National Park +============================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 17 July 2010 + +The sun is threatening to peak over the ridge before I even get to the top of the first row of dunes. I give up on making the top and sit down to watch the first rays of light slowly crest over the peaks of the Sangre de Christo Mountains and fall on the cool sand beneath my feet. + +Mountains and Clouds Behind the Great Sand Dunes, Great Sand Dunes National Park + +It doesn't take long for the sun to get rid of the morning chill. In half an hour's time the sand will be warm on my bare feet and by the time I make it all the way back to the truck it's too hot to hike barefoot anymore. + +But just as the sun comes up, most of us on the dunes, and there aren't many, are still wearing fleece jackets and wrapping our arms around our legs for warmth. I consider heading back after the sun is up, but that highest ridge of dunes is taunting me, some five hundred vertical feet of sand -- and no telling what lies beyond it, just another, higher ridge? -- that eventually gets the best of me. + + + +I climb it. + +Looking back where I came from is impressive, people look like ants scurrying over the dunes. + +Dunes ridgeline, Great Sand Dunes National ParkThe dunes themselves are also different up here, the sand is looser, your feet sink deeper and the patterns in the sand, the ridges and ripples shaped by the wind and avalanches are completely different here than they were down below. There are no signs of grass or any other plants up on the top of the larger dunes, just a few track marks from beetles and other creatures that somehow eek out an existence here. + +The view over the ridge is not what I had hoped for. Instead of a vast vista of sand dunes there is simply another higher ridge of dunes -- maybe two hundred feet up from the summit I've already reached. I sit down and enjoy the view, panting, trying to catch my breath. I'm tired, my legs are burning. Climbing in sand is not like hiking through the mountains. For every step you take up, you sink back half the distance, sometimes all of it. + +I rest too long. My legs seem capable of only one direction -- down. I can see the truck from here and even if I head down now I will have nearly an hour of walking before I get back. + +I give up. + +I'm tired and I've hiked through enough mountains in my life to know that there is always another ridge beyond the one you're on. There is only one true exception to this rule -- Mount Everest. As you approach the final ridge of Everest you can have the distinct and completely assured satisfaction of knowing that there is no ridge beyond it. Actually there are other exceptions as well, but they are few and far between. Usually ridges lead to more ridges. + +Dunes, Great Sand Dunes National ParkHowever, if you were the sort of person that reads signs, you would know that that slightly higher ridge I stared at before giving up on the idea of climbing is in fact the highest ridge on the dunes. + +If you're more like me you wouldn't read the sign until after your hike, when you're back in the parking lot again. + +Yes, it turns out there is no ridge beyond the one I saw, just thirty miles of endless -- lower -- dunes. It's quiet a view I am told. I wouldn't know. + +Some times you win. Some times the mountain wins. + +For minute I consider going back up, but my legs already feel like small fires have been lit inside each of my calves and I've got miles to go before I sleep. + +[Note: this story is park of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the National Parks Project page.] diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..68a206e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,128 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: July 2010

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/legend-billy-the-kid.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/legend-billy-the-kid.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a21566f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/legend-billy-the-kid.amp @@ -0,0 +1,188 @@ + + + + + + +The Legend of Billy the Kid + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The Legend of Billy the Kid

    + + + +
    +
    +

    The legend of Billy the Kid has a fork about midway through the story. Either Pat Garrett shot an unarmed Billy the Kid in the back to collect the $500 reward or Pat Garrett shot some other unarmed guy in the back and lied about it being Billy the Kid in order to collect the $500 reward.

    +

    In the end, the story is inconclusive with regards to the fate of Billy the Kid, but one thing is clear: Pat Garrett was an asshole.

    +

    +

    Should you, after careful consideration of the evidence available for both possible stories, decide that you believe the former, then head to Fort Sumner, New Mexico. If you decide it's the latter, then you need to see the Billy the Kid Museum in Hico, Texas.

    +

    Alternately you could do what I did -- just sort of stumble into Hico, Texas looking for something to do while your sore ass recovered from five hours in a 1969 Ford pickup that no longer has even the slightest hint of padding left in the seat cushions. The obvious time killer in Hico, should you take this approach, is the Billy the Kid Museum.

    +

    The museum in Hico is a testament to the survival of Billy the Kid, who, in this telling, later emerges as a man calling himself Ollie L. "Brushy Bill" Roberts. This scenario is particularly appealing to people who believe in redemption and the idea that, at heart, Billy the Kid was not a bad man, did not deserve to be gunned down for a reward (class act that Pat Garrett) and turned his life around.

    +

    For those more fond of doomsday, judgments and reaping what you sow, there is the New Mexico museum, which holds that Billy the Kid is buried there, at the Fort Sumner cemetery, dead and done at age twenty-one.

    +

    +

    After half an hour or so at the Billy the Kid Museum in Hico, most of which of watching an old episode of Unsolved Mysteries which plays in the back room on a continuous loop, I decided that there is great evidence for both stories and, moreover, it really doesn't matter what happened to Billy the Kid.

    +

    Whoever and whatever Billy the Kid was and did, he has long since passed into legend. History does not catch every story that is slowly slipping through its cracks, some things get caught up in the floorboards and become legends.

    +

    Unlike novels, the stories and legends that never quite make it to anything as definitive as history don't always have neat endings. In fact, the messier, more confusing and more controversial the ending is the more of a legend it becomes. The legend of Billy the Kid is like that of Amelia Earhart or D.B. Cooper -- the less we know for sure, the more compelling the story becomes.

    +

    That the events actually took place in one particular way or another is largely incidental to anyone who is not Billy the Kid, and, one thing we know for sure, like me, you are not.

    +

    Eventually the Unsolved Mysteries tape came back around to the spot where I started watching. I got up and looked at the antique Winchester rifle and old Colt revolvers sitting under glass in the display case. Behind them was a tattered Civil War uniform draped over a wooden chair so old it was gray and looked like the slightest breeze would send it to splinters.

    +

    Along the opposite wall were a series of laminated broadsides telling the less controversial part of Billy the Kid's story in an antique font the purveyors of the museum no doubt believed would give it a more authentic look.

    +

    There wasn't much else in the room, a few other old west artifacts, an American flag, a Texas flag. I wandered back out the front room and chatted for a minute with the woman behind the counter. She was worried about the thunderstorms in Dallas. Whatever hits them ends up here eventually, she said. I agreed, though I have no idea if she was right. It was a good story anyway.

    +

    [The photo of Billy the Kid is from Wikipedia. The Museum photo is copyright Mark Lynch, (via the Billy the Kid Museum), used under the Fair Use provision of U.S. copyright law]

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/legend-billy-the-kid.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/legend-billy-the-kid.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..504402a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/legend-billy-the-kid.html @@ -0,0 +1,343 @@ + + + + + The Legend Of Billy The Kid - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    + + + +
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    The Legend of Billy the Kid

    + +
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    +

    Hico, Texas, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The legend of Billy the Kid has a fork about midway through the story. Either Pat Garrett shot an unarmed Billy the Kid in the back to collect the $500 reward or Pat Garrett shot some other unarmed guy in the back and lied about it being Billy the Kid in order to collect the $500 reward.

    +

    In the end, the story is inconclusive with regards to the fate of Billy the Kid, but one thing is clear: Pat Garrett was an asshole.

    +

    +

    Should you, after careful consideration of the evidence available for both possible stories, decide that you believe the former, then head to Fort Sumner, New Mexico. If you decide it’s the latter, then you need to see the Billy the Kid Museum in Hico, Texas.

    +

    Alternately you could do what I did — just sort of stumble into Hico, Texas looking for something to do while your sore ass recovered from five hours in a 1969 Ford pickup that no longer has even the slightest hint of padding left in the seat cushions. The obvious time killer in Hico, should you take this approach, is the Billy the Kid Museum.

    +

    The museum in Hico is a testament to the survival of Billy the Kid, who, in this telling, later emerges as a man calling himself Ollie L. “Brushy Bill” Roberts. This scenario is particularly appealing to people who believe in redemption and the idea that, at heart, Billy the Kid was not a bad man, did not deserve to be gunned down for a reward (class act that Pat Garrett) and turned his life around.

    +

    For those more fond of doomsday, judgments and reaping what you sow, there is the New Mexico museum, which holds that Billy the Kid is buried there, at the Fort Sumner cemetery, dead and done at age twenty-one.

    +

    +

    After half an hour or so at the Billy the Kid Museum in Hico, most of which of watching an old episode of Unsolved Mysteries which plays in the back room on a continuous loop, I decided that there is great evidence for both stories and, moreover, it really doesn’t matter what happened to Billy the Kid.

    +

    Whoever and whatever Billy the Kid was and did, he has long since passed into legend. History does not catch every story that is slowly slipping through its cracks, some things get caught up in the floorboards and become legends.

    +

    Unlike novels, the stories and legends that never quite make it to anything as definitive as history don’t always have neat endings. In fact, the messier, more confusing and more controversial the ending is the more of a legend it becomes. The legend of Billy the Kid is like that of Amelia Earhart or D.B. Cooper — the less we know for sure, the more compelling the story becomes.

    +

    That the events actually took place in one particular way or another is largely incidental to anyone who is not Billy the Kid, and, one thing we know for sure, like me, you are not.

    +

    Eventually the Unsolved Mysteries tape came back around to the spot where I started watching. I got up and looked at the antique Winchester rifle and old Colt revolvers sitting under glass in the display case. Behind them was a tattered Civil War uniform draped over a wooden chair so old it was gray and looked like the slightest breeze would send it to splinters.

    +

    Along the opposite wall were a series of laminated broadsides telling the less controversial part of Billy the Kid’s story in an antique font the purveyors of the museum no doubt believed would give it a more authentic look.

    +

    There wasn’t much else in the room, a few other old west artifacts, an American flag, a Texas flag. I wandered back out the front room and chatted for a minute with the woman behind the counter. She was worried about the thunderstorms in Dallas. Whatever hits them ends up here eventually, she said. I agreed, though I have no idea if she was right. It was a good story anyway.

    +

    [The photo of Billy the Kid is from Wikipedia. The Museum photo is copyright Mark Lynch, (via the Billy the Kid Museum), used under the Fair Use provision of U.S. copyright law]

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    + + + +
    + + +
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    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/legend-billy-the-kid.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/legend-billy-the-kid.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a66acc9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/legend-billy-the-kid.txt @@ -0,0 +1,41 @@ +The Legend of Billy the Kid +=========================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 11 July 2010 + +The legend of Billy the Kid has a fork about midway through the story. Either Pat Garrett shot an unarmed Billy the Kid in the back to collect the $500 reward or Pat Garrett shot some other unarmed guy in the back and lied about it being Billy the Kid in order to collect the $500 reward. + +In the end, the story is inconclusive with regards to the fate of Billy the Kid, but one thing is clear: Pat Garrett was an asshole. + + + +Should you, after careful consideration of the evidence available for both possible stories, decide that you believe the former, then [head to Fort Sumner, New Mexico][2]. If you decide it's the latter, then you need to see the [Billy the Kid Museum in Hico, Texas][1]. + +Alternately you could do what I did -- just sort of stumble into Hico, Texas looking for something to do while your sore ass recovered from five hours in a 1969 Ford pickup that no longer has even the slightest hint of padding left in the seat cushions. The obvious time killer in Hico, should you take this approach, is the Billy the Kid Museum. + +The museum in Hico is a testament to the survival of Billy the Kid, who, in this telling, later emerges as a man calling himself Ollie L. "Brushy Bill" Roberts. This scenario is particularly appealing to people who believe in redemption and the idea that, at heart, Billy the Kid was not a bad man, did not deserve to be gunned down for a reward (class act that Pat Garrett) and turned his life around. + +For those more fond of doomsday, judgments and reaping what you sow, there is the New Mexico museum, which holds that Billy the Kid is buried there, at the Fort Sumner cemetery, dead and done at age twenty-one. + + + +After half an hour or so at the Billy the Kid Museum in Hico, most of which of watching an old episode of Unsolved Mysteries which plays in the back room on a continuous loop, I decided that there is great evidence for both stories and, moreover, it really doesn't matter what happened to Billy the Kid. + +Whoever and whatever Billy the Kid was and did, he has long since passed into legend. History does not catch every story that is slowly slipping through its cracks, some things get caught up in the floorboards and become legends. + +Unlike novels, the stories and legends that never quite make it to anything as definitive as history don't always have neat endings. In fact, the messier, more confusing and more controversial the ending is the more of a legend it becomes. The legend of Billy the Kid is like that of Amelia Earhart or D.B. Cooper -- the less we know for sure, the more compelling the story becomes. + +That the events actually took place in one particular way or another is largely incidental to anyone who is not Billy the Kid, and, one thing we know for sure, like me, you are not. + +Eventually the Unsolved Mysteries tape came back around to the spot where I started watching. I got up and looked at the antique Winchester rifle and old Colt revolvers sitting under glass in the display case. Behind them was a tattered Civil War uniform draped over a wooden chair so old it was gray and looked like the slightest breeze would send it to splinters. + +Along the opposite wall were a series of laminated broadsides telling the less controversial part of Billy the Kid's story in an antique font the purveyors of the museum no doubt believed would give it a more authentic look. + +There wasn't much else in the room, a few other old west artifacts, an American flag, a Texas flag. I wandered back out the front room and chatted for a minute with the woman behind the counter. She was worried about the thunderstorms in Dallas. Whatever hits them ends up here eventually, she said. I agreed, though I have no idea if she was right. It was a good story anyway. + +[The photo of Billy the Kid is from Wikipedia. The Museum photo is copyright Mark Lynch, (via the Billy the Kid Museum), used under the Fair Use provision of U.S. copyright law] + +[1]: http://billythekidmuseum.com/ +[2]: http://www.billythekidmuseumfortsumner.com/ diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/why-national-parks-are-better-state-parks.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/why-national-parks-are-better-state-parks.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..18e8df3 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/why-national-parks-are-better-state-parks.amp @@ -0,0 +1,180 @@ + + + + + + +Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks

    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    There are many reasons actually, but here's the one I currently consider most important: National Parks never close. Take Palo Dura State Park outside of Amarillo, Texas. Were it a National Park, I would be there right now. But it's not, it's a state park and so I'm sitting in a hotel room in Amarillo.

    +

    Of course everyone knows that nature shuts down at 10 PM, so it's not totally surprising that state parks close then. It's not just a Texas problem either, most Georgia parks close at the same time.

    +

    Palo Dura likes to call itself "The Grand Canyon of Texas." It may well be, but I'll never know. And neither will the five or so other cars that turned around and headed back to Amarillo because the park gates were shut.

    +

    The funny thing is, the highway is littered with billboards promoting the park. For 200 miles I was enticed to detour over to the park and not once did any of them mention that it closed at 10. Here's what Palo Dura canyon looks like, should you after 10PM:

    +
    +

    +

    So I drove on to Amarillo, got a cheap motel room and crashed out for the night.

    +

    Now it's on to a national park that I know will be open no matter what time I arrive: Great Sand Dune National Park.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/why-national-parks-are-better-state-parks.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/why-national-parks-are-better-state-parks.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f3fe32a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/why-national-parks-are-better-state-parks.html @@ -0,0 +1,336 @@ + + + + + Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks

    + +
    +
    +

    Amarillo, Texas, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    +

    There are many reasons actually, but here’s the one I currently consider most important: National Parks never close. Take Palo Dura State Park outside of Amarillo, Texas. Were it a National Park, I would be there right now. But it’s not, it’s a state park and so I’m sitting in a hotel room in Amarillo.

    + +

    Of course everyone knows that nature shuts down at 10 PM, so it’s not totally surprising that state parks close then. It’s not just a Texas problem either, most Georgia parks close at the same time.

    + +

    Palo Dura likes to call itself “The Grand Canyon of Texas.” It may well be, but I’ll never know. And neither will the five or so other cars that turned around and headed back to Amarillo because the park gates were shut.

    + +

    The funny thing is, the highway is littered with billboards promoting the park. For 200 miles I was enticed to detour over to the park and not once did any of them mention that it closed at 10. Here’s what Palo Dura canyon looks like, should you after 10PM:

    + +
    + +

    pure black image, since I never got into the park

    +

    So I drove on to Amarillo, got a cheap motel room and crashed out for the night.

    +

    Now it’s on to a national park that I know will be open no matter what time I arrive: Great Sand Dune National Park.

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/why-national-parks-are-better-state-parks.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/why-national-parks-are-better-state-parks.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a4c08bf --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/07/why-national-parks-are-better-state-parks.txt @@ -0,0 +1,25 @@ +Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks +============================================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 15 July 2010 + +
    +

    There are many reasons actually, but here's the one I currently consider most important: National Parks never close. Take Palo Dura State Park outside of Amarillo, Texas. Were it a National Park, I would be there right now. But it's not, it's a state park and so I'm sitting in a hotel room in Amarillo.

    + +

    Of course everyone knows that nature shuts down at 10 PM, so it's not totally surprising that state parks close then. It's not just a Texas problem either, most Georgia parks close at the same time.

    + +

    Palo Dura likes to call itself "The Grand Canyon of Texas." It may well be, but I'll never know. And neither will the five or so other cars that turned around and headed back to Amarillo because the park gates were shut.

    + +

    The funny thing is, the highway is littered with billboards promoting the park. For 200 miles I was enticed to detour over to the park and not once did any of them mention that it closed at 10. Here's what Palo Dura canyon looks like, should you after 10PM:

    + +
    + + +pure black image, since I never got into the park + + +So I drove on to Amarillo, got a cheap motel room and crashed out for the night. + +Now it's on to a national park that I know will be open no matter what time I arrive: Great Sand Dune National Park. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/08/dinosaur-national-monument-part-two-down-river.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/08/dinosaur-national-monument-part-two-down-river.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3ef4713 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/08/dinosaur-national-monument-part-two-down-river.amp @@ -0,0 +1,228 @@ + + + + + + +Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River

    + + + +
    +
    +

    The Gates of Lodore rise up on either side of the river, the massive red sandstone cliffs reminiscent of something out of Tolkien, but less fantastical, more majestic. The large boats are already loaded and waiting, we are inflating the smaller boats while Ranger Dave talks about the skunk problems down river. +\ +We're off by noon, a little over an hour after we arrived at the put in. This stretch of the Green River is calm, but moving fast enough that I don't need to paddle much to keep pace with the larger boats. After a half mile of open land, the river passes through the Gates and plunges into Lodore Canyon proper, carving its way through some 3000 vertical feet of dramatic red sandstone.

    +

    +

    This is the only real way to see Dinosaur National Monument. Part of what makes Dinosaur National Monument compelling is its remoteness. The nearest major city is over 100 miles away and once you get to the park there aren't many roads, nor even trails. To really see the park you've got to get down in the canyon and to see the canyons up close you must journey down the river.

    +

    There are two major rivers running through Dinosaur National Monument, the Yampa, which carves through Yampa Canyon, and the Green, which cuts through Lodore. Numerous rafting companies run trips of varying lengths through both canyons, though if you want to do the Yampa you'll need to arrive early in the season1, by mid-July the dam-fed Green River is your only option in Dinosaur National Park.

    +

    The first day is largely devoid of rapids, a few rough spots where the river tumbles over a garden of rocks, but it does nothing more than splash a little water into the boat. Near the end we run Disaster Falls, which is not nearly as bad as its name might imply. Of course if you're John Wesley Powell and you're running the Green River for the very first time, pre-dam, in 1869, in wooden boats, you might have a slightly different perspective.

    +

    In fact, Powell portaged most of the rapids he encountered. There is simply no way through them in wooden boats (though honestly, hauling huge wooden boats through the canyon almost sounds worse). However, one of his boats did not see Disaster Falls approaching and went through it with, well, disastrous results. Like most of the names Powell bestowed on the river, Disaster Falls stuck.

    +

    According to legend, after everyone from the smashed boat was safely ashore, the boatmen went back into the river to try to retrieve some of the lost equipment. Powell, thinking the were going to get his lost barometers encouraged them on, but the boatmen were after the barrel of whiskey, which they managed to find. Presumably the barometers are still there somewhere, buried under nearly 150 years of mud and silt.

    +

    We reach our camp, Pot 1, just downstream from Disaster, by mid-afternoon and, after a quick lesson in using a groover2, we set up some horseshoes and whiled away the evening drinking beer and throwing horseshoes. Pot 1 and its downstream sibling, Pot 2, were also named by Powell who lost most of his pots and pans in the area. Powell was fearless (especially considering he only had one arm) and an incredible explorer, but he wasn't always creative with his names. So it goes.

    +

    The second day we start off by having to prove we could right the inflatable kayaks under the watchful eyes of our guides. We all managed to do it, though it was in nice calm water. I have my doubts about how well I would have done in a real rapid -- like the ominous-sounding Hell's Half Mile which was waiting for us just a few miles downstream.

    +

    Before we got to Hell's Half Mile, we had to make it through the much more benign-sounding Triplet. As the name implies there are three drops, but the real trick to Triplet is making a hard left turn away from the right bank at the end. The cut-away rocky alcove you're avoiding is like a yawning mouth waiting to suck you in and, most likely, pin you there.

    +
    + +The lower portion of Triplet Rapid. +
    +
    + +Everything looks easy from the banks. +
    +

    All of us made it through Triplet without any issues. About a mile further downstream we stopped to scout Hell's Half Mile. It doesn't look like much from the shore, but few rapids do. Depending on the water level Hell's is somewhere between a class III and class IV rapid. Everything started off just fine, I was paddling with Jim, the other guide's father who was a very good kayaker and we made it through without issue.

    +

    Greg, one of the three paying customers on our little trip did not fare as well. He went directly over a boulder known as Lucifer (possibly Powell was reading Dante when he ran the river, or he just loved fire and brimstone names). The drop wasn't really the problem though. It was the landing and the whirlpool in front of Lucifer that did Greg in. I missed the actual flip, by the time I turned around I just saw a helmet and a pair of sandals bobbing through the lower portion of Hell's.

    +

    I don't have a waterproof camera, so I don't have any photos of Hell's Half Mile from the water, but I did find this video on YouTube. The water seems a bit higher than when we were there, but otherwise it's about the same:

    +
    +

    After the whitewater fun we did a few miles of flat water and came back round down into Echo Park, where I had been a few days before. The view of Steamboat rock from the river is one of the more impressive mastiffs of sandstone I've seen. If you want something bigger you'll likely have to head all the way over to Zion.

    +

    We ate lunch on a sandbar at the confluence of the Green and Yampa Rivers and discovered why it's called Echo Park -- if you yell into Steamboat Rock at just the right spot your echo will reverberate back up both Lodore and Yampa Canyons creating a weird strobe echo effect that's unlike anything you've heard before. Natural reverb on steroids -- if Radiohead had known they'd have recorded an album here.

    +

    While our guides were setting up lunch I waded across the Yampa and out into the confluence, which forms an almost perfect line in the water -- the muddy brown Yampa takes quite a while to fully merge with the much clearer Green River. The strangest thing is temperature difference between the two. Because the water in the Green is coming out of the bottom of a dam, it's much colder than the Yampa, like 10-20 degrees colder. Standing right in the middle of the two is bit like having one half of your body in the pool and the other half in a jacuzzi.

    +

    The river after the confluence was mainly flat. I rode on the lead raft for a while, just staring up at the canyon walls, watching the red rock shift to lighter sandstone as we went on. We made camp by four again and the paying customers set off on a short hike to what's known as Butt Plug Falls, because you can plug it up by sitting down in the narrow channel just above the falls (presumably Powell did not give it that name).

    +

    I skipped the hike and spent the evening lazing around the river, swimming, and watching the evening light fade across the canyon walls. True to Ranger Dave's word, come nightfall we were defending our camp from several very aggressive skunks that seemed totally unconcerned about humans being around. One was half way in the trash bag when we noticed him and others had no problem marching up to the fire. Luckily none of them felt the need to spray anything.

    +

    The final day we ran several rapids early -- Moonshine rapid and S.O.B. One of the paying customers got hung up on a rock for a few minutes, but otherwise we ran through them like we'd all been doing it for years. Then we slipped out of Lodore Canyon and into Island Park, a long, slow and rather hot stretch of flat water before you pass through Split Mountain.

    +

    Split Mountain is one of the most unusual examples of geology I've ever seen -- the Green River actually splits a mountain in half, rather than going around it as rivers generally do. Split Mountain is one of those strange quirks of the planet, though there is actually a logical explanation. It's all the Grand Canyon's fault.

    +

    +

    The flow of a river is largely determined by the terrain it crosses, but there are other factors, like the base level -- the elevation of the river's terminus.

    +

    As the Grand Canyon formed, the terminal elevation for the entire Colorado River basin -- and consequently the Green River -- was lowered. The Green River was, once upon a time, running well over the top of Split Mountain. When the base level changed -- the elevation where the Green runs into the Colorado -- the Green simply cut down through what we call Split Mountain.

    +

    The results are rather striking.

    +

    Just on the far side of Split Mountain was the end of our river journey. We took out near the Dinosaur Quarry (currently closed) and headed back to Grand Junction. Or rather our boats did. I went with the customers back to Steamboat Springs and from there, on to Rocky Mountain National Park.

    +

    Notes: You may have noticed I referred to paying customers a couple of times above. It's true, I was free loading. Rafting trips aren't cheap. Luckily for me, my friend Mike (who also dragged me to the Okefenokee Swamp) happens to work for Adventure Bound Rafting out of Grand Junction, Colorado.

    +

    When I mentioned I'd be in the area, he insisted I come out on the river. I'm probably biased, but having seen a couple other commercial companies on the river, I wouldn't hesitate to say that Adventure Bound runs the best whitewater rafting trips in Colorado. I also, having now done a trip, and being aware of the costs, wouldn't hesitate to pay for another.

    +

    [Note: this story is part of my quest to visit every National Park in the U.S. You can check out the rest on the National Parks Project page.]

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      The Yampa River is that last undammed major tributary in the Colorado River system. Because it isn't dammed, it's only runnable with big boats early in the year when the snowmelt is generating high enough water levels. Canoes and kayaks can do it year round (well, kayaks anyway, a canoe at high water might be a mistake), but if you want a guided trip you'll need to do it before mid-July. Water levels do vary each year, generally speaking the Yampa is runnable into mid-July. ↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      The groover is so named because once upon a time it was simply an old ammo can and thus, left grooves in your legs when you sat on it. Technology has improved over the years, groovers now have toilet seats. Sort of. ↩

      +
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    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/08/dinosaur-national-monument-part-two-down-river.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/08/dinosaur-national-monument-part-two-down-river.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b177438 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/08/dinosaur-national-monument-part-two-down-river.html @@ -0,0 +1,470 @@ + + + + + Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down The River - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River

    + +
    +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The Gates of Lodore rise up on either side of the river, the massive red sandstone cliffs reminiscent of something out of Tolkien, but less fantastical, more majestic. The large boats are already loaded and waiting, we are inflating the smaller boats while Ranger Dave talks about the skunk problems down river.

    +

    We’re off by noon, a little over an hour after we arrived at the put in. This stretch of the Green River is calm, but moving fast enough that I don’t need to paddle much to keep pace with the larger boats. After a half mile of open land, the river passes through the Gates and plunges into Lodore Canyon proper, carving its way through some 3000 vertical feet of dramatic red sandstone.

    +
    + + gates of ladore, green river, co photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    This is the only real way to see Dinosaur National Monument. Part of what makes Dinosaur National Monument compelling is its remoteness. The nearest major city is over 100 miles away and once you get to the park there aren’t many roads, nor even trails. To really see the park you’ve got to get down in the canyon and to see the canyons up close you must journey down the river.

    +

    There are two major rivers running through Dinosaur National Monument, the Yampa, which carves through Yampa Canyon, and the Green, which cuts through Lodore. Numerous rafting companies run trips of varying lengths through both canyons, though if you want to do the Yampa you’ll need to arrive early in the season1, by mid-July the dam-fed Green River is your only option in Dinosaur National Park.

    +
    + + lunch stop, green river, adventure bound rafting trip, colorado photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The first day is largely devoid of rapids, a few rough spots where the river tumbles over a garden of rocks, but it does nothing more than splash a little water into the boat. Near the end we run Disaster Falls, which is not nearly as bad as its name might imply. Of course if you’re John Wesley Powell and you’re running the Green River for the very first time, pre-dam, in 1869, in wooden boats, you might have a slightly different perspective.

    +

    In fact, Powell portaged most of the rapids he encountered. There is simply no way through them in wooden boats (though honestly, hauling huge wooden boats through the canyon almost sounds worse). However, one of his boats did not see Disaster Falls approaching and went through it with, well, disastrous results. Like most of the names Powell bestowed on the river, Disaster Falls stuck.

    +

    According to legend, after everyone from the smashed boat was safely ashore, the boatmen went back into the river to try to retrieve some of the lost equipment. Powell, thinking the were going to get his lost barometers encouraged them on, but the boatmen were after the barrel of whiskey, which they managed to find. Presumably the barometers are still there somewhere, buried under nearly 150 years of mud and silt.

    +

    We reach our camp, Pot 1, just downstream from Disaster, by mid-afternoon and, after a quick lesson in using a groover2, we set up some horseshoes and whiled away the evening drinking beer and throwing horseshoes. Pot 1 and its downstream sibling, Pot 2, were also named by Powell who lost most of his pots and pans in the area. Powell was fearless (especially considering he only had one arm) and an incredible explorer, but he wasn’t always creative with his names. So it goes.

    +
    + + + + Sunset day 1, green river, adventure bound rafting trip, colorado photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + evening in the meadow, green river, adventure bound rafting trip, colorado photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    The second day we start off by having to prove we could right the inflatable kayaks under the watchful eyes of our guides. We all managed to do it, though it was in nice calm water. I have my doubts about how well I would have done in a real rapid — like the ominous-sounding Hell’s Half Mile which was waiting for us just a few miles downstream.

    +

    Before we got to Hell’s Half Mile, we had to make it through the much more benign-sounding Triplet. As the name implies there are three drops, but the real trick to Triplet is making a hard left turn away from the right bank at the end. The cut-away rocky alcove you’re avoiding is like a yawning mouth waiting to suck you in and, most likely, pin you there.

    +
    + + The lower portion of Triplet Rapid, green river, adventure bound rafting trip, colorado photographed by luxagraf + +
    The lower portion of Triplet Rapid.
    +
    + +
    + + scouting Triplet Rapid, green river, adventure bound rafting trip, colorado photographed by luxagraf + +
    Everything looks easy from the shore.
    +
    + +

    All of us made it through Triplet without any issues. About a mile further downstream we stopped to scout Hell’s Half Mile. It doesn’t look like much from the shore, but few rapids do. Depending on the water level Hell’s is somewhere between a class III and class IV rapid. Everything started off just fine, I was paddling with Jim, the other guide’s father who was a very good kayaker and we made it through without issue.

    +

    Greg, one of the three paying customers on our little trip did not fare as well. He went directly over a boulder known as Lucifer (possibly Powell was reading Dante when he ran the river, or he just loved fire and brimstone names). The drop wasn’t really the problem though. It was the landing and the whirlpool in front of Lucifer that did Greg in. I missed the actual flip, by the time I turned around I just saw a helmet and a pair of sandals bobbing through the lower portion of Hell’s.

    +

    I don’t have a waterproof camera, so I don’t have any photos of Hell’s Half Mile from the water, but I did find this video on YouTube. The water seems a bit higher than when we were there, but otherwise it’s about the same:

    +
    +
    + +
    + +

    After the whitewater fun we did a few miles of flat water and came back round down into Echo Park, where I had been a few days before. The view of Steamboat rock from the river is one of the more impressive mastiffs of sandstone I’ve seen. If you want something bigger you’ll likely have to head all the way over to Zion.

    +
    + + + + Steamboat Rock, Lodore Canyon, Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Steamboat Rock, Lodore Canyon, Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    We ate lunch on a sandbar at the confluence of the Green and Yampa Rivers and discovered why it’s called Echo Park — if you yell into Steamboat Rock at just the right spot your echo will reverberate back up both Lodore and Yampa Canyons creating a weird strobe echo effect that’s unlike anything you’ve heard before. Natural reverb on steroids — if Radiohead had known they’d have recorded an album here.

    +
    + + Confluence of green and yampa rivers, Lodore Canyon, Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado photographed by luxagraf + +
    The muddy brown (free-running) Yampa, meets the green (dam-fed) Green river.
    +
    + +

    While our guides were setting up lunch I waded across the Yampa and out into the confluence, which forms an almost perfect line in the water — the muddy brown Yampa takes quite a while to fully merge with the much clearer Green River. The strangest thing is temperature difference between the two. Because the water in the Green is coming out of the bottom of a dam, it’s much colder than the Yampa, like 10-20 degrees colder. Standing right in the middle of the two is bit like having one half of your body in the pool and the other half in a jacuzzi.

    +
    + + + + confluence green and yampa, Lodore Canyon, Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + confluence green and yampa, Lodore Canyon, Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado photographed by luxagraf + + + + +
    + +

    The river after the confluence was mainly flat. I rode on the lead raft for a while, just staring up at the canyon walls, watching the red rock shift to lighter sandstone as we went on.

    +
    + + red rock walls of Lodore Canyon, Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We made camp by four again and the paying customers set off on a short hike to what’s known as Butt Plug Falls, because you can plug it up by sitting down in the narrow channel just above the falls (presumably Powell did not give it that name).

    +

    I skipped the hike and spent the evening lazing around the river, swimming, and watching the evening light fade across the canyon walls. True to Ranger Dave’s word, come nightfall we were defending our camp from several very aggressive skunks that seemed totally unconcerned about humans being around. One was half way in the trash bag when we noticed him and others had no problem marching up to the fire. Luckily none of them felt the need to spray anything.

    +
    + + Sunset on the Green River, Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The final day we ran several rapids early — Moonshine rapid and S.O.B. One of the paying customers got hung up on a rock for a few minutes, but otherwise we ran through them like we’d all been doing it for years. Then we slipped out of Lodore Canyon and into Island Park, a long, slow and rather hot stretch of flat water before you pass through Split Mountain.

    +

    Split Mountain is one of the most unusual examples of geology I’ve ever seen — the Green River actually splits a mountain in half, rather than going around it as rivers generally do. Split Mountain is one of those strange quirks of the planet, though there is actually a logical explanation. It’s all the Grand Canyon’s fault.

    +
    + + Split Mountain, Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The flow of a river is largely determined by the terrain it crosses, but there are other factors, like the base level — the elevation of the river’s terminus.

    +

    As the Grand Canyon formed, the terminal elevation for the entire Colorado River basin — and consequently the Green River — was lowered. The Green River was, once upon a time, running well over the top of Split Mountain. When the base level changed — the elevation where the Green runs into the Colorado — the Green simply cut down through what we call Split Mountain.

    +

    The results are rather striking.

    +

    Just on the far side of Split Mountain was the end of our river journey. We took out near the Dinosaur Quarry (currently closed) and headed back to Grand Junction. Or rather our boats did. I went with the customers back to Steamboat Springs and from there, on to Rocky Mountain National Park.

    +

    Notes: You may have noticed I referred to paying customers a couple of times above. It’s true, I was free loading. Rafting trips aren’t cheap. Luckily for me, my friend Mike (who also dragged me to the Okefenokee Swamp) happens to work for Adventure Bound Rafting out of Grand Junction, Colorado.

    +

    When I mentioned I’d be in the area, he insisted I come out on the river. I’m probably biased, but having seen a couple other commercial companies on the river, I wouldn’t hesitate to say that Adventure Bound runs the best whitewater rafting trips in Colorado. I also, having now done a trip, and being aware of the costs, wouldn’t hesitate to pay for another.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      The Yampa River is that last undammed major tributary in the Colorado River system. Because it isn’t dammed, it’s only runnable with big boats early in the year when the snowmelt is generating high enough water levels. Canoes and kayaks can do it year round (well, kayaks anyway, a canoe at high water might be a mistake), but if you want a guided trip you’ll need to do it before mid-July. Water levels do vary each year, generally speaking the Yampa is runnable into mid-July. ↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      The groover is so named because once upon a time it was simply an old ammo can and thus, left grooves in your legs when you sat on it. Technology has improved over the years, groovers now have toilet seats. Sort of. ↩

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/08/dinosaur-national-monument-part-two-down-river.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/08/dinosaur-national-monument-part-two-down-river.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..acecaf7 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/08/dinosaur-national-monument-part-two-down-river.txt @@ -0,0 +1,112 @@ +Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River +==================================================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 02 August 2010 + +The Gates of Lodore rise up on either side of the river, the massive red sandstone cliffs reminiscent of something out of Tolkien, but less fantastical, more majestic. The large boats are already loaded and waiting, we are inflating the smaller boats while Ranger Dave talks about the skunk problems down river. + +We're off by noon, a little over an hour after we arrived at the put in. This stretch of the Green River is calm, but moving fast enough that I don't need to paddle much to keep pace with the larger boats. After a half mile of open land, the river passes through the Gates and plunges into Lodore Canyon proper, carving its way through some 3000 vertical feet of dramatic red sandstone. + + + +This is the only real way to see Dinosaur National Monument. Part of what makes Dinosaur National Monument compelling is its remoteness. The nearest major city is over 100 miles away and once you get to the park there aren't many roads, nor even trails. To really see the park you've got to get down in the canyon and to see the canyons up close you must journey down the river. + +There are two major rivers running through Dinosaur National Monument, the Yampa, which carves through Yampa Canyon, and the Green, which cuts through Lodore. Numerous rafting companies run trips of varying lengths through both canyons, though if you want to do the Yampa you'll need to arrive early in the season[^1], by mid-July the dam-fed Green River is your only option in Dinosaur National Park. + + + +The first day is largely devoid of rapids, a few rough spots where the river tumbles over a garden of rocks, but it does nothing more than splash a little water into the boat. Near the end we run Disaster Falls, which is not nearly as bad as its name might imply. Of course if you're [John Wesley Powell][3] and you're running the Green River for the very first time, pre-dam, in 1869, in wooden boats, you might have a slightly different perspective. + +In fact, Powell portaged most of the rapids he encountered. There is simply no way through them in wooden boats (though honestly, hauling huge wooden boats through the canyon almost sounds worse). However, one of his boats did not see Disaster Falls approaching and went through it with, well, disastrous results. Like most of the names Powell bestowed on the river, Disaster Falls stuck. + +According to legend, after everyone from the smashed boat was safely ashore, the boatmen went back into the river to try to retrieve some of the lost equipment. Powell, thinking the were going to get his lost barometers encouraged them on, but the boatmen were after the barrel of whiskey, which they managed to find. Presumably the barometers are still there somewhere, buried under nearly 150 years of mud and silt. + +We reach our camp, Pot 1, just downstream from Disaster, by mid-afternoon and, after a quick lesson in using a groover[^2], we set up some horseshoes and whiled away the evening drinking beer and throwing horseshoes. Pot 1 and its downstream sibling, Pot 2, were also named by Powell who lost most of his pots and pans in the area. Powell was fearless (especially considering he only had one arm) and an incredible explorer, but he wasn't always creative with his names. So it goes. + +
    + + + + +
    + +The second day we start off by having to prove we could right the inflatable kayaks under the watchful eyes of our guides. We all managed to do it, though it was in nice calm water. I have my doubts about how well I would have done in a real rapid -- like the ominous-sounding Hell's Half Mile which was waiting for us just a few miles downstream. + +Before we got to Hell's Half Mile, we had to make it through the much more benign-sounding Triplet. As the name implies there are three drops, but the real trick to Triplet is making a hard left turn away from the right bank at the end. The cut-away rocky alcove you're avoiding is like a yawning mouth waiting to suck you in and, most likely, pin you there. + + + + +All of us made it through Triplet without any issues. About a mile further downstream we stopped to scout Hell's Half Mile. It doesn't look like much from the shore, but few rapids do. Depending on the water level Hell's is somewhere between a class III and class IV rapid. Everything started off just fine, I was paddling with Jim, the other guide's father who was a very good kayaker and we made it through without issue. + +Greg, one of the three paying customers on our little trip did not fare as well. He went directly over a boulder known as Lucifer (possibly Powell was reading Dante when he ran the river, or he just loved fire and brimstone names). The drop wasn't really the problem though. It was the landing and the whirlpool in front of Lucifer that did Greg in. I missed the actual flip, by the time I turned around I just saw a helmet and a pair of sandals bobbing through the lower portion of Hell's. + +I don't have a waterproof camera, so I don't have any photos of Hell's Half Mile from the water, but I did find this video on YouTube. The water seems a bit higher than when we were there, but otherwise it's about the same: + + +
    +
    + +
    + +After the whitewater fun we did a few miles of flat water and came back round down into [Echo Park][4], where I had been a few days before. The view of Steamboat rock from the river is one of the more impressive mastiffs of sandstone I've seen. If you want something bigger you'll likely have to head all the way over to Zion. + +
    + + + + +
    + +We ate lunch on a sandbar at the confluence of the Green and Yampa Rivers and discovered why it's called Echo Park -- if you yell into Steamboat Rock at just the right spot your echo will reverberate back up both Lodore and Yampa Canyons creating a weird strobe echo effect that's unlike anything you've heard before. Natural reverb on steroids -- if Radiohead had known they'd have recorded an album here. + + + +While our guides were setting up lunch I waded across the Yampa and out into the confluence, which forms an almost perfect line in the water -- the muddy brown Yampa takes quite a while to fully merge with the much clearer Green River. The strangest thing is temperature difference between the two. Because the water in the Green is coming out of the bottom of a dam, it's much colder than the Yampa, like 10-20 degrees colder. Standing right in the middle of the two is bit like having one half of your body in the pool and the other half in a jacuzzi. + +
    + + + + + +
    + +The river after the confluence was mainly flat. I rode on the lead raft for a while, just staring up at the canyon walls, watching the red rock shift to lighter sandstone as we went on. + + + +We made camp by four again and the paying customers set off on a short hike to what's known as Butt Plug Falls, because you can plug it up by sitting down in the narrow channel just above the falls (presumably Powell did not give it that name). + +I skipped the hike and spent the evening lazing around the river, swimming, and watching the evening light fade across the canyon walls. True to Ranger Dave's word, come nightfall we were defending our camp from several very aggressive skunks that seemed totally unconcerned about humans being around. One was half way in the trash bag when we noticed him and others had no problem marching up to the fire. Luckily none of them felt the need to spray anything. + + + +The final day we ran several rapids early -- Moonshine rapid and S.O.B. One of the paying customers got hung up on a rock for a few minutes, but otherwise we ran through them like we'd all been doing it for years. Then we slipped out of Lodore Canyon and into Island Park, a long, slow and rather hot stretch of flat water before you pass through Split Mountain. + +Split Mountain is one of the most unusual examples of geology I've ever seen -- the Green River actually splits a mountain in half, rather than going around it as rivers generally do. Split Mountain is one of those strange quirks of the planet, though there is actually a logical explanation. It's all the Grand Canyon's fault. + + + +The flow of a river is largely determined by the terrain it crosses, but there are other factors, like the base level -- the elevation of the river's terminus. + +As the Grand Canyon formed, the terminal elevation for the entire Colorado River basin -- and consequently the Green River -- was lowered. The Green River was, once upon a time, running well over the top of Split Mountain. When the base level changed -- the elevation where the Green runs into the Colorado -- the Green simply cut down through what we call Split Mountain. + +The results are rather striking. + +Just on the far side of Split Mountain was the end of our river journey. We took out near the Dinosaur Quarry (currently closed) and headed back to Grand Junction. Or rather our boats did. I went with the customers back to Steamboat Springs and from there, on to Rocky Mountain National Park. + +Notes: You may have noticed I referred to paying customers a couple of times above. It's true, I was free loading. Rafting trips aren't cheap. Luckily for me, my friend Mike (who also dragged me to the [Okefenokee Swamp][2]) happens to work for Adventure Bound Rafting out of Grand Junction, Colorado. + +When I mentioned I'd be in the area, he insisted I come out on the river. I'm probably biased, but having seen a couple other commercial companies on the river, I wouldn't hesitate to say that [Adventure Bound runs the best whitewater rafting trips in Colorado][1]. I also, having now done a trip, and being aware of the costs, wouldn't hesitate to pay for another. + +[1]: http://www.adventureboundusa.com/ +[2]: http://luxagraf.net/2010/mar/13/so-far-i-have-not-found-science/ +[3]: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Wesley_Powell +[4]: http://luxagraf.net/2010/jul/28/dinosaur-national-monument-part-one-echo-park/ + + +[^1]: The Yampa River is that last undammed major tributary in the Colorado River system. Because it isn't dammed, it's only runnable with big boats early in the year when the snowmelt is generating high enough water levels. Canoes and kayaks can do it year round (well, kayaks anyway, a canoe at high water might be a mistake), but if you want a guided trip you'll need to do it before mid-July. Water levels do vary each year, generally speaking the Yampa is runnable into mid-July. +[^2]: The groover is so named because once upon a time it was simply an old ammo can and thus, left grooves in your legs when you sat on it. Technology has improved over the years, groovers now have toilet seats. Sort of. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/08/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/08/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9974ae0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/08/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,104 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Archive: August 2010

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    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1f8fe09 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2010/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,172 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    2010, on luxagraf

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    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/01/charleston-a-z.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/01/charleston-a-z.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7cdd6d8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/01/charleston-a-z.amp @@ -0,0 +1,266 @@ + + + + + + +Charleston A-Z + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Charleston A-Z

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      A is for the Aiken Rhett house, one of the few surviving antebellum houses in Charleston. It retains the kitchen, stables, furnishings and even wallpaper from the 1830s. It also retains quite a few misconceptions. Like the idea, repeated several times in the audio tour, that the house gives us a glimpse of "how the people of Charleston lived in the nineteenth century." Sort of the way future historians will proclaim Bill Gates' house to be a reminder of life in the twentieth century.

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      B is for Battery and White Point Park where a massive statue pays tribute to the racist slave owners who committed treason against the United States. Or, maybe I misread the sign.

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      C is for the Circular Congregational Church graveyard, which has some of the oldest graves in Charleston, many of them adorned with winged skulls (see below). I mean come on, this is luxagraf, of course I went to the graveyard.

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      D is for Doh! Imagine you wanted to steal a sailboat. You creep around the docks at night looking for open cabins. You find one. Score. You sail out of Charleston harbor headed south. The only problem is you just stole one of the most recognizable sailboats in the northern hemisphere. Doh. Here's the story of the initial heist. Alas Charleston's local paper doesn't understand URLs and so the story of the the recovery and arrests have disappeared (dead links left as a reminder of how fragile the web is).

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      E is for expensive. Charleston is. And yet, from what I've ever been able to tell, there is no real economy here, so where does the money come from? Is everyone here either a lawyer or old money? Still can't figure it out. What do you people do all day?

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      F is for Fast and French, a kind of French lunch-counter style restaurant that could have been pulled straight out of a Godard film. In fact, the only thing missing was Anna Karina1. Not, in my experience, fast, but definitely as French as I've seen outside of Paris. Awesome homemade pate. I also love that it's called Fast and French because apparently no one in Charleston can pronounce the actual name -- Gaulart & Maliclet.

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      G is for the ghetto, where my wife used to live, brass knuckles in her dresser drawer. Do not go to Columbus Street.

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      H is for is for the Club Habana cigar bar, which looks like a set from Mad Men -- dark wood paneling, smoke-soaked leather chairs and sofas, dim lighting that creates plenty of dark corners and the best Scotch selection in Charleston.

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      I is for indulgent. Like say, eating four dozen oysters in a single setting. Yes. We did. And it was awesome.

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      J is for just didn't make it. Again. I've been to Charleston five times now and I've still never made the trip out to Fort Sumter. One day.

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      K is for King Street. Sure, half of it is full of Apple Stores, Banana Republics and the like, but further down it still manages to retain some, if slightly gentrified, charm. And you can pick up a seersucker suit so you too can look like an idiot.

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      L is for the Library Society, one of the oldest libraries on the country. Created in 1748, the Charleston Library Society paved the way for the founding of the College of Charleston in 1770 and provided the core collection of natural history artifacts for the first museum in America -- the Charleston Museum, founded in 1773.

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      M is for mansions, Charleston has a lot of them. Ridiculous, huge mansions that could house multiple families (and did back in the dark days of slavery).

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      N is for nap. Naps are good when you're traveling. They remind you that you don't have to do anything. Take one.

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      O is for Oyster Bar, specifically Pearlz, which, despite drawing a high percentage of tourists, has the best oysters in town. And the oyster-buyer knew his stuff. When I asked him if he had read The Big Oyster he responded, without a second's hesitation, "history on the half shell."

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      P is for People Wearing Fur. For some reason there were a lot of them in Charleston. Including a man wearing a fluffy fur shawl that looked like an ermine had stuck its paw in a light socket and wrapped itself around his neck. Awful, but not terribly surprising for a place that gave us the seersucker and other insults to fashion.

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      Q is for quiet, Charleston has a lot of it. Just head down to the Battery area, walk through the park and starting walking down the side streets. Take one of the many alleys and walkways that weave between the massive, stately houses. Get lost. It doesn't take much to find a quiet place of your own.

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      R is for restoration, let's have less of it. The Aiken Rhett house was by far the coolest old building I've seen in the south simply because it has not been restored. It's been shored up here and there, but for the most part the decay of it is the appeal of it. The peeling wallpaper, the threadbare furniture, the dusty paintings, the rotting timbers. The termites. The worms. The wood fungi. Decay always wins in the end.

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      S is for seersucker suit. Didn't see any this time; thank god for cold weather.

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      • +
    • +

      T is for highway 26, the craziest road I've driven in the U.S. People drive the 26 fast, stupid fast and the minute you move into the slow lane you're stuck there forever. It's insane.

      +
      • +
    • +

      U is for the Unitarian Church Garden, a beautiful, but little-visited cemetery/garden that's overgrown with wildflowers, trees and vines. It's also reportedly haunted by Annabel Lee, purportedly the the subject of Edgar Allen Poe's poem of the same name.

      +
      • +
    • +

      V is for very cold, something I don't normally associate with Charleston, but there was snow on the ground all the way into South Carolina. Not quite to Charleston, but pretty close.

      +
      • +
    • +

      W is for the winged skulls, which adorn many of the oldest gravestones in the Circular Church graveyard. The skulls, which symbolize the soul's ascension into heaven, recall a time when death was somehow more familiar, less threatening perhaps -- look mum, skulls with wings .

      +
      • +
    • +

      X is for xylophone. Because there aren't many words that start with x. Every plan has a flaw.

      +
      • +
    • +

      Y is for Yacht. I want one. Some of the nicest boats I've ever seen are in the Charleston harbor. If you have any interest in boats, it's worth walking around the docks for a bit. Who knows, you might even be able to hitch a ride out of Charleston harbor if you know what you're doing. Just don't steal anything.

      +
      • +
    • +

      Z is for zero, the number of times I have been to the Bubba Shrimp Company restaurant. Fuck you Hollywood.

      +
      • +
    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      Technically Anna Karina was Danish, but I always think of her as French since she mainly appeared in French films. ↩

      +
      2. +
    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/01/charleston-a-z.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/01/charleston-a-z.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d602725 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/01/charleston-a-z.html @@ -0,0 +1,419 @@ + + + + + Charleston A-Z - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Charleston A-Z

    + +
    +
    +

    Charleston, South Carolina, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Aiken Rhett House, Charleston, SC

    +
      +
    • +

      A is for the Aiken Rhett house, one of the few surviving antebellum houses in Charleston. It retains the kitchen, stables, furnishings and even wallpaper from the 1830s. It also retains quite a few misconceptions. Like the idea, repeated several times in the audio tour, that the house gives us a glimpse of “how the people of Charleston lived in the nineteenth century.” Sort of the way future historians will proclaim Bill Gates’ house to be a reminder of life in the twentieth century.

      +
      • +
    • +

      B is for Battery and White Point Park where a massive statue pays tribute to the racist slave owners who committed treason against the United States. Or, maybe I misread the sign.

      +
      • +
    +

    +
      +
    • +

      C is for the Circular Congregational Church graveyard, which has some of the oldest graves in Charleston, many of them adorned with winged skulls (see below). I mean come on, this is luxagraf, of course I went to the graveyard. Circular Congregational Church graveyard, Charleston, SC

      +
      • +
    • +

      D is for Doh! Imagine you wanted to steal a sailboat. You creep around the docks at night looking for open cabins. You find one. Score. You sail out of Charleston harbor headed south. The only problem is you just stole one of the most recognizable sailboats in the northern hemisphere. Doh. Here’s the story of the initial heist. Alas Charleston’s local paper doesn’t understand URLs and so the story of the the recovery and arrests have disappeared (dead links left as a reminder of how fragile the web is).

      +
      • +
    • +

      E is for expensive. Charleston is. And yet, from what I’ve ever been able to tell, there is no real economy here, so where does the money come from? Is everyone here either a lawyer or old money? Still can’t figure it out. What do you people do all day?

      +
      • +
    • +

      F is for Fast and French, a kind of French lunch-counter style restaurant that could have been pulled straight out of a Godard film. In fact, the only thing missing was Anna Karina1. Not, in my experience, fast, but definitely as French as I’ve seen outside of Paris. Awesome homemade pate. I also love that it’s called Fast and French because apparently no one in Charleston can pronounce the actual name — Gaulart & Maliclet.

      +
      • +
    • +

      G is for the ghetto, where my wife used to live, brass knuckles in her dresser drawer. Do not go to Columbus Street.

      +
      • +
    • +

      H is for is for the Club Habana cigar bar, which looks like a set from Mad Men — dark wood paneling, smoke-soaked leather chairs and sofas, dim lighting that creates plenty of dark corners and the best Scotch selection in Charleston.

      +
      • +
    • +

      I is for indulgent. Like say, eating four dozen oysters in a single setting. Yes. We did. And it was awesome.

      +
      • +
    • +

      J is for just didn’t make it. Again. I’ve been to Charleston five times now and I’ve still never made the trip out to Fort Sumter. One day.

      +
      • +
    • +

      K is for King Street. Sure, half of it is full of Apple Stores, Banana Republics and the like, but further down it still manages to retain some, if slightly gentrified, charm. And you can pick up a seersucker suit so you too can look like an idiot.

      +
      • +
    • +

      L is for the Library Society, one of the oldest libraries on the country. Created in 1748, the Charleston Library Society paved the way for the founding of the College of Charleston in 1770 and provided the core collection of natural history artifacts for the first museum in America — the Charleston Museum, founded in 1773.

      +
      • +
    • +

      M is for mansions, Charleston has a lot of them. Ridiculous, huge mansions that could house multiple families (and did back in the dark days of slavery).

      +
      • +
    • +

      N is for nap. Naps are good when you’re traveling. They remind you that you don’t have to do anything. Take one.

      +
      • +
    • +

      O is for Oyster Bar, specifically Pearlz, which, despite drawing a high percentage of tourists, has the best oysters in town. And the oyster-buyer knew his stuff. When I asked him if he had read The Big Oyster he responded, without a second’s hesitation, “history on the half shell.”

      +
      • +
    • +

      P is for People Wearing Fur. For some reason there were a lot of them in Charleston. Including a man wearing a fluffy fur shawl that looked like an ermine had stuck its paw in a light socket and wrapped itself around his neck. Awful, but not terribly surprising for a place that gave us the seersucker and other insults to fashion.

      +
      • +
    • +

      Quiet Streets, Charleston, SCQ is for quiet, Charleston has a lot of it. Just head down to the Battery area, walk through the park and starting walking down the side streets. Take one of the many alleys and walkways that weave between the massive, stately houses. Get lost. It doesn’t take much to find a quiet place of your own.

      +
      • +
    • +

      R is for restoration, let’s have less of it. The Aiken Rhett house was by far the coolest old building I’ve seen in the south simply because it has not been restored. It’s been shored up here and there, but for the most part the decay of it is the appeal of it. The peeling wallpaper, the threadbare furniture, the dusty paintings, the rotting timbers. The termites. The worms. The wood fungi. Decay always wins in the end.

      +
      • +
    • +

      S is for seersucker suit. Didn’t see any this time; thank god for cold weather.

      +
      • +
    • +

      T is for highway 26, the craziest road I’ve driven in the U.S. People drive the 26 fast, stupid fast and the minute you move into the slow lane you’re stuck there forever. It’s insane.

      +
      • +
    • +

      U is for the Unitarian Church Garden, a beautiful, but little-visited cemetery/garden that’s overgrown with wildflowers, trees and vines. It’s also reportedly haunted by Annabel Lee, purportedly the the subject of Edgar Allen Poe’s poem of the same name.

      +
      • +
    • +

      V is for very cold, something I don’t normally associate with Charleston, but there was snow on the ground all the way into South Carolina. Not quite to Charleston, but pretty close.

      +
      • +
    • +

      W is for the winged skulls, which adorn many of the oldest gravestones in the Circular Church graveyard. The skulls, which symbolize the soul’s ascension into heaven, recall a time when death was somehow more familiar, less threatening perhaps — look mum, skulls with wings Circular Congregational Church graveyard, Charleston, SC.

      +
      • +
    • +

      X is for xylophone. Because there aren’t many words that start with x. Every plan has a flaw.

      +
      • +
    • +

      Y is for Yacht. I want one. Some of the nicest boats I’ve ever seen are in the Charleston harbor. If you have any interest in boats, it’s worth walking around the docks for a bit. Who knows, you might even be able to hitch a ride out of Charleston harbor if you know what you’re doing. Just don’t steal anything.

      +
      • +
    • +

      Z is for zero, the number of times I have been to the Bubba Shrimp Company restaurant. Fuck you Hollywood.

      +
      • +
    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      Technically Anna Karina was Danish, but I always think of her as French since she mainly appeared in French films. ↩

      +
      2. +
    +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/01/charleston-a-z.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/01/charleston-a-z.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..aa7d6a7 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/01/charleston-a-z.txt @@ -0,0 +1,72 @@ +Charleston A-Z +============== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Tuesday, 18 January 2011 + +Aiken Rhett House, Charleston, SC + +* **A** is for the Aiken Rhett house, one of the few surviving antebellum houses in Charleston. It retains the kitchen, stables, furnishings and even wallpaper from the 1830s. It also retains quite a few misconceptions. Like the idea, repeated several times in the audio tour, that the house gives us a glimpse of "how the people of Charleston lived in the nineteenth century." Sort of the way future historians will proclaim Bill Gates' house to be a reminder of life in the twentieth century. + +* **B** is for Battery and White Point Park where a massive statue pays tribute to the racist slave owners who committed treason against the United States. Or, maybe I misread the sign. + + + +* **C** is for the Circular Congregational Church graveyard, which has some of the oldest graves in Charleston, many of them adorned with winged skulls (see below). I mean come on, this is luxagraf, of course I went to the graveyard. Circular Congregational Church graveyard, Charleston, SC + + +* **D** is for Doh! Imagine you wanted to steal a sailboat. You creep around the docks at night looking for open cabins. You find one. Score. You sail out of Charleston harbor headed south. The only problem is you just stole one of the most recognizable sailboats in the northern hemisphere. Doh. Here's [the story of the initial heist][1]. Alas Charleston's local paper doesn't understand URLs and so the story of the [the recovery][2] and [arrests][3] have disappeared (dead links left as a reminder of how fragile the web is). + +[1]: http://www.thehulltruth.com/boating-forum/5981-57-foot-sailing-yacht-stolen-charleston.html +[2]: http://archives.postandcourier.com/archive/arch04/0104/arc01301561276.shtml +[3]: http://archives.postandcourier.com/archive/arch04/0404/arc04301708081.shtml + +* **E** is for expensive. Charleston is. And yet, from what I've ever been able to tell, there is no real economy here, so where does the money come from? Is everyone here either a lawyer or old money? Still can't figure it out. What do you people *do* all day? + +* **F** is for Fast and French, a kind of French lunch-counter style restaurant that could have been pulled straight out of a Godard film. In fact, the only thing missing was Anna Karina[^1]. Not, in my experience, fast, but definitely as French as I've seen outside of Paris. Awesome homemade pate. I also love that it's called Fast and French because apparently no one in Charleston can pronounce the actual name -- Gaulart & Maliclet. + +* **G** is for the ghetto, where my wife used to live, brass knuckles in her dresser drawer. Do not go to Columbus Street. + +* **H** is for is for the Club Habana cigar bar, which looks like a set from Mad Men -- dark wood paneling, smoke-soaked leather chairs and sofas, dim lighting that creates plenty of dark corners and the best Scotch selection in Charleston. + +* **I** is for indulgent. Like say, eating four dozen oysters in a single setting. Yes. We did. And it was awesome. + +* **J** is for just didn't make it. Again. I've been to Charleston five times now and I've still never made the trip out to Fort Sumter. One day. + +* **K** is for King Street. Sure, half of it is full of Apple Stores, Banana Republics and the like, but further down it still manages to retain some, if slightly gentrified, charm. And you can pick up a seersucker suit so you too can look like an idiot. + +* **L** is for the Library Society, one of the oldest libraries on the country. Created in 1748, the [Charleston Library Society][5] paved the way for the founding of the College of Charleston in 1770 and provided the core collection of natural history artifacts for the first museum in America -- the Charleston Museum, founded in 1773. + +[5]: http://www.charlestonlibrarysociety.org/ + +* **M** is for mansions, Charleston has a lot of them. Ridiculous, huge mansions that could house multiple families (and did back in the dark days of slavery). + +* **N** is for nap. Naps are good when you're traveling. They remind you that you don't *have* to do anything. Take one. + +* **O** is for Oyster Bar, specifically Pearlz, which, despite drawing a high percentage of tourists, has the best oysters in town. And the oyster-buyer knew his stuff. When I asked him if he had read The Big Oyster he responded, without a second's hesitation, "history on the half shell." + +* **P** is for People Wearing Fur. For some reason there were a lot of them in Charleston. Including a man wearing a fluffy fur shawl that looked like an ermine had stuck its paw in a light socket and wrapped itself around his neck. Awful, but not terribly surprising for a place that gave us the seersucker and other insults to fashion. + +* Quiet Streets, Charleston, SC**Q** is for quiet, Charleston has a lot of it. Just head down to the Battery area, walk through the park and starting walking down the side streets. Take one of the many alleys and walkways that weave between the massive, stately houses. Get lost. It doesn't take much to find a quiet place of your own. + +* **R** is for restoration, let's have less of it. The Aiken Rhett house was by far the coolest old building I've seen in the south simply because it has not been restored. It's been shored up here and there, but for the most part the decay of it is the appeal of it. The peeling wallpaper, the threadbare furniture, the dusty paintings, the rotting timbers. The termites. The worms. The wood fungi. Decay always wins in the end. + +* **S** is for seersucker suit. Didn't see any this time; thank god for cold weather. + +* **T** is for highway 26, the craziest road I've driven in the U.S. People drive the 26 fast, stupid fast and the minute you move into the slow lane you're stuck there forever. It's insane. + +* **U** is for the Unitarian Church Garden, a beautiful, but little-visited cemetery/garden that's overgrown with wildflowers, trees and vines. It's also reportedly haunted by Annabel Lee, purportedly the the subject of Edgar Allen Poe's poem of the same name. + +* **V** is for very cold, something I don't normally associate with Charleston, but there was snow on the ground all the way into South Carolina. Not quite to Charleston, but pretty close. + +* **W** is for the winged skulls, which adorn many of the oldest gravestones in the Circular Church graveyard. The skulls, which symbolize the soul's ascension into heaven, recall a time when death was somehow more familiar, less threatening perhaps -- look mum, skulls with wings Circular Congregational Church graveyard, Charleston, SC. + +* **X** is for xylophone. Because there aren't many words that start with x. Every plan has a flaw. + +* **Y** is for Yacht. I want one. Some of the nicest boats I've ever seen are in the Charleston harbor. If you have any interest in boats, it's worth walking around the docks for a bit. Who knows, you might even be able to hitch a ride out of Charleston harbor if you know what you're doing. Just don't steal anything. + +* **Z** is for zero, the number of times I have been to the Bubba Shrimp Company restaurant. Fuck you Hollywood. + + +[^1]: Technically Anna Karina was Danish, but I always think of her as French since she mainly appeared in French films. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/01/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/01/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d0d08a9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/01/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,107 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: January 2011

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/01/world-outside.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/01/world-outside.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d2d6a0a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/01/world-outside.amp @@ -0,0 +1,179 @@ + + + + + + +The World Outside + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The World Outside

    + + + +
    +
    +

    The world outside the house is blanketed in snow, a monochrome of white interrupted only by the dark, wet trunks of trees, the red brick of chimneys, the occasional green of shrubs poking through. The roads are unbroken expanses of smooth white, no one is out yet, no footprints track their way through the snowy sidewalk.

    +

    The world outside is the same as it was last night, before the snow began, and yet, it feels totally different. Extraordinary. As if the whole town of Athens, all of us, our streets, our buildings, our lives had be transported elsewhere, as if we were all on some great holiday in another part of the world.

    +

    +

    Even in places where snow is routine, where snow turns black from cars, piles in shopping centers and chokes street corners all winter long, there is something special about that first day of snow -- a reminder that the world is transmutable.

    +

    When the world transforms around us we transform ourselves. I could, on any given morning get up and walk through the neighborhood, down to the main street and get a cup of coffee at one of several coffee shops. I don't. But throw a little snow on the world -- a little novelty -- and suddenly it seems natural to break your habits, do something new.

    +

    The snow crunches under our feet, a rim of ice has already formed on the top, a thin sheen of water that makes everything look like a frosted cake. Halfway to the coffee shop we noticed others. Groups of people approaching from every nearby neighborhood, some carrying sleds or trash can lids, some with dogs and children in tow. Everything is different and new, everyone wants a part of it.

    +

    The snow was on the ground for a week, longer in the shady slopes and shadow of the trees. Several nights later we were at a friend's birthday party, standing outside in the snow, gathered around a fire for warmth. Even at night, even when it's well below freezing, novelty draws you out. Cold is a small price for a new world.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/01/world-outside.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/01/world-outside.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3aababa --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/01/world-outside.html @@ -0,0 +1,386 @@ + + + + + The World Outside - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The World Outside

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The world outside the house is blanketed in snow, a monochrome of white interrupted only by the dark, wet trunks of trees, the red brick of chimneys, the occasional green of shrubs poking through. The roads are unbroken expanses of smooth white, no one is out yet, no footprints track their way through the snowy sidewalk.

    +

    Snow, Athens, GAThe world outside is the same as it was last night, before the snow began, and yet, it feels totally different. Extraordinary. As if the whole town of Athens, all of us, our streets, our buildings, our lives had be transported elsewhere, as if we were all on some great holiday in another part of the world.

    +

    +

    Even in places where snow is routine, where snow turns black from cars, piles in shopping centers and chokes street corners all winter long, there is something special about that first day of snow — a reminder that the world is transmutable.

    +

    When the world transforms around us we transform ourselves. I could, on any given morning get up and walk through the neighborhood, down to the main street and get a cup of coffee at one of several coffee shops. I don’t. But throw a little snow on the world — a little novelty — and suddenly it seems natural to break your habits, do something new.

    +

    Snow, Athens, GAThe snow crunches under our feet, a rim of ice has already formed on the top, a thin sheen of water that makes everything look like a frosted cake. Halfway to the coffee shop we noticed others. Groups of people approaching from every nearby neighborhood, some carrying sleds or trash can lids, some with dogs and children in tow. Everything is different and new, everyone wants a part of it.

    +

    The snow was on the ground for a week, longer in the shady slopes and shadow of the trees. Several nights later we were at a friend’s birthday party, standing outside in the snow, gathered around a fire for warmth. Even at night, even when it’s well below freezing, novelty draws you out. Cold is a small price for a new world.

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/01/world-outside.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/01/world-outside.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b21205c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/01/world-outside.txt @@ -0,0 +1,20 @@ +The World Outside +================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 26 January 2011 + +The world outside the house is blanketed in snow, a monochrome of white interrupted only by the dark, wet trunks of trees, the red brick of chimneys, the occasional green of shrubs poking through. The roads are unbroken expanses of smooth white, no one is out yet, no footprints track their way through the snowy sidewalk. + +Snow, Athens, GAThe world outside is the same as it was last night, before the snow began, and yet, it feels totally different. Extraordinary. As if the whole town of Athens, all of us, our streets, our buildings, our lives had be transported elsewhere, as if we were all on some great holiday in another part of the world. + + + +Even in places where snow is routine, where snow turns black from cars, piles in shopping centers and chokes street corners all winter long, there is something special about that first day of snow -- a reminder that the world is transmutable. + +When the world transforms around us we transform ourselves. I could, on any given morning get up and walk through the neighborhood, down to the main street and get a cup of coffee at one of several coffee shops. I don't. But throw a little snow on the world -- a little novelty -- and suddenly it seems natural to break your habits, do something new. + +Snow, Athens, GAThe snow crunches under our feet, a rim of ice has already formed on the top, a thin sheen of water that makes everything look like a frosted cake. Halfway to the coffee shop we noticed others. Groups of people approaching from every nearby neighborhood, some carrying sleds or trash can lids, some with dogs and children in tow. Everything is different and new, everyone wants a part of it. + +The snow was on the ground for a week, longer in the shady slopes and shadow of the trees. Several nights later we were at a friend's birthday party, standing outside in the snow, gathered around a fire for warmth. Even at night, even when it's well below freezing, novelty draws you out. Cold is a small price for a new world. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/03/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/03/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..75b5cea --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/03/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,104 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: March 2011

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/03/we-used-wait-it.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/03/we-used-wait-it.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e40943e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/03/we-used-wait-it.amp @@ -0,0 +1,191 @@ + + + + + + +We Used to Wait For It + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    We Used to Wait For It

    + + + +
    +
    +

    This building was originally part of the financial district, Bill gestures around the room. It was a bank or maybe some sort of trading company, the old Los Angeles stock exchange building is just down the street. Then in the fifties or so it became part of the garment district, then it was pretty much abandoned.

    +

    That's when we first came here, when there was nothing. When downtown Los Angeles was an empty husk of a place, fifteen years ago.

    +

    Bill takes a sip of beer. We stare out the window at the wall opposite his loft, enormous levered windows are folded open, a damp breeze that smells of city and ocean, of age, of death and rebirth and more death, moves through the room.

    +

    There is something old in the walls here, something lost in the bricks, something in the concrete, the marble. Something you don't find anymore. Something of the hard-boiled film world popularized by Sam Spade still lingers here. The streets nine floors below still look like lost set pieces from The Maltese Falcon.

    +

    +

    The next day we walk around downtown. Bill is an encyclopedia of architectural history in downtown. I don't know where he learned it, but it's obvious he didn't just read it in a book, he absorbed it the way you do when you love something, when you care enough about something to dig deep into it.

    +

    It depresses me, this glimpse of what once was. It makes me afraid of where we are, where we are going. Our path does not feel right. There is something here that we lost, something that we ignored, but should not have. It's like we just don't care about our buildings anymore.

    +

    The Eastern Columbia building glistens, a monolithic temple of Art Deco, aquamarine spines reaching for the sky. Love it or hate it, it screams someone cared. Even something as simple as the facade of the old Wurlitzer piano building is a work of art, meticulously detailed plaster sculptures covering the columns -- lions mouths, lyre crests and harps -- creating a miniature world of the imagination tattooed in concrete. The theatre marquees still hold long lost fonts and synchronized flash bulbs ready to draw in the crowds, except that there are no shows, nothing save a sign that reads We Buy Gold. Compramos Oro.

    +

    I don't know anything about architecture, the history of architecture or where architecture is today. But I, like you, can tell when someone cares and when someone is just looking to compramos oro.

    +

    Everything around us seems created for the sole purpose of showcasing what was possible. There is no reason to add the details in the concrete facades, save to show off, to say not just, I made this, but I made this beautiful. Not profitable. Beautiful.

    +

    Bill used to work as a project manager for large, modern construction projects in the area. His employers bought gold. Tore it down and sold it for more gold. Bill doesn't work for them anymore. They went out of business. Compramos Oro. So it goes.

    +

    He doesn't respond to my sweeping generalization about modern buildings right away. We stand in the sidewalk, stare the Wurlitzer building in silence for a while. No. All the projects I've worked on started out with the attention to detail that you see in these buildings, but it was all cut out, too expensive, wasteful. A beautiful facade doesn't make the building worth any more to the companies that build it.

    +

    That's when I realized that the problem is not simply that we have come to value money above all else, but that we have removed ourselves from the equation. Compramos oro all you want. Pero recuerde que el mundo quiere la belleza.

    +

    The problem is not the money that's being made or not made, but that our buildings are created by companies. We are not men. We are not women. We are not Devo. We are no longer personal, we are no longer connected.

    +

    We are companies. Companies are shells created to protect us, to help us. But there is always a cost. Companies have become little more than shells that funnel money from one shell to another, like the street hustler with seashells atop his cardboard box. We build boxes to shuffle money between shells.

    +

    Yet it makes no sense to pine for the past. There is no retracing of steps. Build something Art Deco today and it will feel cheap, tawdry, sentimental. There is nothing to be gained in sentimentality. Wallace Stevens was right, sentimentality is a failure of feeling. It's not sentimental nostalgia you feel on the streets of downtown Los Angeles. It's loss.

    +

    We do not pine for a return to the past, we pine for a reality that has the vitality of what we can see in the past. What has failed us is the reality we have created. It feels devoid of imagination. Reality and imagination, Steven once wrote, are not opposed. They are the same thing. Imagination "has the strength of reality or none at all." None at all.

    +

    That's what hurts when you look at the modern buildings down here, not that they are not as beautiful as what came before, but that you can feel the loss of beauty, stripped away day by day, year after year until all that remained was the company's bottom line. The bottom line is not a firm foundation on which to build. We have created a reality where beauty and pride in one's work have been wrenched away and replaced with mere shells shuffled atop the cardboard remains of our imagination.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/03/we-used-wait-it.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/03/we-used-wait-it.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7a45f00 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/03/we-used-wait-it.html @@ -0,0 +1,345 @@ + + + + + We Used To Wait For It - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    We Used to Wait For It

    + +
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    Los Angeles, California, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    This building was originally part of the financial district, Bill gestures around the room. It was a bank or maybe some sort of trading company, the old Los Angeles stock exchange building is just down the street. Then in the fifties or so it became part of the garment district, then it was pretty much abandoned.

    +

    That’s when we first came here, when there was nothing. When downtown Los Angeles was an empty husk of a place, fifteen years ago.

    +

    Bill takes a sip of beer. We stare out the window at the wall opposite his loft, enormous levered windows are folded open, a damp breeze that smells of city and ocean, of age, of death and rebirth and more death, moves through the room.

    +

    There is something old in the walls here, something lost in the bricks, something in the concrete, the marble. Something you don’t find anymore. Something of the hard-boiled film world popularized by Sam Spade still lingers here. The streets nine floors below still look like lost set pieces from The Maltese Falcon.

    +

    +

    Eastern Columbia building, Downtown LAThe next day we walk around downtown. Bill is an encyclopedia of architectural history in downtown. I don’t know where he learned it, but it’s obvious he didn’t just read it in a book, he absorbed it the way you do when you love something, when you care enough about something to dig deep into it.

    +

    It depresses me, this glimpse of what once was. It makes me afraid of where we are, where we are going. Our path does not feel right. There is something here that we lost, something that we ignored, but should not have. It’s like we just don’t care about our buildings anymore.

    +

    The Eastern Columbia building glistens, a monolithic temple of Art Deco, aquamarine spines reaching for the sky. Love it or hate it, it screams someone cared. Even something as simple as the facade of the old Wurlitzer piano building is a work of art, meticulously detailed plaster sculptures covering the columns — lions mouths, lyre crests and harps — creating a miniature world of the imagination tattooed in concrete. The theatre marquees still hold long lost fonts and synchronized flash bulbs ready to draw in the crowds, except that there are no shows, nothing save a sign that reads We Buy Gold. Compramos Oro.

    +

    I don’t know anything about architecture, the history of architecture or where architecture is today. But I, like you, can tell when someone cares and when someone is just looking to compramos oro.

    +

    Old Wurlitzer building, Downtown LAEverything around us seems created for the sole purpose of showcasing what was possible. There is no reason to add the details in the concrete facades, save to show off, to say not just, I made this, but I made this beautiful. Not profitable. Beautiful.

    +

    Bill used to work as a project manager for large, modern construction projects in the area. His employers bought gold. Tore it down and sold it for more gold. Bill doesn’t work for them anymore. They went out of business. Compramos Oro. So it goes.

    +

    He doesn’t respond to my sweeping generalization about modern buildings right away. We stand in the sidewalk, stare the Wurlitzer building in silence for a while. No. All the projects I’ve worked on started out with the attention to detail that you see in these buildings, but it was all cut out, too expensive, wasteful. A beautiful facade doesn’t make the building worth any more to the companies that build it.

    +

    Detail, Eastern Columbia building, Downtown LAThat’s when I realized that the problem is not simply that we have come to value money above all else, but that we have removed ourselves from the equation. Compramos oro all you want. Pero recuerde que el mundo quiere la belleza.

    +

    The problem is not the money that’s being made or not made, but that our buildings are created by companies. We are not men. We are not women. We are not Devo. We are no longer personal, we are no longer connected.

    +

    We are companies. Companies are shells created to protect us, to help us. But there is always a cost. Companies have become little more than shells that funnel money from one shell to another, like the street hustler with seashells atop his cardboard box. We build boxes to shuffle money between shells.

    +

    Yet it makes no sense to pine for the past. There is no retracing of steps. Build something Art Deco today and it will feel cheap, tawdry, sentimental. There is nothing to be gained in sentimentality. Wallace Stevens was right, sentimentality is a failure of feeling. It’s not sentimental nostalgia you feel on the streets of downtown Los Angeles. It’s loss.

    +

    We do not pine for a return to the past, we pine for a reality that has the vitality of what we can see in the past. What has failed us is the reality we have created. It feels devoid of imagination. Reality and imagination, Steven once wrote, are not opposed. They are the same thing. Imagination “has the strength of reality or none at all.” None at all.

    +

    That’s what hurts when you look at the modern buildings down here, not that they are not as beautiful as what came before, but that you can feel the loss of beauty, stripped away day by day, year after year until all that remained was the company’s bottom line. The bottom line is not a firm foundation on which to build. We have created a reality where beauty and pride in one’s work have been wrenched away and replaced with mere shells shuffled atop the cardboard remains of our imagination.

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/03/we-used-wait-it.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/03/we-used-wait-it.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7827404 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/03/we-used-wait-it.txt @@ -0,0 +1,42 @@ +We Used to Wait For It +====================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 28 March 2011 + +T*his building was originally part of the financial district*, Bill gestures around the room. *It was a bank or maybe some sort of trading company, the old Los Angeles stock exchange building is just down the street. Then in the fifties or so it became part of the garment district, then it was pretty much abandoned.* + +That's when we first came here, when there was nothing. When downtown Los Angeles was an empty husk of a place, fifteen years ago. + +Bill takes a sip of beer. We stare out the window at the wall opposite his loft, enormous levered windows are folded open, a damp breeze that smells of city and ocean, of age, of death and rebirth and more death, moves through the room. + +There is something old in the walls here, something lost in the bricks, something in the concrete, the marble. Something you don't find anymore. Something of the hard-boiled film world popularized by Sam Spade still lingers here. The streets nine floors below still look like lost set pieces from *The Maltese Falcon*. + + + +Eastern Columbia building, Downtown LAThe next day we walk around downtown. Bill is an encyclopedia of architectural history in downtown. I don't know where he learned it, but it's obvious he didn't just read it in a book, he absorbed it the way you do when you love something, when you care enough about something to dig deep into it. + +It depresses me, this glimpse of what once was. It makes me afraid of where we are, where we are going. Our path does not feel right. There is something here that we lost, something that we ignored, but should not have. *It's like we just don't care about our buildings anymore*. + +The Eastern Columbia building glistens, a monolithic temple of Art Deco, aquamarine spines reaching for the sky. Love it or hate it, it screams *someone cared*. Even something as simple as the facade of the old Wurlitzer piano building is a work of art, meticulously detailed plaster sculptures covering the columns -- lions mouths, lyre crests and harps -- creating a miniature world of the imagination tattooed in concrete. The theatre marquees still hold long lost fonts and synchronized flash bulbs ready to draw in the crowds, except that there are no shows, nothing save a sign that reads We Buy Gold. Compramos Oro. + +I don't know anything about architecture, the history of architecture or where architecture is today. But I, like you, can tell when someone cares and when someone is just looking to compramos oro. + +Old Wurlitzer building, Downtown LAEverything around us seems created for the sole purpose of showcasing what was possible. There is no reason to add the details in the concrete facades, save to show off, to say not just, I made this, but I made this beautiful. Not profitable. Beautiful. + +Bill used to work as a project manager for large, modern construction projects in the area. His employers bought gold. Tore it down and sold it for more gold. Bill doesn't work for them anymore. They went out of business. Compramos Oro. So it goes. + +He doesn't respond to my sweeping generalization about modern buildings right away. We stand in the sidewalk, stare the Wurlitzer building in silence for a while. *No. All the projects I've worked on started out with the attention to detail that you see in these buildings, but it was all cut out, too expensive, wasteful. A beautiful facade doesn't make the building worth any more to the companies that build it.* + +Detail, Eastern Columbia building, Downtown LAThat's when I realized that the problem is not simply that we have come to value money above all else, but that we have removed ourselves from the equation. Compramos oro all you want. Pero recuerde que el mundo quiere la belleza. + +The problem is not the money that's being made or not made, but that our buildings are created by companies. We are not men. We are not women. We are not Devo. We are no longer personal, we are no longer connected. + +We are companies. Companies are shells created to protect us, to help us. But there is always a cost. Companies have become little more than shells that funnel money from one shell to another, like the street hustler with seashells atop his cardboard box. We build boxes to shuffle money between shells. + +Yet it makes no sense to pine for the past. There is no retracing of steps. Build something Art Deco today and it will feel cheap, tawdry, sentimental. There is nothing to be gained in sentimentality. Wallace Stevens was right, sentimentality is a failure of feeling. It's not sentimental nostalgia you feel on the streets of downtown Los Angeles. It's loss. + +We do not pine for a return to the past, we pine for a reality that has the vitality of what we can see in the past. What has failed us is the reality we have created. It feels devoid of imagination. Reality and imagination, Steven once wrote, are not opposed. They are the same thing. Imagination "has the strength of reality or none at all." None at all. + +That's what hurts when you look at the modern buildings down here, not that they are not as beautiful as what came before, but that you can feel the loss of beauty, stripped away day by day, year after year until all that remained was the company's bottom line. The bottom line is not a firm foundation on which to build. We have created a reality where beauty and pride in one's work have been wrenched away and replaced with mere shells shuffled atop the cardboard remains of our imagination. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/05/from-here-we-go-sublime.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/05/from-here-we-go-sublime.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..32676fa --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/05/from-here-we-go-sublime.amp @@ -0,0 +1,177 @@ + + + + + + +From Here We Go Sublime + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    From Here We Go Sublime

    + + + +
    +
    +

    Just arrived Dullles-Reykjavik-Paris, just arrived, 26-hour trip, no sleep. I see things. I see a grizzly looking Spaniard selling old railway lanterns at the flea market, I see muslim men playing basketball in skull caps, I see a Michael Faraday experiment with glowing orange bulbs and copper wires enclosed in glass that turns out to be just an elevator. I see a stout Frenchwoman closing the gates of Pere Lachaise, no more dead, we've had enough of you.

    +

    +

    I see the cars on boulevard de Ménilmontant, I see the people at the cafes, from the cafes, have a seat, have a beer, have a moment to think, we could have this moment whenever we stop caring, giving a little bit less of shit about the abstract, a little bit more about the actual. Trade your paper tickets for food and know that you came out ahead, know that that the food is the point.

    +

    +

    I smell fresh bread, the warm fecund of cheese, the acrid smell of cigarette smoke on the street. I hear the whine of mopeds, distinct and distant from the rushing wind of passing cars, or the roar of buses blasting by this park bench.

    +

    I feel the subway rumble the bench beneath me, I feel the tremble of the aircraft in pockets of turbulence, the tremor of the wing jolts you out of sleep. I feel the flutter of pigeon wings looking for a roost. I feel the present, I feel the past, I don't feel the future. I feel better.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/05/from-here-we-go-sublime.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/05/from-here-we-go-sublime.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6021da0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/05/from-here-we-go-sublime.html @@ -0,0 +1,390 @@ + + + + + From Here We Go Sublime - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    From Here We Go Sublime

    + +
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    +

    Paris, France

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Just arrived Dullles-Reykjavik-Paris, just arrived, 26-hour trip, no sleep. I see things. I see a grizzly looking Spaniard selling old railway lanterns at the flea market, I see muslim men playing basketball in skull caps, I see a Michael Faraday experiment with glowing orange bulbs and copper wires enclosed in glass that turns out to be just an elevator. I see a stout Frenchwoman closing the gates of Pere Lachaise, no more dead, we’ve had enough of you.

    +

    +

    I see the cars on boulevard de Ménilmontant, I see the people at the cafes, from the cafes, have a seat, have a beer, have a moment to think, we could have this moment whenever we stop caring, giving a little bit less of shit about the abstract, a little bit more about the actual. Trade your paper tickets for food and know that you came out ahead, know that that the food is the point.

    +

    la tour eiffel, paris france

    +

    I smell fresh bread, the warm fecund of cheese, the acrid smell of cigarette smoke on the street. I hear the whine of mopeds, distinct and distant from the rushing wind of passing cars, or the roar of buses blasting by this park bench.

    +

    I feel the subway rumble the bench beneath me, I feel the tremble of the aircraft in pockets of turbulence, the tremor of the wing jolts you out of sleep. I feel the flutter of pigeon wings looking for a roost. I feel the present, I feel the past, I don’t feel the future. I feel better.

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    2 Comments

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    + Ricardo-viajero + February 23, 2018 at 4:28 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Muy buenas! me ha agradado esta nota, espero haber cogidobuena nota, me encanta Tailandia y espero volver proximamente +me quedo chequeando alguna mas, me sumo a ver las actualizaciones, muchas gracias

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    + +
    + +
    + viajero + March 25, 2019 at 2:26 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Hola me ha agradado mucho esta publicación, espero haber cogidobuena anotacion, amo Tailandia y planeo ir en breve me quedo chequeando alguna mas, me sumo +a ver las actualizaciones, muchas muchas gracias

    + +
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
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    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/05/from-here-we-go-sublime.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/05/from-here-we-go-sublime.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4fcc9d3 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/05/from-here-we-go-sublime.txt @@ -0,0 +1,20 @@ +From Here We Go Sublime +======================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 29 May 2011 + +Just arrived Dullles-Reykjavik-Paris, just arrived, 26-hour trip, no sleep. I see things. I see a grizzly looking Spaniard selling old railway lanterns at the flea market, I see muslim men playing basketball in skull caps, I see a Michael Faraday experiment with glowing orange bulbs and copper wires enclosed in glass that turns out to be just an elevator. I see a stout Frenchwoman closing the gates of Pere Lachaise, no more dead, we've had enough of you. + + + +I see the cars on boulevard de Ménilmontant, I see the people at the cafes, from the cafes, have a seat, have a beer, have a moment to think, we could have this moment whenever we stop caring, giving a little bit less of shit about the abstract, a little bit more about the actual. Trade your paper tickets for food and know that you came out ahead, know that that the food is the point. + +la tour eiffel, paris france + +I smell fresh bread, the warm fecund of cheese, the acrid smell of cigarette smoke on the street. I hear the whine of mopeds, distinct and distant from the rushing wind of passing cars, or the roar of buses blasting by this park bench. + +I feel the subway rumble the bench beneath me, I feel the tremble of the aircraft in pockets of turbulence, the tremor of the wing jolts you out of sleep. I feel the flutter of pigeon wings looking for a roost. I feel the present, I feel the past, I don't feel the future. I feel better. + +[1]: http://luxagraf.net/2005/oct/24/living-railway-car/ diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/05/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/05/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..30a418d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/05/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,104 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Archive: May 2011

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    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/best-snorkeling-world.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/best-snorkeling-world.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..16b3d3b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/best-snorkeling-world.amp @@ -0,0 +1,208 @@ + + + + + + +The Best Snorkeling in the World + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    The Best Snorkeling in the World

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    Nusa Lembongan is only a few miles off the southwestern coast of Bali, but it might as well be another universe. Here there are few people and no cars, only a few motorbikes that navigate the narrow dirt roads, none more than two meters wide, and your own feet are the dominant way to get around. There's still tourism, but there's also a local fishing and seaweed industry.

    +

    +

    From Ubud we caught a bus south to Sanur, a beachside town where we thought we might spend a night or two. Unimpressed by the trash strewn beaches and overpriced resorts we went ahead and caught the afternoon boat out to Nusa Lembongan, one of three small islands off the coast of southwest Bali.

    +

    The pace here is more my speed. Little seems to happen. People work. People fly kites. People eat. People sit in the shade.

    +

    Most of Lembongan's inhabitants are seaweed farmers. At low tide dozens of farmers make their way down to the shoreline where they load their partially dried seaweed in small outriggers and flat-bottomed boats which they pole out through the shallows to the seaweed fields that line the inland the edge of the reef half a mile from shore. At low tide the seaweed plots are often above the waterline, and even at high tide the expanse of water between the shore and reef is rarely more than a meter deep.

    +

    +

    While the farmers are out planting and harvesting seaweed (most of which I'm told ends up in Japan, used as a binding agent in various cosmetics), old women walk the shallows gathering up dropped bits of seaweed or prowl the shoreline plucking worms -- which are sold as fish bait back on Bali -- from the wet sand.

    +

    In the evenings, when the sun dips into the clouds and the air begins to cool, the villagers come down to the beach to fly kites in the evening breeze. Kites are something of an obsession for the Balinese, nearly everyone has a kite and you see dozens littering the sky from any vantage point on the island. There are fewer kites here on Lembongan, but only because there are fewer people here.

    +

    These are not the kites you grew up with, small triangular affairs with a bit of ribbon on the tail and a few meters of string. Balinese kites are massive, some with tails hundreds of meters long and they fly them so high the government had to ban them around the Denpasar airport for fear they would clog the engines of 747s. The Balinese are serious about their kites.

    +

    Of course flying kites is fun too, but there's also a religious aspect stemming from the belief that the Indian god Indra was a kite flying aficionado. Legend holds that Indra taught local farmers how to fly kites and today the Balinese believe the kites to be whispered prayers to the gods, which explains why they fly them so high (well, that and the fact that actually getting a kite 200-300 meters in the air is just cool).

    +

    While Lembongan is a relaxing place to pass a few days, or even weeks, the main appeal of the island for most visitors is either the surfing or the snorkeling (and diving, but I've never had the patience or desire to learn how to dive, the vast majority of what I find interesting in the ocean is in the first 3 meters of water anyway). I went on two snorkeling trips out of Lembongan, neither of which spent much time at Lembongan's reefs, opting for the far superior reefs around the two neighboring islands, tiny Nusa Ceningan and the much larger Nusa Penida.

    +

    The first stop was a mediocre reef just off the dense mangrove forests of Nusa Lembongan. The reef was okay, but the water was murky and crowded with a dozen other boats also dropping snorkelers. After maybe ten minutes in the water the two Australians also on the trip and I asked the boatman if there was anything better to be found. He kept saying drift snorkel, which left us scratching our heads, but we agreed and set off for another ten minute boat ride to the eastern coast of Nusa Penida.

    +

    +

    The backside of Nusa Penida is separated from its much smaller neighbor, Nusa Ceningan by a narrow swath of water maybe a kilometer across at its widest. To the south is the open ocean, to the north is the Lombok straight, a very strong current that moves between Bali and Lombok at speeds of up to eight knots. The shallow reef-covered shelfs just off Nusa Penida, have similar currents where the water is suddenly forced through the narrow channel between islands.

    +

    Drift snorkeling is a bit like snorkeling in a river. The boat drops you off at one end of the current and you drift for a couple of kilometers down to the end of the current, where the island swings to the west and there's a small beach where the boat can pick you up again.

    +

    +

    In the mean time you drift, like tubing down a river. The shoreline is a limestone cliff, carved inward by the sea. Underwater a shelf slopes off sharply. The first tier is maybe two meters, the second more like four and then finally the shelf drops off into the unknown deep, a rich turquoise blue that is alive with fish. Fish I have previously seen perhaps two or three at a time are swimming in massive schools. Dozens of Moorish Idols, schools of deep purple tangs, so dark they look black until you get up close, parrotfish in clusters, munching on the coral, bright, powder blue tangs, yellow-masked angelfish, countless butterfly fish, wrasses, triggerfish, pufferfish and even bright blue starfish that crawl slowly over the reef. The deep blue depths are filled with myriad triggerfish, angelfish, clownfish and hundreds of others swimming slowly along in the current. There are huge schools of fish that I have only previously seen in books or aquariums back in the States. In fact there are so many fish that just last month a survey done not far from here discovered eight new species of fish.

    +

    And I just drift along, occasionally kicking to slow down. Drift snorkeling is like watching fish float by the window of an underwater train. When something catches my eye, like a massive, meter-long lobster tucked back in a small cave of jagged limestone and red brown coral, I kick as hard as I can simply to stay in place and watch.

    +

    All too soon it is over. I am too amazed by what is without a doubt the best snorkeling I've ever done to even ask if we can do it again. Only some time later, as the boat rounds the corner of Lembongan and begins the treacherous journey back through the seaweed farm shallows, does it occur to me that perhaps we could have asked for another drift. But by then it is too late, and perhaps it would be too greedy, too much all at once, to do it twice in a row.

    +

    I am, however, a greedy person, so the next day I signed on to another snorkeling trip, this time out to Manta Point to see the namesake Manta Rays. This time it's a much longer boat ride all the way around to the southern shores of Nusa Penida. Contrary to what you might think, the waters of Indonesia are not particularly warm, so long boat rides mean a lot of chilly salt spray, and, despite the name, I was not optimistic about our chances of seeing any Manta Rays. But I was wrong.

    +

    When we arrive there are a half a dozen of the huge creatures, with their massive rippling wings, circling around a cove, surrounded by shear limestone cliffs. The water is rough, three foot swells blow in from the south, breaking against the cliffs, but in spite of the slight murkiness, it's impossible to miss the Manta Rays. Mantas are massive things, more than a meter across and at least as long, they don't so much swim as fly, slowly flapping their wings through the water with a sense of timing and grace that few animals possess. There is something hypnotic about their movements.

    +

    Once again I simply floated, bobbing about on the surface of the sea, beaten around a bit by the swell, while the mantas rather gracefully swam through, under and around us, like some proud eagles investigating these curious new onlookers. The rays themselves are so massive, so foreign in shape that it takes some time to come to terms with them. You think at first that they have no eyes. Or no eyes where you might think there should be eyes. Their bodies are black and it is difficult to make out the eyes -- which are also black -- amidst the darkness of their skin, but then some ray of sunlight breaks through the choppy water and you see the unmistakable glint of a dark eyeball, not at all where you thought it might be and then it dawns on you that they have been watching you all this time, never doubting for a moment where your eyes are. And then the way they have been swimming, the curious pattern of back and forth, becomes clear and you realize these are not simply fish, but something else, something very curious, inquisitive even. They swim at you head on, slowing as they approach, as if they are perhaps near sighted and need a closer look at your floating form, and then they dive about three feet down and slide under you. Once they are clear of you they turn around and repeat the process. Sometimes I dive under them, watching from below as their vast white bellies move overhead, white wings beating slowly, rhythmically through the water.

    +

    +

    Mantas are creatures of great grace, they move with poise, like underwater dancers, slowly flapping their way through the depths. If you ever have opportunity to swim with mantas don't pass it up there is little else in the world like it.

    +

    After a half hour or so with the Mantas we head back, stopping off at Crystal Bay, which doesn't have as many fish as the drift snorkeling area, but has never been fished using dynamite or cyanide -- two coral-destroying problems that have ruined many a reef in Asia -- and has more coral and intact reef than anywhere else I've been.

    +

    We spent a mere four days on Lembongan, but in hindsight it was worth much more. In fact, we should probably still be there, since where we went afterward was truly awful, but that's traveling, you never know what's up around the corner -- sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, you never know until you arrive. I feel lucky to have enjoyed Nusa Lembongan and its neighbors while I had the chance.

    +

    Note: Sadly, I don't have a waterproof camera, so all the underwater images above were taken by others. The school fish along the shelf and the flish in the coral are both by Ilse Reijs and Jan-Noud Hutten, Flickr. The blue starfish image comes from Stephane Bailliez, Flickr and the manta ray image is by Motoya Kawasaki, Flickr. All are reproduced under the fair use provision of U.S. copyright law.

    +
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    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/best-snorkeling-world.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/best-snorkeling-world.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8f28262 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/best-snorkeling-world.html @@ -0,0 +1,552 @@ + + + + + The Best Snorkeling In The World - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    + + +
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    + + + +
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    +

    The Best Snorkeling in the World

    +

    In my experience of the world anyway

    +
    +
    +

    Nusa Lembongan, Bali, Indonesia

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Nusa Lembongan is only a few miles off the southwestern coast of Bali, but it might as well be another universe. Here there are few people and no cars, only a few motorbikes that navigate the narrow dirt roads, none more than two meters wide, and your own feet are the dominant way to get around. There’s still tourism, but there’s also a local fishing and seaweed industry.

    +
    + + Nusa Lembongen, Indonesia photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Nusa Lembongen, Indonesia photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    From Ubud we caught a bus south to Sanur, a beachside town where we thought we might spend a night or two. Unimpressed by the trash strewn beaches and overpriced resorts we went ahead and caught the afternoon boat out to Nusa Lembongan, one of three small islands off the coast of southwest Bali.

    +

    The pace here is more my speed. Little seems to happen. People work. People fly kites. People eat. People sit in the shade.

    +

    Most of Lembongan’s inhabitants are seaweed farmers. At low tide dozens of farmers make their way down to the shoreline where they load their partially dried seaweed in small outriggers and flat-bottomed boats which they pole out through the shallows to the seaweed fields that line the inland the edge of the reef half a mile from shore. At low tide the seaweed plots are often above the waterline, and even at high tide the expanse of water between the shore and reef is rarely more than a meter deep.

    +
    + + Nusa Lembongen, Indonesia photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Nusa Lembongen, Indonesia photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    While the farmers are out planting and harvesting seaweed (most of which I’m told ends up in Japan, used as a binding agent in various cosmetics), old women walk the shallows gathering up dropped bits of seaweed or prowl the shoreline plucking worms — which are sold as fish bait back on Bali — from the wet sand.

    +

    In the evenings, when the sun dips into the clouds and the air begins to cool, the villagers come down to the beach to fly kites in the evening breeze. Kites are something of an obsession for the Balinese, nearly everyone has a kite and you see dozens littering the sky from any vantage point on the island. There are fewer kites here on Lembongan, but only because there are fewer people here.

    +

    These are not the kites you grew up with, small triangular affairs with a bit of ribbon on the tail and a few meters of string. Balinese kites are massive, some with tails hundreds of meters long and they fly them so high the government had to ban them around the Denpasar airport for fear they would clog the engines of 747s. The Balinese are serious about their kites.

    +

    Flying kites is fun too, but there’s also a religious aspect stemming from the belief that the Indian god Indra was a kite flying aficionado. Legend holds that Indra taught local farmers how to fly kites and today the Balinese believe the kites to be whispered prayers to the gods, which explains why they fly them so high (well, that and the fact that actually getting a kite 200-300 meters in the air is just cool).

    +

    While Lembongan is a relaxing place to pass a few days, or even weeks, the main appeal of the island for most visitors is either the surfing or the snorkeling (and diving, but I’ve never had the patience or desire to learn how to dive, the vast majority of what I find interesting in the ocean is in the first 3 meters of water anyway). I went on two snorkeling trips out of Lembongan, neither of which spent much time at Lembongan’s reefs, opting for the far superior reefs around the two neighboring islands, tiny Nusa Ceningan and the much larger Nusa Penida.

    +

    The first stop was a mediocre reef off the dense mangrove forests of Nusa Lembongan. The reef was okay, but the water was murky and crowded with a dozen other boats also dropping snorkelers. After maybe ten minutes in the water the two Australians also on the trip and I asked the boatman if there was anything better to be found. He kept saying drift snorkel, which left us scratching our heads, but we agreed and set off for another ten minute boat ride to the eastern coast of Nusa Penida.

    +
    + + Fish and reef off Nusa Lembongan, Bali. Image by Ilse Reijs and Jan-Noud Hutten, Flickr photographed by stef bemba, Flickr + +
    image by
    +
    + +

    The backside of Nusa Penida is separated from its much smaller neighbor, Nusa Ceningan by a narrow swath of water maybe a kilometer across at its widest. To the south is the open ocean, to the north is the Lombok straight, a very strong current that moves between Bali and Lombok at speeds of up to eight knots. The shallow reef-covered shelfs just off Nusa Penida, have similar currents where the water is suddenly forced through the narrow channel between islands.

    +

    Drift snorkeling is a bit like snorkeling in a river. The boat drops you off at one end of the current and you drift for a couple of kilometers down to the end of the current, where the island swings to the west and there’s a small beach where the boat can pick you up again.

    +
    + + Fish and reef off Nusa Lembongan, Bali. Image photographed by Stephane Bailliez, Flickr + +
    image by
    +
    + +

    In the mean time you drift, like tubing down a river. The shoreline is a limestone cliff, carved inward by the sea. Underwater a shelf slopes off sharply. The first tier is maybe two meters, the second more like four and then finally the shelf drops off into the unknown deep, a rich turquoise blue that is alive with fish. Fish I have previously seen perhaps two or three at a time are swimming in massive schools. Dozens of Moorish Idols, schools of deep purple tangs, so dark they look black until you get up close, parrotfish in clusters, munching on the coral, bright, powder blue tangs, yellow-masked angelfish, countless butterfly fish, wrasses, triggerfish, pufferfish and even bright blue starfish that crawl slowly over the reef. The deep blue depths are filled with myriad triggerfish, angelfish, clownfish and hundreds of others swimming slowly along in the current. There are huge schools of fish that I have only previously seen in books or aquariums back in the States. In fact there are so many fish that just last month a survey done not far from here discovered eight new species of fish.

    +
    + + underwater purple fish, Nusa Lembongen, Indonesia photographed by Yuxuan Wang, Flickr + +
    image by
    +
    + +

    And I just drift along, occasionally kicking to slow down. Drift snorkeling is like watching fish float by the window of an underwater train. When something catches my eye, like a massive, meter-long lobster tucked back in a small cave of jagged limestone and red brown coral, I kick as hard as I can simply to stay in place and watch.

    +

    All too soon it is over. I am too amazed by what is without a doubt the best snorkeling I’ve ever done to even ask if we can do it again. Only some time later, as the boat rounds the corner of Lembongan and begins the treacherous journey back through the seaweed farm shallows, does it occur to me that perhaps we could have asked for another drift. But by then it is too late, and perhaps it would be too greedy, too much all at once, to do it twice in a row.

    +

    I am, however, a greedy person, so the next day I signed on to another snorkeling trip, this time out to Manta Point to see the namesake Manta Rays. This time it’s a much longer boat ride all the way around to the southern shores of Nusa Penida. Contrary to what you might think, the waters of Indonesia are not particularly warm, so long boat rides mean a lot of chilly salt spray, and, despite the name, I was not optimistic about our chances of seeing any Manta Rays. But I was wrong.

    +

    When we arrive there are a half a dozen of the huge creatures, with their massive rippling wings, circling around a cove, surrounded by shear limestone cliffs. The water is rough, three foot swells blow in from the south, breaking against the cliffs, but in spite of the slight murkiness, it’s impossible to miss the Manta Rays. Mantas are massive things, more than a meter across and at least as long, they don’t so much swim as fly, slowly flapping their wings through the water with a sense of timing and grace that few animals possess. There is something hypnotic about their movements.

    +

    Once again I simply floated, bobbing about on the surface of the sea, beaten around a bit by the swell, while the mantas rather gracefully swam through, under and around us, like some proud eagles investigating these curious new onlookers. The rays themselves are so massive, so foreign in shape that it takes some time to come to terms with them. You think at first that they have no eyes. Or no eyes where you might think there should be eyes. Their bodies are black and it is difficult to make out the eyes — which are also black — amidst the darkness of their skin, but then some ray of sunlight breaks through the choppy water and you see the unmistakable glint of a dark eyeball, not at all where you thought it might be and then it dawns on you that they have been watching you all this time, never doubting for a moment where your eyes are. And then the way they have been swimming, the curious pattern of back and forth, becomes clear and you realize these are not simply fish, but something else, something very curious, inquisitive even. They swim at you head on, slowing as they approach, as if they are perhaps near sighted and need a closer look at your floating form, and then they dive about three feet down and slide under you. Once they are clear of you they turn around and repeat the process. Sometimes I dive under them, watching from below as their vast white bellies move overhead, white wings beating slowly, rhythmically through the water.

    +
    + + None photographed by Motoya Kawasaki, Flickr + +
    image by
    +
    + +

    Mantas are creatures of great grace, they move with poise, like underwater dancers, slowly flapping their way through the depths. If you ever have opportunity to swim with mantas don’t pass it up there is little else in the world like it.

    +

    After a half hour or so with the Mantas we head back, stopping off at Crystal Bay, which doesn’t have as many fish as the drift snorkeling area, but has never been fished using dynamite or cyanide — two coral-destroying problems that have ruined many a reef in Asia — and has more coral and intact reef than anywhere else I’ve been.

    +

    We spent a mere four days on Lembongan, but in hindsight it was worth much more. In fact, we should probably still be there, since where we went afterward was truly awful, but that’s traveling, you never know what’s up around the corner — sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, you never know until you arrive. I feel lucky to have enjoyed Nusa Lembongan and its neighbors while I had the chance.

    +

    Note: Sadly, I don’t have a waterproof camera, so all the underwater images above were taken by others and are credited beneath the image. Many thanks to those who share their images under a creative commons license.

    +
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    + + + + + + +

    7 Comments

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    + Jie hui + August 13, 2015 at 11:19 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Hello from Singapore!

    +

    I am planning to visit Nusa Lembongan / Nusa Penida for snorkeling this coming September. Your experience sounds surreal! Would you share where you booked the trip from? Did you do it online or at the island itself? Any tips on what should we look out for when sourcing for packages? :) thank you in advance!

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + August 13, 2015 at 11:43 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Jie hui-

    +

    Unfortunately I don’t remember the name of the guide, but I booked it through the hotel we were staying at, which was the Puri Nusa:

    +

    Lembonganhotels.com

    +

    For the drift snorkling, just tell them that’s what you want to do, as far as I know where I went was the only place to do that.

    +

    The main thing with the mantas is to ask to go to “Manta Point” or sometimes Manta Cove. Pretty much all the guides should know what you’re talking about though.

    +

    As for what to watch out for, I suppose there are con artists everywhere, but I didn’t really hear any bad stories or anything while I was there. I think so long as you negotiate everything before hand and are clear on where you want to go (or just what you want to do) you should be fine.

    +

    Hope that helps, if you have any other questions, feel free to ask.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Brian + December 28, 2015 at 11:31 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Thanks for the great article! I am planning a holiday to Bali and want to try this drift snorkeling. I’m a little confused though, was this done in the narrow water way inbetween Nusa Ceningan and Nusa Penida or on the east side of Nusa Penida?

    +

    Thanks again for sharing!

    +

    Brian

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + December 29, 2015 at 11:41 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Brian-

    +

    It’s been a while, but I believe we jumped in about halfway along that narrow water way between Nusa Ceningan and Nusa Penida and then the current pulled us northeast tracing the curve of Nusa Penida.

    +

    I can’t really tell the exact location on Google Maps but I know there were some high cliffs so I’m guessing it was around what Google labels as Gamat Bay, probably just to the north of that.

    +

    map

    +

    Hope that helps, have a great trip.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Mary-Anne + October 24, 2016 at 6:35 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Thanks for sharing your great snorkelling adventures! I am not a very confident swimmer but love snorkelling. Do you think the drift snorkel would be safe for a relatively novice snorkeller? Ie can you get swamped by waves for extended periods? Thanks, Mary-Anne

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + October 24, 2016 at 9:14 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Mary-Anne

    +

    There were no real waves where I was, some small chop from wind but that was about it. I would say it’s generally safe for a novice, but of course it would really depend on the exact circumstances, wind, tides, currents, tour operators, etc.

    +

    Wear a flotation device and if you’re not completely comfortable with a situation don’t hesitate to stay on the boat.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + test + May 02, 2017 at 11:05 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Hello, I enjoy reading all of your post. I like +to write a little comment to support you.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/best-snorkeling-world.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/best-snorkeling-world.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7ab69d8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/best-snorkeling-world.txt @@ -0,0 +1,64 @@ +The Best Snorkeling in the World +================================ + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 23 June 2011 + +Nusa Lembongan is only a few miles off the southwestern coast of Bali, but it might as well be another universe. Here there are few people and no cars, only a few motorbikes that navigate the narrow dirt roads, none more than two meters wide, and your own feet are the dominant way to get around. There's still tourism, but there's also a local fishing and seaweed industry. + + + + +From Ubud we caught a bus south to Sanur, a beachside town where we thought we might spend a night or two. Unimpressed by the trash strewn beaches and overpriced resorts we went ahead and caught the afternoon boat out to Nusa Lembongan, one of three small islands off the coast of southwest Bali. + +The pace here is more my speed. Little seems to happen. People work. People fly kites. People eat. People sit in the shade. + +Most of Lembongan's inhabitants are seaweed farmers. At low tide dozens of farmers make their way down to the shoreline where they load their partially dried seaweed in small outriggers and flat-bottomed boats which they pole out through the shallows to the seaweed fields that line the inland the edge of the reef half a mile from shore. At low tide the seaweed plots are often above the waterline, and even at high tide the expanse of water between the shore and reef is rarely more than a meter deep. + + + + +While the farmers are out planting and harvesting seaweed (most of which I'm told ends up in Japan, used as a binding agent in various cosmetics), old women walk the shallows gathering up dropped bits of seaweed or prowl the shoreline plucking worms -- which are sold as fish bait back on Bali -- from the wet sand. + +In the evenings, when the sun dips into the clouds and the air begins to cool, the villagers come down to the beach to fly kites in the evening breeze. Kites are something of an obsession for the Balinese, nearly everyone has a kite and you see dozens littering the sky from any vantage point on the island. There are fewer kites here on Lembongan, but only because there are fewer people here. + +These are not the kites you grew up with, small triangular affairs with a bit of ribbon on the tail and a few meters of string. Balinese kites are massive, some with tails hundreds of meters long and they fly them so high the government had to ban them around the Denpasar airport for fear they would clog the engines of 747s. The Balinese are serious about their kites. + +Flying kites is fun too, but there's also a religious aspect stemming from the belief that the Indian god Indra was a kite flying aficionado. Legend holds that Indra taught local farmers how to fly kites and today the Balinese believe the kites to be whispered prayers to the gods, which explains why they fly them so high (well, that and the fact that actually getting a kite 200-300 meters in the air is just cool). + +While Lembongan is a relaxing place to pass a few days, or even weeks, the main appeal of the island for most visitors is either the surfing or the snorkeling (and diving, but I've never had the patience or desire to learn how to dive, the vast majority of what I find interesting in the ocean is in the first 3 meters of water anyway). I went on two snorkeling trips out of Lembongan, neither of which spent much time at Lembongan's reefs, opting for the far superior reefs around the two neighboring islands, tiny Nusa Ceningan and the much larger Nusa Penida. + +The first stop was a mediocre reef off the dense mangrove forests of Nusa Lembongan. The reef was okay, but the water was murky and crowded with a dozen other boats also dropping snorkelers. After maybe ten minutes in the water the two Australians also on the trip and I asked the boatman if there was anything better to be found. He kept saying drift snorkel, which left us scratching our heads, but we agreed and set off for another ten minute boat ride to the eastern coast of Nusa Penida. + + + +The backside of Nusa Penida is separated from its much smaller neighbor, Nusa Ceningan by a narrow swath of water maybe a kilometer across at its widest. To the south is the open ocean, to the north is the Lombok straight, a very strong current that moves between Bali and Lombok at speeds of up to eight knots. The shallow reef-covered shelfs just off Nusa Penida, have similar currents where the water is suddenly forced through the narrow channel between islands. + +Drift snorkeling is a bit like snorkeling in a river. The boat drops you off at one end of the current and you drift for a couple of kilometers down to the end of the current, where the island swings to the west and there's a small beach where the boat can pick you up again. + + + +In the mean time you drift, like tubing down a river. The shoreline is a limestone cliff, carved inward by the sea. Underwater a shelf slopes off sharply. The first tier is maybe two meters, the second more like four and then finally the shelf drops off into the unknown deep, a rich turquoise blue that is alive with fish. Fish I have previously seen perhaps two or three at a time are swimming in massive schools. Dozens of Moorish Idols, schools of deep purple tangs, so dark they look black until you get up close, parrotfish in clusters, munching on the coral, bright, powder blue tangs, yellow-masked angelfish, countless butterfly fish, wrasses, triggerfish, pufferfish and even bright blue starfish that crawl slowly over the reef. The deep blue depths are filled with myriad triggerfish, angelfish, clownfish and hundreds of others swimming slowly along in the current. There are huge schools of fish that I have only previously seen in books or aquariums back in the States. In fact there are so many fish that just last month a survey done not far from here [discovered eight new species of fish](https://phys.org/news/2011-05-reef-fish-indonesia-bali.htm://phys.org/news/2011-05-reef-fish-indonesia-bali.html). + + + +And I just drift along, occasionally kicking to slow down. Drift snorkeling is like watching fish float by the window of an underwater train. When something catches my eye, like a massive, meter-long lobster tucked back in a small cave of jagged limestone and red brown coral, I kick as hard as I can simply to stay in place and watch. + +All too soon it is over. I am too amazed by what is without a doubt the best snorkeling I've ever done to even ask if we can do it again. Only some time later, as the boat rounds the corner of Lembongan and begins the treacherous journey back through the seaweed farm shallows, does it occur to me that perhaps we could have asked for another drift. But by then it is too late, and perhaps it would be too greedy, too much all at once, to do it twice in a row. + +I am, however, a greedy person, so the next day I signed on to another snorkeling trip, this time out to Manta Point to see the namesake Manta Rays. This time it's a much longer boat ride all the way around to the southern shores of Nusa Penida. Contrary to what you might think, the waters of Indonesia are not particularly warm, so long boat rides mean a lot of chilly salt spray, and, despite the name, I was not optimistic about our chances of seeing any Manta Rays. But I was wrong. + +When we arrive there are a half a dozen of the huge creatures, with their massive rippling wings, circling around a cove, surrounded by shear limestone cliffs. The water is rough, three foot swells blow in from the south, breaking against the cliffs, but in spite of the slight murkiness, it's impossible to miss the Manta Rays. Mantas are massive things, more than a meter across and at least as long, they don't so much swim as fly, slowly flapping their wings through the water with a sense of timing and grace that few animals possess. There is something hypnotic about their movements. + +Once again I simply floated, bobbing about on the surface of the sea, beaten around a bit by the swell, while the mantas rather gracefully swam through, under and around us, like some proud eagles investigating these curious new onlookers. The rays themselves are so massive, so foreign in shape that it takes some time to come to terms with them. You think at first that they have no eyes. Or no eyes where you might think there should be eyes. Their bodies are black and it is difficult to make out the eyes -- which are also black -- amidst the darkness of their skin, but then some ray of sunlight breaks through the choppy water and you see the unmistakable glint of a dark eyeball, not at all where you thought it might be and then it dawns on you that they have been watching you all this time, never doubting for a moment where your eyes are. And then the way they have been swimming, the curious pattern of back and forth, becomes clear and you realize these are not simply fish, but something else, something very curious, inquisitive even. They swim at you head on, slowing as they approach, as if they are perhaps near sighted and need a closer look at your floating form, and then they dive about three feet down and slide under you. Once they are clear of you they turn around and repeat the process. Sometimes I dive under them, watching from below as their vast white bellies move overhead, white wings beating slowly, rhythmically through the water. + + + +Mantas are creatures of great grace, they move with poise, like underwater dancers, slowly flapping their way through the depths. If you ever have opportunity to swim with mantas don't pass it up there is little else in the world like it. + +After a half hour or so with the Mantas we head back, stopping off at Crystal Bay, which doesn't have as many fish as the drift snorkeling area, but has never been fished using dynamite or cyanide -- two coral-destroying problems that have ruined many a reef in Asia -- and has more coral and intact reef than anywhere else I've been. + +We spent a mere four days on Lembongan, but in hindsight it was worth much more. In fact, we should probably still be there, since where we went afterward was truly awful, but that's traveling, you never know what's up around the corner -- sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, you never know until you arrive. I feel lucky to have enjoyed Nusa Lembongan and its neighbors while I had the chance. + +

    Note: Sadly, I don't have a waterproof camera, so all the underwater images above were taken by others and are credited beneath the image. Many thanks to those who share their images under a creative commons license.

    diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/cooking-rome.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/cooking-rome.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..46215fe --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/cooking-rome.amp @@ -0,0 +1,192 @@ + + + + + + +Cooking in Rome + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Cooking in Rome

    + + + +
    +
    +

    Rome exists on a scope that I've never encountered before in a city. It's big and massively spread out. There's really no downtown and everything you might want to see is miles from wherever you are. And it has all the attendant traffic, noise and confusion of humanity you would expect from a big city. It also spans several millennia of history with ancient Roman ruins butted up against Gucci and Armani stores.

    +

    I'm pretty sure Rome is a great city. I'm pretty sure you could have an awesome time exploring Rome, but by the time I got there I was already done with Italy. Done with Europe. I was ready for the beaches of Bali, our next stop on this quick jaunt around the world.

    +

    +

    My exploratory motivation was low by the time I got to Rome. We went to the Colosseum and marveled for a moment before an ATM machine ate my card on a Sunday afternoon[1]. We didn't quite have the money to get in and even if we did there was no way we were going to wait in the line that wrapped nearly all the way around the Colosseum. Ancient sites are pretty amazing in my opinion, but that amazingness diminishes considerably when the line to get in is five hours long. If I'm going to wait in a five hour line (and I'm not, ever, but if I were) I want a new iPad at the end of the experience.

    +

    +

    When you're burned out on traveling the best thing to do is nothing. Which is what we did for three days. We explored a little, wandered the Trastevere area, ate some cacio e pepe (simple noodles with a sauce of pecorino and black pepper), a bit of pizza and even made it out to the Pantheon, which was an utterly disgusting experience. I know the Catholic Church is pretty much like the Borg in Star Trek, absorbing and destroying everything in its path, but to turn a place whose name literally translates as "many gods" into a catholic church is the sort of bullshit that just makes me despair about the future of humanity.

    +

    +

    So instead of really getting into the sights of Rome we got into the food. Not the kind you get in restaurants, but the kind you find at the local market. Every afternoon we walked half a block down the street from our apartment to a small produce stand. It wasn't even a nice produce market, just an ordinary produce stand in a residential neighborhood with a mediocre selection. And it was the best damn produce I've ever purchased.

    +

    Each afternoon we bought nearly 2 kilos worth of zucchini, eggplant, lemon and greens. For under 2 euro. At the worst exchange rates that's about $2.80 for 4 pounds of produce. You can hardly buy a dozen bananas for that price in the U.S.

    +

    The only spices at the apartment where we stayed were salt and pepper. There was also some ordinary, cheap olive oil, which happens to be ten times better than the most expensive olive oil I've seen in the United States. But you don't need extensive spices and fancy oils when the ingredients you start with are high quality. I sauteed everything in a generous splash of olive oil with a bit of salt and pepper and it was the best zucchini, eggplant and beef I've ever made, or had for that matter.

    +

    +

    And I'm far from a great cook. I learned a few things working under talented cooks like Hugh Acheson and Chuck Ramsey, but even if you barely know how to scramble eggs, you could make the same thing I made in Rome. Good ingredients are all you really need, and the raw cooking materials of Italy are the best I've seen in all my travels.

    +

    In the end Italy and I didn't really get along, but the food redeemed it for me. The restaurants are good, but if you really want to experience the glory of Italian food you need to head to the market, grab some utterly amazing raw ingredients and whip up something yourself. This is what food is supposed to be, simple, fresh and great.

    +

    Now hold my calls, I'm off to lie in a hammock somewhere in Indonesia.

    +
      +
    1. +

      1. I know I know. Terrible. Never use your ATM card after hours. The lesson here is that even if you spend years wandering the globe, you're still, at the end of the day, an idiot. Luckily I got it back the next day without too much hassle.↩

      +
      2. +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/cooking-rome.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/cooking-rome.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7371024 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/cooking-rome.html @@ -0,0 +1,346 @@ + + + + + Cooking In Rome - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Cooking in Rome

    + +
    +
    +

    Rome, Italy

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Rome exists on a scope that I’ve never encountered before in a city. It’s big and massively spread out. There’s really no downtown and everything you might want to see is miles from wherever you are. And it has all the attendant traffic, noise and confusion of humanity you would expect from a big city. It also spans several millennia of history with ancient Roman ruins butted up against Gucci and Armani stores.

    +

    I’m pretty sure Rome is a great city. I’m pretty sure you could have an awesome time exploring Rome, but by the time I got there I was already done with Italy. Done with Europe. I was ready for the beaches of Bali, our next stop on this quick jaunt around the world.

    +

    +

    My exploratory motivation was low by the time I got to Rome. We went to the Colosseum and marveled for a moment before an ATM machine ate my card on a Sunday afternoon[1]. We didn’t quite have the money to get in and even if we did there was no way we were going to wait in the line that wrapped nearly all the way around the Colosseum. Ancient sites are pretty amazing in my opinion, but that amazingness diminishes considerably when the line to get in is five hours long. If I’m going to wait in a five hour line (and I’m not, ever, but if I were) I want a new iPad at the end of the experience.

    +

    Colosseum, Rome,s Italy

    +

    When you’re burned out on traveling the best thing to do is nothing. Which is what we did for three days. We explored a little, wandered the Trastevere area, ate some cacio e pepe (simple noodles with a sauce of pecorino and black pepper), a bit of pizza and even made it out to the Pantheon, which was an utterly disgusting experience. I know the Catholic Church is pretty much like the Borg in Star Trek, absorbing and destroying everything in its path, but to turn a place whose name literally translates as “many gods” into a catholic church is the sort of bullshit that just makes me despair about the future of humanity.

    +

    Self portrait of cynicism, Pantheon Rome, Italy

    +

    So instead of really getting into the sights of Rome we got into the food. Not the kind you get in restaurants, but the kind you find at the local market. Every afternoon we walked half a block down the street from our apartment to a small produce stand. It wasn’t even a nice produce market, just an ordinary produce stand in a residential neighborhood with a mediocre selection. And it was the best damn produce I’ve ever purchased.

    +

    Each afternoon we bought nearly 2 kilos worth of zucchini, eggplant, lemon and greens. For under 2 euro. At the worst exchange rates that’s about $2.80 for 4 pounds of produce. You can hardly buy a dozen bananas for that price in the U.S.

    +

    The only spices at the apartment where we stayed were salt and pepper. There was also some ordinary, cheap olive oil, which happens to be ten times better than the most expensive olive oil I’ve seen in the United States. But you don’t need extensive spices and fancy oils when the ingredients you start with are high quality. I sauteed everything in a generous splash of olive oil with a bit of salt and pepper and it was the best zucchini, eggplant and beef I’ve ever made, or had for that matter.

    +

    zuchinni, eggplant, greens, Rome, Italy

    +

    And I’m far from a great cook. I learned a few things working under talented cooks like Hugh Acheson and Chuck Ramsey, but even if you barely know how to scramble eggs, you could make the same thing I made in Rome. Good ingredients are all you really need, and the raw cooking materials of Italy are the best I’ve seen in all my travels.

    +

    In the end Italy and I didn’t really get along, but the food redeemed it for me. The restaurants are good, but if you really want to experience the glory of Italian food you need to head to the market, grab some utterly amazing raw ingredients and whip up something yourself. This is what food is supposed to be, simple, fresh and great.

    +

    Now hold my calls, I’m off to lie in a hammock somewhere in Indonesia.

    +
      +
    1. +

      1. I know I know. Terrible. Never use your ATM card after hours. The lesson here is that even if you spend years wandering the globe, you’re still, at the end of the day, an idiot. Luckily I got it back the next day without too much hassle.↩

      +
      2. +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
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    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/cooking-rome.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/cooking-rome.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2bea1e2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/cooking-rome.txt @@ -0,0 +1,40 @@ +Cooking in Rome +=============== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Tuesday, 14 June 2011 + +Rome exists on a scope that I've never encountered before in a city. It's big and massively spread out. There's really no downtown and everything you might want to see is miles from wherever you are. And it has all the attendant traffic, noise and confusion of humanity you would expect from a big city. It also spans several millennia of history with ancient Roman ruins butted up against Gucci and Armani stores. + +I'm pretty sure Rome is a great city. I'm pretty sure you could have an awesome time exploring Rome, but by the time I got there I was already done with Italy. Done with Europe. I was ready for the beaches of Bali, our next stop on this quick jaunt around the world. + + + +My exploratory motivation was low by the time I got to Rome. We went to the Colosseum and marveled for a moment before an ATM machine ate my card on a Sunday afternoon[1]. We didn't quite have the money to get in and even if we did there was no way we were going to wait in the line that wrapped nearly all the way around the Colosseum. Ancient sites are pretty amazing in my opinion, but that amazingness diminishes considerably when the line to get in is five hours long. If I'm going to wait in a five hour line (and I'm not, ever, but if I were) I want a new iPad at the end of the experience. + +Colosseum, Rome,s Italy + +When you're burned out on traveling the best thing to do is nothing. Which is what we did for three days. We explored a little, wandered the Trastevere area, ate some cacio e pepe (simple noodles with a sauce of pecorino and black pepper), a bit of pizza and even made it out to the Pantheon, which was an utterly disgusting experience. I know the Catholic Church is pretty much like the Borg in Star Trek, absorbing and destroying everything in its path, but to turn a place whose name literally translates as "many gods" into a catholic church is the sort of bullshit that just makes me despair about the future of humanity. + +Self portrait of cynicism, Pantheon Rome, Italy + +So instead of really getting into the sights of Rome we got into the food. Not the kind you get in restaurants, but the kind you find at the local market. Every afternoon we walked half a block down the street from our apartment to a small produce stand. It wasn't even a nice produce market, just an ordinary produce stand in a residential neighborhood with a mediocre selection. And it was the best damn produce I've ever purchased. + +Each afternoon we bought nearly 2 kilos worth of zucchini, eggplant, lemon and greens. For under 2 euro. At the worst exchange rates that's about $2.80 for 4 pounds of produce. You can hardly buy a dozen bananas for that price in the U.S. + +The only spices at the apartment where we stayed were salt and pepper. There was also some ordinary, cheap olive oil, which happens to be ten times better than the most expensive olive oil I've seen in the United States. But you don't need extensive spices and fancy oils when the ingredients you start with are high quality. I sauteed everything in a generous splash of olive oil with a bit of salt and pepper and it was the best zucchini, eggplant and beef I've ever made, or had for that matter. + +zuchinni, eggplant, greens, Rome, Italy + +And I'm far from a great cook. I learned a few things working under talented cooks like Hugh Acheson and Chuck Ramsey, but even if you barely know how to scramble eggs, you could make the same thing I made in Rome. Good ingredients are all you really need, and the raw cooking materials of Italy are the best I've seen in all my travels. + +In the end Italy and I didn't really get along, but the food redeemed it for me. The restaurants are good, but if you really want to experience the glory of Italian food you need to head to the market, grab some utterly amazing raw ingredients and whip up something yourself. This is what food is supposed to be, simple, fresh and great. + +Now hold my calls, I'm off to lie in a hammock somewhere in Indonesia. + +
      +
    1. +

      1. I know I know. Terrible. Never use your ATM card after hours. The lesson here is that even if you spend years wandering the globe, you're still, at the end of the day, an idiot. Luckily I got it back the next day without too much hassle.↩

      +
      2. +
    diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/forever-today.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/forever-today.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..41c6359 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/forever-today.amp @@ -0,0 +1,196 @@ + + + + + + +Forever Today + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Forever Today

    + + + +
    +
    +

    There is something utterly amazing about walking down streets that are millennia old. Your feet are stepping on the same stones that someone more or less just like you stepped on thousands of years earlier, hurrying to work, or out for an evening stroll, perhaps stopping into some restaurant, some shop, some market, some temple.

    +

    I've been fortunate enough to wander such streets in several places, Angkor Wat in Cambodia, Teotihuacán in Mexico City and now Pompeii here in Italy. What's remarkable about the experience is not the age, but the gap between then and now, which feels simultaneously immense and yet very small at the same time.

    +

    It feels small because when you wander around places like Pompeii you realize that human beings have changed very little over what seems like, to us anyway, vast expanses of time. Pompeii had the same elements of cities today, a central square, markets, temples, government offices, even fast food. Not much has changed over the years, though togas aren't much in vogue these days.

    +
    + +Fast food, Pompeii style. +
    +

    +

    At the same time you can't help but notice the chariot ruts in the stones, the smooth polish of well-worn streets that obviously saw centuries of use even before they were buried.

    +

    Chariot ruts. That was a long time ago. So close, and yet so very far away.

    +

    There are two remarkable things about Pompeii that make it different from the crumbling ruins of other civilizations I've been to. The first is that Pompeii was not some religious site, not a sacred place at all. It was just a town. Something of a resort town, but still a commercial center. People made and sold wine and garum. Government offices kept track of grain and fish and people frequented fast food joints and brothels. In a word, Pompeii was ordinary, and when it comes to archeological sites open to the public, that's unusual.

    +

    The other reason Pompeii is different is of course that it was preserved by the very thing that destroyed it. Pompeii lay buried under ash for nearly 2000 years, preserved just as it was on the morning of August 24, 79 AD when Mount Vesuvius erupted.

    +

    The vast majority of the some 20,000 people that once lived in the city were able to escape the blast. Around 2,000 people, for whatever reason, did not run away and were killed by poisonous gases from the eruption. When the ash descended it buried them where they lay, under twenty five feet of debris.

    +

    Thanks to an ingenious idea by an Italian archaeologist in the mid 19th century, their final poses have been preserved in plaster. When the bodies at Pompeii were buried they decayed, eventually turning to mostly dust, as all of us will, but that left empty spaces in the hardening ash. Archaeologists found those empty spaces, poured in plaster, let it set, and then excavated around it -- a perfect mold of the dead body.

    +

    The creepy thing about the plaster casts is how perfectly they capture the expressions of terror, horror, and sometimes, what looks like resignation, on people's faces. It's yet another bizarre way that Pompeii manages to both bridge time and remind you how vast that bridge between then and now really is. The casts are people, nearly 2000 year old people, but they could easily have been formed in some disaster today.

    +

    Sadly, the perfectly perserved version of Pompeii that archeologists found in 1748 has been in steady decline ever since. The minute they began excavating it, Pompeii began to fall victim to the forces of time that it had so neatly avoided under all that ash. Weathering, erosion, light exposure, water damage, poor methods of excavation and reconstruction and introduced plants and animals have all taken their toll, to say nothing of tourism, vandalism and theft.

    +

    Italy being Italy, Pompeii is in a steady state of decline. Just last year an entire house -- admittedly, not one open to the public -- collapsed thanks to water seeping under it.

    +

    That's why, at this point, Pompeii is largely just walls, stone roads and a handful of marble structures. The frescos, statues and even most of the plaster death molds have long since been carted off to the archeological museum in Naples where you can see elaborate mosaics and the ever-popular "Gabinetto Segreto", otherwise known as the erotic art of Pompeii.

    +

    Some of the erotic frescos and sculptures were pulled out of the brothels, while others were in private homes and baths. To say the ancient Romans were a sex-obsessed bunch would be to, as most guides at Pompeii seem to do, apply current sexual mores to ancient times. There were brothels in Pompeii, that much is indisputable. But beyond that, to suggest, as many guides I overheard did, that the more (currently) taboo frescos of gay and lesbian sex (or the sculpture of a man having sex with a goat) were jokes intended to make brothel patrons chuckle, seems a stretch -- pure conjecture really. Who knows what they were for?

    +

    It's all guess work at this point. Even if you turn to writing from the time, well now you have one more opinion, one author's take on the times, but still no real sense of what the culture thought. It is a long way from here to there, there's just no getting around that.

    +

    Yet, maybe it isn't. Beliefs change, morals change, but people, they seem to stay basically the same. Suppose Charleston or even New York were buried under ash tomorrow, left as they are today for an eternity. Would people 2000 years from now accurately reconstruct our way of life?

    +

    They might get the gist of it -- we lived in buildings, we had other buildings for worshiping gods and still others for buying kebabs, but they would miss the finer points. Yet, even without the subtleties they would know one thing for sure: these were people, human beings, and they lived more or less like us.

    +

    Whether you drive chariots or scooters doesn't matter, something is always marking our passing, something is always making ruts in the road. And sometimes that's all you need to know.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/forever-today.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/forever-today.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b1582a9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/forever-today.html @@ -0,0 +1,351 @@ + + + + + Forever Today - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Forever Today

    + +
    +
    +

    Pompeii, Italy

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    There is something utterly amazing about walking down streets that are millennia old. Your feet are stepping on the same stones that someone more or less just like you stepped on thousands of years earlier, hurrying to work, or out for an evening stroll, perhaps stopping into some restaurant, some shop, some market, some temple.

    +

    I’ve been fortunate enough to wander such streets in several places, Angkor Wat in Cambodia, Teotihuacán in Mexico City and now Pompeii here in Italy. What’s remarkable about the experience is not the age, but the gap between then and now, which feels simultaneously immense and yet very small at the same time.

    +

    It feels small because when you wander around places like Pompeii you realize that human beings have changed very little over what seems like, to us anyway, vast expanses of time. Pompeii had the same elements of cities today, a central square, markets, temples, government offices, even fast food. Not much has changed over the years, though togas aren’t much in vogue these days.

    +
    + Fast food restaurant cric 79 AD, Pompeii, Italy + Fast food, Pompeii style. +
    + +

    +

    At the same time you can’t help but notice the chariot ruts in the stones, the smooth polish of well-worn streets that obviously saw centuries of use even before they were buried.

    +

    Chariot ruts. That was a long time ago. So close, and yet so very far away.

    +

    There are two remarkable things about Pompeii that make it different from the crumbling ruins of other civilizations I’ve been to. The first is that Pompeii was not some religious site, not a sacred place at all. It was just a town. Something of a resort town, but still a commercial center. People made and sold wine and garum. Government offices kept track of grain and fish and people frequented fast food joints and brothels. In a word, Pompeii was ordinary, and when it comes to archeological sites open to the public, that’s unusual.

    +

    The other reason Pompeii is different is of course that it was preserved by the very thing that destroyed it. Pompeii lay buried under ash for nearly 2000 years, preserved just as it was on the morning of August 24, 79 AD when Mount Vesuvius erupted.

    +

    The vast majority of the some 20,000 people that once lived in the city were able to escape the blast. Around 2,000 people, for whatever reason, did not run away and were killed by poisonous gases from the eruption. When the ash descended it buried them where they lay, under twenty five feet of debris.

    +

    plaster body cast, Pompeii, ItalyThanks to an ingenious idea by an Italian archaeologist in the mid 19th century, their final poses have been preserved in plaster. When the bodies at Pompeii were buried they decayed, eventually turning to mostly dust, as all of us will, but that left empty spaces in the hardening ash. Archaeologists found those empty spaces, poured in plaster, let it set, and then excavated around it — a perfect mold of the dead body.

    +

    The creepy thing about the plaster casts is how perfectly they capture the expressions of terror, horror, and sometimes, what looks like resignation, on people’s faces. It’s yet another bizarre way that Pompeii manages to both bridge time and remind you how vast that bridge between then and now really is. The casts are people, nearly 2000 year old people, but they could easily have been formed in some disaster today.

    +

    Sadly, the perfectly perserved version of Pompeii that archeologists found in 1748 has been in steady decline ever since. The minute they began excavating it, Pompeii began to fall victim to the forces of time that it had so neatly avoided under all that ash. Weathering, erosion, light exposure, water damage, poor methods of excavation and reconstruction and introduced plants and animals have all taken their toll, to say nothing of tourism, vandalism and theft.

    +

    Italy being Italy, Pompeii is in a steady state of decline. Just last year an entire house — admittedly, not one open to the public — collapsed thanks to water seeping under it.

    +

    That’s why, at this point, Pompeii is largely just walls, stone roads and a handful of marble structures. The frescos, statues and even most of the plaster death molds have long since been carted off to the archeological museum in Naples where you can see elaborate mosaics and the ever-popular “Gabinetto Segreto”, otherwise known as the erotic art of Pompeii.

    +

    plaster body cast, Pompeii, ItalySome of the erotic frescos and sculptures were pulled out of the brothels, while others were in private homes and baths. To say the ancient Romans were a sex-obsessed bunch would be to, as most guides at Pompeii seem to do, apply current sexual mores to ancient times. There were brothels in Pompeii, that much is indisputable. But beyond that, to suggest, as many guides I overheard did, that the more (currently) taboo frescos of gay and lesbian sex (or the sculpture of a man having sex with a goat) were jokes intended to make brothel patrons chuckle, seems a stretch — pure conjecture really. Who knows what they were for?

    +

    It’s all guess work at this point. Even if you turn to writing from the time, well now you have one more opinion, one author’s take on the times, but still no real sense of what the culture thought. It is a long way from here to there, there’s just no getting around that.

    +

    Yet, maybe it isn’t. Beliefs change, morals change, but people, they seem to stay basically the same. Suppose Charleston or even New York were buried under ash tomorrow, left as they are today for an eternity. Would people 2000 years from now accurately reconstruct our way of life?

    +

    They might get the gist of it — we lived in buildings, we had other buildings for worshiping gods and still others for buying kebabs, but they would miss the finer points. Yet, even without the subtleties they would know one thing for sure: these were people, human beings, and they lived more or less like us.

    +

    Whether you drive chariots or scooters doesn’t matter, something is always marking our passing, something is always making ruts in the road. And sometimes that’s all you need to know.

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/forever-today.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/forever-today.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d805d18 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/forever-today.txt @@ -0,0 +1,55 @@ +Forever Today +============= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Tuesday, 07 June 2011 + +There is something utterly amazing about walking down streets that are millennia old. Your feet are stepping on the same stones that someone more or less just like you stepped on thousands of years earlier, hurrying to work, or out for an evening stroll, perhaps stopping into some restaurant, some shop, some market, some temple. + +I've been fortunate enough to wander such streets in several places, [Angkor Wat][1] in Cambodia, Teotihuacán in Mexico City and now Pompeii here in Italy. What's remarkable about the experience is not the age, but the gap between then and now, which feels simultaneously immense and yet very small at the same time. + +It feels small because when you wander around places like Pompeii you realize that human beings have changed very little over what seems like, to us anyway, vast expanses of time. Pompeii had the same elements of cities today, a central square, markets, temples, government offices, even fast food. Not much has changed over the years, though togas aren't much in vogue these days. + +
    + Fast food restaurant cric 79 AD, Pompeii, Italy + Fast food, Pompeii style. +
    + + + +At the same time you can't help but notice the chariot ruts in the stones, the smooth polish of well-worn streets that obviously saw centuries of use even before they were buried. + +Chariot ruts. That was a long time ago. So close, and yet so very far away. + +There are two remarkable things about Pompeii that make it different from the crumbling ruins of other civilizations I've been to. The first is that Pompeii was not some religious site, not a sacred place at all. It was just a town. Something of a resort town, but still a commercial center. People made and sold wine and garum. Government offices kept track of grain and fish and people frequented fast food joints and brothels. In a word, Pompeii was ordinary, and when it comes to archeological sites open to the public, that's unusual. + +The other reason Pompeii is different is of course that it was preserved by the very thing that destroyed it. Pompeii lay buried under ash for nearly 2000 years, preserved just as it was on the morning of August 24, 79 AD when Mount Vesuvius erupted. + +The vast majority of the some 20,000 people that once lived in the city were able to escape the blast. Around 2,000 people, for whatever reason, did not run away and were killed by poisonous gases from the eruption. When the ash descended it buried them where they lay, under twenty five feet of debris. + +plaster body cast, Pompeii, ItalyThanks to an ingenious idea by an Italian archaeologist in the mid 19th century, their final poses have been preserved in plaster. When the bodies at Pompeii were buried they decayed, eventually turning to mostly dust, as all of us will, but that left empty spaces in the hardening ash. Archaeologists found those empty spaces, poured in plaster, let it set, and then excavated around it -- a perfect mold of the dead body. + +The creepy thing about the plaster casts is how perfectly they capture the expressions of terror, horror, and sometimes, what looks like resignation, on people's faces. It's yet another bizarre way that Pompeii manages to both bridge time and remind you how vast that bridge between then and now really is. The casts are people, nearly 2000 year old people, but they could easily have been formed in some disaster today. + +Sadly, the perfectly perserved version of Pompeii that archeologists found in 1748 has been in steady decline ever since. The minute they began excavating it, Pompeii began to fall victim to the forces of time that it had so neatly avoided under all that ash. Weathering, erosion, light exposure, water damage, poor methods of excavation and reconstruction and introduced plants and animals have all taken their toll, to say nothing of tourism, vandalism and theft. + +Italy being Italy, Pompeii is in a steady state of decline. Just last year an entire house -- admittedly, not one open to the public -- collapsed thanks to water seeping under it. + +That's why, at this point, Pompeii is largely just walls, stone roads and a handful of marble structures. The frescos, statues and even most of the plaster death molds have long since been carted off to the archeological museum in Naples where you can see elaborate mosaics and the ever-popular "Gabinetto Segreto", otherwise known as the erotic art of Pompeii. + +plaster body cast, Pompeii, ItalySome of the erotic frescos and sculptures were pulled out of the brothels, while others were in private homes and baths. To say the ancient Romans were a sex-obsessed bunch would be to, as most guides at Pompeii seem to do, apply current sexual mores to ancient times. There were brothels in Pompeii, that much is indisputable. But beyond that, to suggest, as many guides I overheard did, that the more (currently) taboo frescos of gay and lesbian sex (or the sculpture of a man having sex with a goat) were jokes intended to make brothel patrons chuckle, seems a stretch -- pure conjecture really. Who knows what they were for? + +It's all guess work at this point. Even if you turn to writing from the time, well now you have one more opinion, one author's take on the times, but still no real sense of what the culture thought. It is a long way from here to there, there's just no getting around that. + +Yet, maybe it isn't. Beliefs change, morals change, but people, they seem to stay basically the same. Suppose [Charleston][2] or even New York were buried under ash tomorrow, left as they are today for an eternity. Would people 2000 years from now accurately reconstruct our way of life? + +They might get the gist of it -- we lived in buildings, we had other buildings for worshiping gods and still others for buying kebabs, but they would miss the finer points. Yet, even without the subtleties they would know one thing for sure: these were people, human beings, and they lived more or less like us. + +Whether you drive chariots or scooters doesn't matter, something is always marking our passing, something is always making ruts in the road. And sometimes that's all you need to know. + + + + +[1]: http://luxagraf.net/2006/mar/21/angkor-wat/ +[2]: http://luxagraf.net/2011/jan/18/charleston-a-z/ diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..36188e4 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,125 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: June 2011

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/language-cities.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/language-cities.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..eb9d278 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/language-cities.amp @@ -0,0 +1,188 @@ + + + + + + +The Language of Cities + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The Language of Cities

    + + + +
    +
    +

    Paris wants me out. It knows I didn't come here for it, I came here to see some friends, none of them even from Paris, and to show my wife a world I knew before we were married. I never came for Paris itself and the city knows it. And it's angry.

    +

    Cities can get angry at you. This isn't the first time it's happened to me. New York threw me out once. Los Angeles and I left on mutually hostile terms, though we've since made up. Cities have personalities just like people, and to really be part of a city your personalities have to mesh, you have to find each other on your own terms everyday1.

    +

    Paris is jealous and possessive, wants you all to itself. This time around I set out to see all the things I had seen before, St. Chapelle, my favorite cafes in the Marais, the Louvre, Pere Lachaise. There was very little new ground broken. Which is not to say you can't go back again. You can if you do it right, so long as you realize that while a place may be familiar, it is always something new. Sometimes it's even just like the last time, but the danger is that your agenda gets in the way of what the place is trying to say. What you hear today is not what you heard yesterday, not what you might hear tomorrow. When you repeat too much you fail to give more of yourself, you're asking the city to perform for you like a trained seal.

    +

    +

    When you fail to give them everything, cities bite back. In Paris it started with stomach sickness, a day alternating between the bed and toilet. Then it moved on to headaches, but it wasn't until a cop kicked us off the Pont Des Arts bridge for drinking beer that I realized the problem wasn't me, it was that the city was unhappy with me.

    +

    Sure there are probably causal explanations for the runs, something I ate perhaps, or the headaches -- allergies, a stiff mattress -- but if you think causality explains the sum total of the world, your life will never be very interesting.

    +

    For me the truth is this: I went to Paris with my own agenda -- repeat what I had loved about it six years ago -- and that's just a recipe for personal disaster. Even though Paris did deliver everything I asked of it, it exacted a price on me. My most memorable moments of this visit will be the shower stall opposite the toilet in our (very lovely by the way) apartment, which I spent far too much time staring at.

    +

    That's not how you want to travel the world. What you want is irrelevant to the world. You ask for greatest hits and the world will give you toilets to hug. Ask nothing and it will give you everything. Paris wanted me and my agenda disrupted, brought around to the larger agenda, the world's agenda.

    +

    Unfortunately it took until nearly the last minute before I realized this essential truth. But the minute the plane to Rome tucked its landing gear into the fuselage I started to feel better. Too little, too late. Next time Paris, next time, I will remember what you have taught me.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      If you've never seen The Cruise, go rent/netflix it. Tim Levich, odd though he made seem on film, knows about these things. ↩

      +
      2. +
    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/language-cities.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/language-cities.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5fdf1f3 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/language-cities.html @@ -0,0 +1,344 @@ + + + + + The Language Of Cities - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The Language of Cities

    + +
    +
    +

    Paris, France

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Paris wants me out. It knows I didn’t come here for it, I came here to see some friends, none of them even from Paris, and to show my wife a world I knew before we were married. I never came for Paris itself and the city knows it. And it’s angry.

    +

    Cities can get angry at you. This isn’t the first time it’s happened to me. New York threw me out once. Los Angeles and I left on mutually hostile terms, though we’ve since made up. Cities have personalities just like people, and to really be part of a city your personalities have to mesh, you have to find each other on your own terms everyday1.

    +

    Paris is jealous and possessive, wants you all to itself. This time around I set out to see all the things I had seen before, St. Chapelle, my favorite cafes in the Marais, the Louvre, Pere Lachaise. There was very little new ground broken. Which is not to say you can’t go back again. You can if you do it right, so long as you realize that while a place may be familiar, it is always something new. Sometimes it’s even just like the last time, but the danger is that your agenda gets in the way of what the place is trying to say. What you hear today is not what you heard yesterday, not what you might hear tomorrow. When you repeat too much you fail to give more of yourself, you’re asking the city to perform for you like a trained seal.

    +

    Stained glass, St. Chapelle, Paris, France

    +

    When you fail to give them everything, cities bite back. In Paris it started with stomach sickness, a day alternating between the bed and toilet. Then it moved on to headaches, but it wasn’t until a cop kicked us off the Pont Des Arts bridge for drinking beer that I realized the problem wasn’t me, it was that the city was unhappy with me.

    +

    Sure there are probably causal explanations for the runs, something I ate perhaps, or the headaches — allergies, a stiff mattress — but if you think causality explains the sum total of the world, your life will never be very interesting.

    +

    For me the truth is this: I went to Paris with my own agenda — repeat what I had loved about it six years ago — and that’s just a recipe for personal disaster. Even though Paris did deliver everything I asked of it, it exacted a price on me. My most memorable moments of this visit will be the shower stall opposite the toilet in our (very lovely by the way) apartment, which I spent far too much time staring at.

    +

    That’s not how you want to travel the world. What you want is irrelevant to the world. You ask for greatest hits and the world will give you toilets to hug. Ask nothing and it will give you everything. Paris wanted me and my agenda disrupted, brought around to the larger agenda, the world’s agenda.

    +

    Unfortunately it took until nearly the last minute before I realized this essential truth. But the minute the plane to Rome tucked its landing gear into the fuselage I started to feel better. Too little, too late. Next time Paris, next time, I will remember what you have taught me.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      If you’ve never seen The Cruise, go rent/netflix it. Tim Levich, odd though he made seem on film, knows about these things. ↩

      +
      2. +
    +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/language-cities.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/language-cities.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d962aa3 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/language-cities.txt @@ -0,0 +1,29 @@ +The Language of Cities +====================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 04 June 2011 + +Paris wants me out. It knows I didn't come here for it, I came here to see some friends, none of them even from Paris, and to show my wife a world I knew before we were married. I never came for Paris itself and the city knows it. And it's angry. + +Cities can get angry at you. This isn't the first time it's happened to me. New York threw me out once. Los Angeles and I left on mutually hostile terms, though we've since made up. Cities have personalities just like people, and to really be part of a city your personalities have to mesh, you have to find each other on your own terms everyday[^1]. + +Paris is jealous and possessive, wants you all to itself. This time around I set out to see all the things I had seen before, [St. Chapelle][1], my favorite cafes in the Marais, the Louvre, Pere Lachaise. There was very little new ground broken. Which is not to say [you can't go back again][2]. You can if you do it right, so long as you realize that while a place may be familiar, it is always something new. Sometimes it's even just like the last time, but the danger is that your agenda gets in the way of what the place is trying to say. What you hear today is not what you heard yesterday, not what you might hear tomorrow. When you repeat too much you fail to give more of yourself, you're asking the city to perform for you like a trained seal. + +Stained glass, St. Chapelle, Paris, France + +When you fail to give them everything, cities bite back. In Paris it started with stomach sickness, a day alternating between the bed and toilet. Then it moved on to headaches, but it wasn't until a cop kicked us off the Pont Des Arts bridge for drinking beer that I realized the problem wasn't me, it was that the city was unhappy with me. + +Sure there are probably causal explanations for the runs, something I ate perhaps, or the headaches -- allergies, a stiff mattress -- but if you think causality explains the sum total of the world, your life will never be very interesting. + +For me the truth is this: I went to Paris with my own agenda -- repeat what I had loved about it six years ago -- and that's just a recipe for personal disaster. Even though Paris did deliver everything I asked of it, it exacted a price on me. My most memorable moments of this visit will be the shower stall opposite the toilet in our (very lovely by the way) apartment, which I spent far too much time staring at. + +That's not how you want to travel the world. What you want is irrelevant to the world. You ask for greatest hits and the world will give you toilets to hug. Ask nothing and it will give you everything. Paris wanted me and my agenda disrupted, brought around to the larger agenda, the world's agenda. + +Unfortunately it took until nearly the last minute before I realized this essential truth. But the minute the plane to Rome tucked its landing gear into the fuselage I started to feel better. Too little, too late. Next time Paris, next time, I will remember what you have taught me. + +[1]: http://luxagraf.net/2005/oct/28/sainte-chapelle/ +[2]: http://luxagraf.net/2008/jun/30/you-cant-go-home-again/ + +[^1]: If you've never seen The Cruise, go rent/netflix it. Tim Levich, odd though he made seem on film, knows about these things. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/motor-city-burning.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/motor-city-burning.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8964ffb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/motor-city-burning.amp @@ -0,0 +1,185 @@ + + + + + + +Motor City is Burning + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Motor City is Burning

    + + + +
    +
    +

    I’ve been out all afternoon on a motorbike. Now I'm sitting on a marble balcony, sipping lukewarm beer, listening to the gregarious chatter of various European languages, all of which could only mean one thing -- I've finally made it back to Southeast Asia.

    +

    It was a 36-hour plane flight to get from Rome to here. Or rather a 36-hour series of plane flights and layovers, including considerable time spent in the lovely Qatar airport, all of which meant that, thanks to the wonder of layovers and planetary rotation, we got to see the sun rise and set twice in one day. It'll do a number to your head, that.

    +

    +

    We arrived in Bali in a jet-lagged daze and promptly hired a cab for Ubud the so-called cultural center of Bali, halfway up into the hills that fall away from Mt. Agung, the volcano that dominates the southern half of Bali, down to the seaside somewhere south of Ubud.

    +

    +

    Ubud was probably once a small village in the hills, but these days its more of a tourist mecca, thanks to some really awful western travel books that shall not be named. Ubud now sprawls out from the central crossroads up into neighboring villages pretty much erasing any discernible difference between Ubud and the dozen or so villages that surround it.

    +

    I won't lie to you. Ubud is crowded, in fact, all of Bali is crowded, with traffic like I've never seen anywhere else in Asia. Snarled roads mean incessant horns and shouts are the primary sounds of Bali. Interestingly, Ubud isn't nearly as crowded with tourists as I had expected, at least it wasn't while we were there. During the days the streets would fill up with tourists on day trips from the resorts down south in Kuta and Seminyak, both about 20-30km from Ubud (if you want some idea of the traffic in Bali consider that a 20-30km distance will take anywhere from one to two hours by car or motorbike), but in the evening, after the resort goers were safely back beach-side, Ubud seemed nearly empty.

    +

    The traffic and congestion of Bali isn't something you can blame on tourists, it's mainly just the Balinese going about their lives. It made for hectic bike riding, at least until you could get out of the center of Ubud. There was a lot of choking on diesel fumes and waiting or weaving through, traffic.

    +

    Once I got through the two main intersections of Ubud the traffic mostly gave way and I had the road to myself, save other motorbikes and heavily loaded down trucks. The countryside around Ubud is well worth riding through, beautiful terraced rice paddies that spill down the mountain sides, glowing a verdant green in the evening light. Over the course of four days I think I rode about 120K, in one case halfway up the side of Mt. Agung.

    +

    +

    The smoky wind alternates between choking and enticing as it whips about my helmet. But any choking is offset by the gorgeous soft twilight of the tropics, which kept me riding through village after village, each with it's own craft theme. One village would be all stone work, concrete fountains, sculptures of Buddha and countless pots and urns. The next might be wood carving, intricate masks, totem pole-like sculptures and ornate arched doors. The best were the weaving villages, brilliantly colored fabrics flowing out of a dozen small stone buildings, all of them eventually making their way down to Ubud for sale.

    +

    But awesome as it was to be back on the Asian version of a motorbike, it wasn't quite the relaxing riding I did in Laos and elsewhere. You can never recapture the magic, and I wasn't trying.... Okay, maybe I was, but it didn't work. regrettably Honda seems to have phased out the Dream in the last five years, replacing it with something called the Nitro, which just doesn't have the same ring to it. But the bike is irrelevant, was always irrelevant. I missed my friends, especially because I just saw Debi in Paris. It just wasn't the same riding by myself. Debi, Matt, where are you? There are roads to be ridden, locals with ten people on a bike to be humbled by. Six fingered men to be seen, by some.

    +

    It wasn't the same. It never is. But you know what, it's amazing anyway.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/motor-city-burning.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/motor-city-burning.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dd15d5b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/motor-city-burning.html @@ -0,0 +1,340 @@ + + + + + Motor City Is Burning - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Motor City is Burning

    + +
    +
    +

    Ubud, Bali, Indonesia

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    I’ve been out all afternoon on a motorbike. Now I’m sitting on a marble balcony, sipping lukewarm beer, listening to the gregarious chatter of various European languages, all of which could only mean one thing — I’ve finally made it back to Southeast Asia.

    +

    It was a 36-hour plane flight to get from Rome to here. Or rather a 36-hour series of plane flights and layovers, including considerable time spent in the lovely Qatar airport, all of which meant that, thanks to the wonder of layovers and planetary rotation, we got to see the sun rise and set twice in one day. It’ll do a number to your head, that.

    +

    +

    We arrived in Bali in a jet-lagged daze and promptly hired a cab for Ubud the so-called cultural center of Bali, halfway up into the hills that fall away from Mt. Agung, the volcano that dominates the southern half of Bali, down to the seaside somewhere south of Ubud.

    +

    Rice paddies outside of Ubud, Bali, Indonesia

    +

    Ubud was probably once a small village in the hills, but these days its more of a tourist mecca, thanks to some really awful western travel books that shall not be named. Ubud now sprawls out from the central crossroads up into neighboring villages pretty much erasing any discernible difference between Ubud and the dozen or so villages that surround it.

    +

    I won’t lie to you. Ubud is crowded, in fact, all of Bali is crowded, with traffic like I’ve never seen anywhere else in Asia. Snarled roads mean incessant horns and shouts are the primary sounds of Bali. Interestingly, Ubud isn’t nearly as crowded with tourists as I had expected, at least it wasn’t while we were there. During the days the streets would fill up with tourists on day trips from the resorts down south in Kuta and Seminyak, both about 20-30km from Ubud (if you want some idea of the traffic in Bali consider that a 20-30km distance will take anywhere from one to two hours by car or motorbike), but in the evening, after the resort goers were safely back beach-side, Ubud seemed nearly empty.

    +

    The traffic and congestion of Bali isn’t something you can blame on tourists, it’s mainly just the Balinese going about their lives. It made for hectic bike riding, at least until you could get out of the center of Ubud. There was a lot of choking on diesel fumes and waiting or weaving through, traffic.

    +

    Once I got through the two main intersections of Ubud the traffic mostly gave way and I had the road to myself, save other motorbikes and heavily loaded down trucks. The countryside around Ubud is well worth riding through, beautiful terraced rice paddies that spill down the mountain sides, glowing a verdant green in the evening light. Over the course of four days I think I rode about 120K, in one case halfway up the side of Mt. Agung.

    +

    Rice paddies outside of Ubud, Bali, Indonesia

    +

    The smoky wind alternates between choking and enticing as it whips about my helmet. But any choking is offset by the gorgeous soft twilight of the tropics, which kept me riding through village after village, each with it’s own craft theme. One village would be all stone work, concrete fountains, sculptures of Buddha and countless pots and urns. The next might be wood carving, intricate masks, totem pole-like sculptures and ornate arched doors. The best were the weaving villages, brilliantly colored fabrics flowing out of a dozen small stone buildings, all of them eventually making their way down to Ubud for sale.

    +

    But awesome as it was to be back on the Asian version of a motorbike, it wasn’t quite the relaxing riding I did in Laos and elsewhere. You can never recapture the magic, and I wasn’t trying…. Okay, maybe I was, but it didn’t work. regrettably Honda seems to have phased out the Dream in the last five years, replacing it with something called the Nitro, which just doesn’t have the same ring to it. But the bike is irrelevant, was always irrelevant. I missed my friends, especially because I just saw Debi in Paris. It just wasn’t the same riding by myself. Debi, Matt, where are you? There are roads to be ridden, locals with ten people on a bike to be humbled by. Six fingered men to be seen, by some.

    +

    It wasn’t the same. It never is. But you know what, it’s amazing anyway.

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/motor-city-burning.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/motor-city-burning.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fec0079 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/motor-city-burning.txt @@ -0,0 +1,32 @@ +Motor City is Burning +===================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 16 June 2011 + +I’ve been out all afternoon on a motorbike. Now I'm sitting on a marble balcony, sipping lukewarm beer, listening to the gregarious chatter of various European languages, all of which could only mean one thing -- I've finally made it back to Southeast Asia. + +It was a 36-hour plane flight to get from Rome to here. Or rather a 36-hour series of plane flights and layovers, including considerable time spent in the lovely Qatar airport, all of which meant that, thanks to the wonder of layovers and planetary rotation, we got to see the sun rise and set twice in one day. It'll do a number to your head, that. + + + +We arrived in Bali in a jet-lagged daze and promptly hired a cab for Ubud the so-called cultural center of Bali, halfway up into the hills that fall away from Mt. Agung, the volcano that dominates the southern half of Bali, down to the seaside somewhere south of Ubud. + +Rice paddies outside of Ubud, Bali, Indonesia + +Ubud was probably once a small village in the hills, but these days its more of a tourist mecca, thanks to some really awful western travel books that shall not be named. Ubud now sprawls out from the central crossroads up into neighboring villages pretty much erasing any discernible difference between Ubud and the dozen or so villages that surround it. + +I won't lie to you. Ubud is crowded, in fact, all of Bali is crowded, with traffic like I've never seen anywhere else in Asia. Snarled roads mean incessant horns and shouts are the primary sounds of Bali. Interestingly, Ubud isn't nearly as crowded with tourists as I had expected, at least it wasn't while we were there. During the days the streets would fill up with tourists on day trips from the resorts down south in Kuta and Seminyak, both about 20-30km from Ubud (if you want some idea of the traffic in Bali consider that a 20-30km distance will take anywhere from one to two hours by car or motorbike), but in the evening, after the resort goers were safely back beach-side, Ubud seemed nearly empty. + +The traffic and congestion of Bali isn't something you can blame on tourists, it's mainly just the Balinese going about their lives. It made for hectic bike riding, at least until you could get out of the center of Ubud. There was a lot of choking on diesel fumes and waiting or weaving through, traffic. + +Once I got through the two main intersections of Ubud the traffic mostly gave way and I had the road to myself, save other motorbikes and heavily loaded down trucks. The countryside around Ubud is well worth riding through, beautiful terraced rice paddies that spill down the mountain sides, glowing a verdant green in the evening light. Over the course of four days I think I rode about 120K, in one case halfway up the side of Mt. Agung. + +Rice paddies outside of Ubud, Bali, Indonesia + +The smoky wind alternates between choking and enticing as it whips about my helmet. But any choking is offset by the gorgeous soft twilight of the tropics, which kept me riding through village after village, each with it's own craft theme. One village would be all stone work, concrete fountains, sculptures of Buddha and countless pots and urns. The next might be wood carving, intricate masks, totem pole-like sculptures and ornate arched doors. The best were the weaving villages, brilliantly colored fabrics flowing out of a dozen small stone buildings, all of them eventually making their way down to Ubud for sale. + +But awesome as it was to be back on the Asian version of a motorbike, it wasn't quite the relaxing riding I did in Laos and elsewhere. You can never recapture the magic, and I wasn't trying.... Okay, maybe I was, but it didn't work. regrettably Honda seems to have phased out the Dream in the last five years, replacing it with something called the Nitro, which just doesn't have the same ring to it. But the bike is irrelevant, was always irrelevant. I missed my friends, especially because I just saw Debi in Paris. It just wasn't the same riding by myself. Debi, Matt, where are you? There are roads to be ridden, locals with ten people on a bike to be humbled by. Six fingered men to be seen, by some. + +It wasn't the same. It never is. But you know what, it's amazing anyway. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/natural-science.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/natural-science.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6cdcc75 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/natural-science.amp @@ -0,0 +1,194 @@ + + + + + + +Natural Science + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Natural Science

    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    There's no way around it; Florence is crowded. It may well be that Naples is the only Italian city that isn't overrun with tourists in the summer, but after three days of hardly seeing another traveler, I wasn't really prepared for the crowds in Florence.

    +

    Florence is, admittedly, more of what tourists expect Italy to be. There's no graffiti, the streets are free of trash and the city looks like something out of a fairy tale cliché -- narrow, winding streets, beautiful river walks and plenty of English-speaking waiters. And so they come.

    +
    +

    +

    Luckily it's never that hard to dodge crowds. Sometimes you head out to Angkor Wat in the sweltering midday heat. In Florence you just need to get up early and the streets will be deserted. Once everyone else is up, head over to "La Specola", the Museum of Zoology, which is part of the Museo di Storia Naturale di Firenze. Zoology isn't something near the top of most must-see lists and in my experience, you'll pretty much have the place to yourself.

    +

    Of course how much you'll enjoy La Specola depends a little bit on how much you enjoy wandering through rooms filled with dead animals. My father taught biology and zoology for many years, so I grew up around dead animals, but clearly, La Specola is not for everyone.

    +

    Part of the appeal of the museum is simply the antique wooden cabinets used to house the various lions, leopards, monkeys, birds and butterflies. The old, uneven and warped glass ripples as you pass, distorts the view from the corner of your eye, giving all the animals a shimmering hint of movement, as if there were still a bit of life left somewhere behind the glass.

    +

    +

    Beautiful glass aside, what makes La Specola special is how amazingly old the specimens are. La Specola records the very beginnings of natural science as we know it. The visible specimen tags I could read ranged from the early 1700s up through the late 1800s and into the 1900s. A few specimens come from the Medici family's private collection and are even older. That means the vast majority of the animals in La Specola date from well before Darwin's voyage on the Beagle, and some were brought to Florence even before Linnaeus had come up with the means of organizing them.

    +

    +

    Of course stuffed specimens from 300 years ago aren't going to be in the best of shape. Feathers have fallen off many of the birds, scales have dropped from the fish, the large mammals have badly dried and cracked hides and the natural coloring has long since faded from many.

    +

    What's fascinating isn't so much the specimens themselves, but the glimpse they offer into the curious minds of the time. When La Specola was founded in 1771, western culture was just beginning to shrug off thousands of years of religious dogma, dropping a vision of the world where everything was the province of god, for a vision of the world in which the human mind could explore on its own. La Specola hails from the very beginning of that yearning to know more about the world, to reject doctrine and discover first hand the creatures that share our planet.

    +

    In the late 17th and early 18th century there was an explosion of exploration, travel and discovery. The "age of discovery" as it's commonly called in hindsight, was the age of people like you and me, curious about the world and determined to see it for themselves, stumbling around, finding what they found. In the case of zoologists much of what they found was sent back here, to La Specola. It was a unique time, there were no professional scientists yet, no authorities or academic review boards, everything was new, everything was a discovery.

    +

    Yes, there's something perverse about heading out into the world, discovering exotic and fascinating animals and then killing, gutting and stuffing them. It's gruesome business if you go into the details. There's no reason to do it now, but circa 1700 it was the only link between those who could go into the field and those who stayed behind to make sense of it all.

    +

    La Specola is a link between then and now. A record of the conversation between those who discovered and those who took discoveries and turned them into something meaningful. Stuffed carcasses are not particularly meaningful in and of themselves. Colorful perhaps, exotic and even alien in some cases, but finding and recording is only half of what creates the store of human understanding. La Specola lays that conversation open for anyone to walk through and experience.

    +

    If stuffed and canned dead animals aren't enough to keep the tourists at bay, then the last two rooms certainly are. The last section of La Specola is nothing but wax models of dissected human bodies, flayed open to varying degrees to show muscle structure, viens, organs and even nerves. The models were created in the 1800s from real human bodies and were used to teach anatomy to medical students. The models are remarkably life-like and cover the entire spectrum of human existence from stillborn, syphilis-riddled fetuses to otherwise healthy adults and even larger-than-life skeletons.

    +

    +

    At first glance the wax models are a touch disturbing, not necessarily because they're life-like, but because they put us on the same shelves, in the same warped glass cases. Otherwise, quis custodiet ipsos custodes? We are after all just one more animal roaming the planet. But a curious, inquisitive animal that can dream anything it wants, including a natural science to explain how curious inquisitive animals can dream anything they want... just remember, it's turtles all the way down.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/natural-science.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/natural-science.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..746b343 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/natural-science.html @@ -0,0 +1,421 @@ + + + + + Natural Science - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    + + +
    +
    + + + +
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    +

    Natural Science

    +

    Dodging crowds and journeying to the heart of myth in Florence

    +
    +
    +

    Firenze (Florence), Italy

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Florence is crowded. It may well be that Naples is the only Italian city that isn’t overrun with tourists in the summer. Three days without other travelers around left us unprepared for the crowds in Florence.

    +
    + + River in Florence, Italy photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Florence is, admittedly, more of what tourists expect Italy to be. There’s no graffiti, the streets are free of trash, and the city looks like something out of a fairy tale, the sort of thing that makes travel writers trot out the clichés — narrow, winding, stone streets, beautiful river walks, and plenty of English-speaking waiters. And so they come.

    +
    + + River scene, Florence, Italy photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Luckily it’s never that hard to dodge crowds. Sometimes you have to tour Angkor Wat in the sweltering midday heat. Other times you need go in the off season. In Florence it’s really easy, you just need to get up early and the streets will be deserted.

    +
    + + + + empty streets of Firenze photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + empty streets of Firenze photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    Once the tourists make it out of bed, get off the streets. Head over to “La Specola”, the Museum of Zoology, part of the Museo di Storia Naturale di Firenze. Zoology isn’t something near the top of most must-see lists and in my experience, you’ll have the place to yourself.

    +

    Of course how much you’ll enjoy La Specola depends a little bit on how much you enjoy wandering through rooms filled with dead animals. My father taught biology and zoology for many years, so I grew up around dead animals, but clearly, La Specola is not for everyone.

    +

    Part of the appeal of the museum is simply the antique wooden cabinets used to house the various lions, leopards, monkeys, birds and butterflies. The old, uneven and warped glass ripples as you pass, distorts the view from the corner of your eye, giving all the animals a shimmering hint of movement, as if there were still a bit of life left somewhere behind the glass.

    +
    + + glass cases in the bird room, Museo di Storia Naturale di Firenze, Firenze, Italy photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    La Specola’s specimens are old. Most date from the very beginnings of natural science. The visible specimen tags I could read ranged from the early 1700s up through the late 1800s and into the 1900s. A few specimens come from the Medici family’s private collection and are even older. That means the vast majority of the animals in La Specola date from well before Darwin’s voyage on the Beagle, and some were brought to Florence even before Linnaeus had come up with the means of organizing them.

    +
    + + birds in glass cases, Museo di Storia Naturale di Firenze, Florence, Italy photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Of course stuffed specimens from 300 years ago aren’t going to be in the best of shape. Feathers have fallen off many of the birds, scales have dropped from the fish, the large mammals have badly dried and cracked hides and the natural coloring has long since faded from many.

    +

    What’s fascinating isn’t so much the specimens themselves, but the glimpse they offer into the curious minds of the time. When La Specola was founded in 1771, western culture was just shrugging off over a thousand of years of monotheist dogma, shifting its gaze from a god to the world itself. New myths, ones that shape our world today1, were starting to weave themselves together around this time. La Specola hails from the very beginning of that yearning to know more about the world, to reject monotheist doctrine in favor of actual experience with the world around you, in this case discovering first hand the creatures that share our planet.

    +
    + + big cats, Museo di Storia Naturale di Firenze, Florence, Italy photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    This is the explosion of exploration, travel and discovery. The “age of discovery” as hindsight has named it.

    +

    But more than that, it’s the golden age of the amateur. It’s the age of people like you and me, curious about the world and determined to see it for themselves, stumbling around, finding what they found. It was a unique time, there were no professional scientists yet, no authorities or academic review boards. For western Europe, crawling out from under the yoke of monotheism, everything was new, everything was a discovery.

    +

    In the case of amateur zoologists much of what they found was sent back here, to La Specola.

    +

    That’s the bright side. But there’s something obviously perverse about it all too. Heading out into the world, discovering exotic and fascinating animals and then killing, gutting and stuffing them for the folks back home suggests that yoke of monotheistic dogma has only partly been shed. Its arrogance, its presumption of absolute authority lingers.

    +

    There are subjects (explorers) and objects (everything else) here. The subjects are gone, only their labels and the objects remain. That’s the way of Subjects and Objects. Subjects can do whatever they want to objects because objects are static things. Objects have no subjectness, no say at all in the matter. They get killed, gutted, stuffed and left for centuries behind glass because that’s what the Subjects wanted.

    +
    + + Butterflies, Museo di Storia Naturale di Firenze, Florence Italy photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    This is also the mindset of Columbus, of Cortez — the mindset that says this is a world for the taking. Cortez took gold and left bodies. Early zoologists took bodies and left the gold. It was a gruesome business on both counts. I think it’s important to look at it though, lest we think we are above this somehow now. We are not. This world view is embedded in our myths to this day.

    +

    La Specola is a record of the beginnings of these myths, many of things we struggle with today can be seen at their infancy here — the lack of ecology, the lack of ecosophia, the presumption of the watchmaker universe, just sans watchmaker. We still live with these things.

    +
    + + Great ape, Museo di Storia Naturale di Firenze, Florence Italy photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    If stuffed and canned dead animals aren’t enough to keep the tourists at bay, then the last two rooms certainly are. The last section of La Specola is nothing but wax models of dissected human bodies, flayed open to varying degrees to show muscle structure, viens, organs and even nerves.

    +
    + + wax human bodies, Museo di Storia Naturale di Firenze, Florence Italy photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The models were created in the 1800s from real human bodies and were used to teach anatomy to medical students. The models are remarkably life-like and cover the entire spectrum of human existence from stillborn, syphilis-riddled fetuses to otherwise healthy adults and even larger-than-life skeletons.

    +

    At first glance the wax models are disturbing, not necessarily because they’re life-like, but because they put us on the same shelves, in the same warped glass cases with everything else. More myths being made, turning the mindset of Cortez on ourselves. We are one more animal roaming the planet, better cut us up too.

    +
    + + wax human bodies, Museo di Storia Naturale di Firenze, Florence Italy photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Walking out of La Specola, into the bright afternoon world of modern day Florence I couldn’t help feeling a sense of relief. The myths created out of story threads like those La Specola has preserved may still dominate our world, but if feels little like they’re slipping, a little like we’re losing faith in these stories. Like these myths no longer reflect the world or our place in it. Like these myths are no longer the way we want to live.

    +

    It feels like we are cascading toward something new. Perhaps rediscovering something old as well. It’s a risky time, but also an exciting one. New things always require new explorations, new experiences that shape new ways of thinking, new world views, which in turn will become, far after our time, new myths.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      The popular definition of myth is roughly, “thing that isn’t true”. That’s a terrible definition. When I refer to myth, I am speaking of an older understanding of the word, that it is a story, an archetype, which helps us make sense of the world around us and figure out our place within it. ↩

      +
      2. +
    +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/natural-science.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/natural-science.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bf9972e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/natural-science.txt @@ -0,0 +1,75 @@ +Natural Science +================ + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Friday, 10 June 2011 + +Florence is crowded. It may well be that [Naples is the only Italian city that isn't overrun with tourists](/jrnl/2011/06/new-pollution) in the summer. Three days without other travelers around left us unprepared for the crowds in Florence. + + + +Florence is, admittedly, more of what tourists expect Italy to be. There's no graffiti, the streets are free of trash, and the city looks like something out of a fairy tale, the sort of thing that makes travel writers trot out the clichés -- narrow, winding, stone streets, beautiful river walks, and plenty of English-speaking waiters. And so they come. + + + +Luckily it's never that hard to dodge crowds. Sometimes you have to [tour Angkor Wat in the sweltering midday heat](jrnl/2006/03/angkor-wat). Other times you need go in the [off season](/jrnl/2008/07/tiny-cities-made-ash). In Florence it's really easy, you just need to get up early and the streets will be deserted. + +
    + + + + +
    + +Once the tourists make it out of bed, get off the streets. Head over to "La Specola", the Museum of Zoology, part of the Museo di Storia Naturale di Firenze. Zoology isn't something near the top of most must-see lists and in my experience, you'll have the place to yourself. + +Of course how much you'll enjoy La Specola depends a little bit on how much you enjoy wandering through rooms filled with dead animals. My father taught biology and zoology for many years, so I grew up around dead animals, but clearly, La Specola is not for everyone. + +Part of the appeal of the museum is simply the antique wooden cabinets used to house the various lions, leopards, monkeys, birds and butterflies. The old, uneven and warped glass ripples as you pass, distorts the view from the corner of your eye, giving all the animals a shimmering hint of movement, as if there were still a bit of life left somewhere behind the glass. + + + +La Specola's specimens are old. Most date from the very beginnings of natural science. The visible specimen tags I could read ranged from the early 1700s up through the late 1800s and into the 1900s. A few specimens come from the Medici family's private collection and are even older. That means the vast majority of the animals in La Specola date from well before Darwin's voyage on the Beagle, and some were brought to Florence even before Linnaeus had come up with the means of organizing them. + + + +Of course stuffed specimens from 300 years ago aren't going to be in the best of shape. Feathers have fallen off many of the birds, scales have dropped from the fish, the large mammals have badly dried and cracked hides and the natural coloring has long since faded from many. + +What's fascinating isn't so much the specimens themselves, but the glimpse they offer into the curious minds of the time. When La Specola was founded in 1771, western culture was just shrugging off over a thousand of years of monotheist dogma, shifting its gaze from a god to the world itself. New myths, ones that shape our world today[^1], were starting to weave themselves together around this time. La Specola hails from the very beginning of that yearning to know more about the world, to reject monotheist doctrine in favor of actual experience with the world around you, in this case discovering first hand the creatures that share our planet. + + + +This is the explosion of exploration, travel and discovery. The "age of discovery" as hindsight has named it. + +But more than that, it's the golden age of the amateur. It's the age of people like you and me, curious about the world and determined to see it for themselves, stumbling around, finding what they found. It was a unique time, there were no professional scientists yet, no authorities or academic review boards. For western Europe, crawling out from under the yoke of monotheism, everything was new, everything was a discovery. + +In the case of amateur zoologists much of what they found was sent back here, to La Specola. + +That's the bright side. But there's something obviously perverse about it all too. Heading out into the world, discovering exotic and fascinating animals and then killing, gutting and stuffing them for the folks back home suggests that yoke of monotheistic dogma has only partly been shed. Its arrogance, its presumption of absolute authority lingers. + +There are subjects (explorers) and objects (everything else) here. The subjects are gone, only their labels and the objects remain. That's the way of Subjects and Objects. Subjects can do whatever they want to objects because objects are static things. Objects have no subjectness, no say at all in the matter. They get killed, gutted, stuffed and left for centuries behind glass because that's what the Subjects wanted. + + + +This is also the mindset of Columbus, of Cortez -- the mindset that says this is a world for the taking. Cortez took gold and left bodies. Early zoologists took bodies and left the gold. It was a gruesome business on both counts. I think it's important to look at it though, lest we think we are above this somehow now. We are not. This world view is embedded in our myths to this day. + +La Specola is a record of the beginnings of these myths, many of things we struggle with today can be seen at their infancy here -- the lack of ecology, the lack of ecosophia, the presumption of the watchmaker universe, just sans watchmaker. We still live with these things. + + + +If stuffed and canned dead animals aren't enough to keep the tourists at bay, then the last two rooms certainly are. The last section of La Specola is nothing but wax models of dissected human bodies, flayed open to varying degrees to show muscle structure, viens, organs and even nerves. + + + +The models were created in the 1800s from real human bodies and were used to teach anatomy to medical students. The models are remarkably life-like and cover the entire spectrum of human existence from stillborn, syphilis-riddled fetuses to otherwise healthy adults and even larger-than-life skeletons. + +At first glance the wax models are disturbing, not necessarily because they're life-like, but because they put us on the same shelves, in the same warped glass cases with everything else. More myths being made, turning the mindset of Cortez on ourselves. We are one more animal roaming the planet, better cut us up too. + + + +Walking out of La Specola, into the bright afternoon world of modern day Florence I couldn't help feeling a sense of relief. The myths created out of story threads like those La Specola has preserved may still dominate our world, but if feels little like they're slipping, a little like we're losing faith in these stories. Like these myths no longer reflect the world or our place in it. Like these myths are no longer the way we want to live. + +It feels like we are cascading toward something new. Perhaps rediscovering something old as well. It's a risky time, but also an exciting one. New things always require new explorations, new experiences that shape new ways of thinking, new world views, which in turn will become, far after our time, new myths. + +[^1]: The popular definition of myth is roughly, "thing that isn't true". That's a terrible definition. When I refer to myth, I am speaking of an older understanding of the word, that it is a story, an archetype, which helps us make sense of the world around us and figure out our place within it. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/new-pollution.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/new-pollution.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b72dc53 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/new-pollution.amp @@ -0,0 +1,184 @@ + + + + + + +The New Pollution + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The New Pollution

    + + + +
    +
    +

    Naples is a big, crowded, graffiti-filled city. It's an intimidating place that is by turns a bit like Philadelphia, a bit Mumbai, a bit some post-apocalyptic video game and, in the end, something else entirely.

    +

    The rest of the world abandoned Naples long ago, left it to find its own way, fumbling through some darkness of its own making toward a light it can't yet see.

    +

    The old Centro Storico area is a maze of narrow stone streets swarming with scooters dodging shoppers at the morning markets where fresh fruit and dried pasta hang alongside lanterns and trinkets, fishmongers crowd the sidewalks and the smell of pastries and coffee choke the air.

    +

    +

    The sun rarely makes it down through the five and six story facades to the streets below. The shadowy world of dark granite streets gives the impression that you're strolling through canyons of carefully cut stone blocks and marble doorways. There are no trees down here, hardly any plants at all. Higher up,, on the second and third stories, a few ferns, some moss and grasses grow on the balconies of abandoned buildings.

    +

    Even if there were light, there's no room for trees. There's hardly any room to move, save when a street opens up into a piazza, where in the evening crowds gather to drink beer or wine, or perhaps to eat in the restaurants that line the edges of the larger squares.

    +

    Naples is it's own world. I sit outside the hotel watching as people on a balcony down the street lower a bucket down from the fifth story with a few euro inside. The man at the nearby tabac runs over, retrieves the euro and throws a pack of cigarettes inside. The bucket retreats back up into the heights of the buildings, disappearing into a tiny sliver of night sky. Naples, the city time forgot.

    +

    Naples is not tourist friendly, it's not even pretty. It's just a city. Most of it is covered in graffiti, and, thanks to strikes and general city mismanagement (read: mob control), garbage. Or at least the city proper is, the old town area is largely trash-free, if only because the streets are so narrow there's simply no room for any trash. The graffiti though is universal, perhaps the one thing that links the old town and the newer portions together.

    +

    +

    Pompeii, just thirty minutes away and 2600 years older, was also once covered in ancient Roman graffiti. It's just how they do things here apparently, it's in the blood, in the soil, in the wind. Speak your mind with spray cans -- or whatever might be the tool of the era -- out in the open, for everyone to see.

    +

    The main reason any tourist, myself included, comes to Naples is its proximity to Pompeii. Beyond the quick and cheap train out to Pompeii, Naples doesn't have a lot to offer. That's part of it's appeal. Perhaps best appreciated in hindsight, but appeal nonetheless. Still, given the tourist epidemic that sweeps Italy every summer, Naples is a place worth appreciating for what it is not, even if what is isn't, perhaps, enough to ever bring you back.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/new-pollution.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/new-pollution.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..28db09d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/new-pollution.html @@ -0,0 +1,263 @@ + + + + + The New Pollution - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The New Pollution

    + +
    +
    +

    Napoli (Naples), Italy

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Naples is a big, crowded, graffiti-filled city. It’s an intimidating place that is by turns a bit like Philadelphia, a bit Mumbai, a bit some post-apocalyptic video game and, in the end, something else entirely.

    +

    The rest of the world abandoned Naples long ago, left it to find its own way, fumbling through some darkness of its own making toward a light it can’t yet see.

    +

    The old Centro Storico area is a maze of narrow stone streets swarming with scooters dodging shoppers at the morning markets where fresh fruit and dried pasta hang alongside lanterns and trinkets, fishmongers crowd the sidewalks and the smell of pastries and coffee choke the air.

    +

    Street, Naples, Italy

    +

    The sun rarely makes it down through the five and six story facades to the streets below. The shadowy world of dark granite streets gives the impression that you’re strolling through canyons of carefully cut stone blocks and marble doorways. There are no trees down here, hardly any plants at all. Higher up,, on the second and third stories, a few ferns, some moss and grasses grow on the balconies of abandoned buildings.

    +

    Street, Naples, ItalyEven if there were light, there’s no room for trees. There’s hardly any room to move, save when a street opens up into a piazza, where in the evening crowds gather to drink beer or wine, or perhaps to eat in the restaurants that line the edges of the larger squares.

    +

    Naples is it’s own world. I sit outside the hotel watching as people on a balcony down the street lower a bucket down from the fifth story with a few euro inside. The man at the nearby tabac runs over, retrieves the euro and throws a pack of cigarettes inside. The bucket retreats back up into the heights of the buildings, disappearing into a tiny sliver of night sky. Naples, the city time forgot.

    +

    Naples is not tourist friendly, it’s not even pretty. It’s just a city. Most of it is covered in graffiti, and, thanks to strikes and general city mismanagement (read: mob control), garbage. Or at least the city proper is, the old town area is largely trash-free, if only because the streets are so narrow there’s simply no room for any trash. The graffiti though is universal, perhaps the one thing that links the old town and the newer portions together.

    +

    graffiti on the street, Naples, Italy

    +

    Pompeii, just thirty minutes away and 2600 years older, was also once covered in ancient Roman graffiti. It’s just how they do things here apparently, it’s in the blood, in the soil, in the wind. Speak your mind with spray cans — or whatever might be the tool of the era — out in the open, for everyone to see.

    +

    The main reason any tourist, myself included, comes to Naples is its proximity to Pompeii. Beyond the quick and cheap train out to Pompeii, Naples doesn’t have a lot to offer. That’s part of it’s appeal. Perhaps best appreciated in hindsight, but appeal nonetheless. Still, given the tourist epidemic that sweeps Italy every summer, Naples is a place worth appreciating for what it is not, even if what is isn’t, perhaps, enough to ever bring you back.

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +

    Sorry, comments have been disabled for this post.

    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/new-pollution.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/new-pollution.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..31b1ded --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/new-pollution.txt @@ -0,0 +1,28 @@ +The New Pollution +================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 06 June 2011 + +Naples is a big, crowded, graffiti-filled city. It's an intimidating place that is by turns a bit like Philadelphia, a bit Mumbai, a bit some post-apocalyptic video game and, in the end, something else entirely. + +The rest of the world abandoned Naples long ago, left it to find its own way, fumbling through some darkness of its own making toward a light it can't yet see. + +The old Centro Storico area is a maze of narrow stone streets swarming with scooters dodging shoppers at the morning markets where fresh fruit and dried pasta hang alongside lanterns and trinkets, fishmongers crowd the sidewalks and the smell of pastries and coffee choke the air. + +Street, Naples, Italy + +The sun rarely makes it down through the five and six story facades to the streets below. The shadowy world of dark granite streets gives the impression that you're strolling through canyons of carefully cut stone blocks and marble doorways. There are no trees down here, hardly any plants at all. Higher up,, on the second and third stories, a few ferns, some moss and grasses grow on the balconies of abandoned buildings. + +Street, Naples, ItalyEven if there were light, there's no room for trees. There's hardly any room to move, save when a street opens up into a piazza, where in the evening crowds gather to drink beer or wine, or perhaps to eat in the restaurants that line the edges of the larger squares. + +Naples is it's own world. I sit outside the hotel watching as people on a balcony down the street lower a bucket down from the fifth story with a few euro inside. The man at the nearby tabac runs over, retrieves the euro and throws a pack of cigarettes inside. The bucket retreats back up into the heights of the buildings, disappearing into a tiny sliver of night sky. Naples, the city time forgot. + +Naples is not tourist friendly, it's not even pretty. It's just a city. Most of it is covered in graffiti, and, thanks to strikes and general city mismanagement (read: mob control), garbage. Or at least the city proper is, the old town area is largely trash-free, if only because the streets are so narrow there's simply no room for any trash. The graffiti though is universal, perhaps the one thing that links the old town and the newer portions together. + +graffiti on the street, Naples, Italy + +Pompeii, just thirty minutes away and 2600 years older, was also once covered in ancient Roman graffiti. It's just how they do things here apparently, it's in the blood, in the soil, in the wind. Speak your mind with spray cans -- or whatever might be the tool of the era -- out in the open, for everyone to see. + +The main reason any tourist, myself included, comes to Naples is its proximity to Pompeii. Beyond the quick and cheap train out to Pompeii, Naples doesn't have a lot to offer. That's part of it's appeal. Perhaps best appreciated in hindsight, but appeal nonetheless. Still, given the tourist epidemic that sweeps Italy every summer, Naples is a place worth appreciating for what it is not, even if what is isn't, perhaps, enough to ever bring you back. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/temple-ceremony-ubud.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/temple-ceremony-ubud.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6363e45 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/temple-ceremony-ubud.amp @@ -0,0 +1,196 @@ + + + + + + +The Balinese Temple Ceremony + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The Balinese Temple Ceremony

    + + + +
    +
    +

    Everything in Bali is two hundred meters from here. The island itself may in fact only be two hundred meters wide and two hundred meters long. To get from here to wherever we are staying? Two hundred meters. To get from here to the temple ceremony we were supposed to be at twenty minutes ago? Just two hundred meters more. The Balinese are either really bad at judging distance or unclear on the English words for numbers larger than two hundred.

    +

    We've been walking up this hill for at least 2km and we still haven't caught sight of the temple, though now we can hear the drums, which is encouraging. One last local walks by, "Excuse me, it this the road to Tegallantang? Yes. How much farther is it? "Just up the road. Maybe two hundred meters."

    +

    As it turns out, he's the only one to say two hundred meters and literally be right about it.

    +
    +

    +

    Two days earlier we were out wandering the streets when it started to rain. We ducked into the nearest restaurant for lunch. Toward the end of the meal, as the rain was dying down and we were getting ready to leave, the owner came over and started talking to us about Ubud. We ordered another beer and in the end he invited us out to his temple to see the temple's anniversary ceremony and procession through the city.

    +

    At the time we were thinking of leaving for the islands east of Bali, but we decided to stick around for a couple of extra days to see the temple ceremony.

    +

    Ubud grows on you. Sure, it has a lot of traffic and touristy elements and most of the shops sell things at prices roughly equal to what you'd expect in the States, but despite all that there's something about the place. Maybe it's the way every morning the streets are littered with tiny offerings, small banana leaf trays filled with flowers, bits of rice and other food, along with a few sticks of burning incense. Maybe it's the immaculate, constantly tended gardens that grace the courtyards of every restaurant and guesthouse you enter. Maybe it's the really awful, overpriced beer. No. Probably not that, but it does grow on you. Ubud that is, not the beer.

    +

    With a few extra days on our hands we rode the motor bike around some more. We also walked around the temples of the sacred monkey forest where we saw one of the namesake gray-haired Macaques (small monkeys) re-enact the opening scene of 2001 with a battered old aerosol can. Eventually it stopped banging the can on the ground and just turned it around, upside down, shook it, bit it, threw it and otherwise seemed to be saying, how do you work this thing?

    +

    After four and half days though I'll admit I wasn't expecting much when we walked a couple of kilometers out of Ubud to the village of Tegallantang where we, along with a couple friends we met a few days earlier, met up with our friend from the restaurant.

    +

    I've been to a lot of Hindu temples. Enough in fact that I don't feel the need to see any more, but Balinese temples are considerably different than Hindu temples in India. While Balinese temples look partly like Hindu temples in India, there are other elements that come from older religions. Bali is what happens when Hindu beliefs collide with animism. The Balinese seem to embrace the basic tenants of traditional Hinduism, but then add plenty of their own animist flourishes to the mix -- like frequent and elaborate temple ceremonies.

    +

    By the time we arrived the temple portion of the ceremony was already over, which is just as well because it felt vaguely intrusive to be the only white people standing outside the temple, and would have felt even more so if they had invited us in. And I have no doubt they would have, as we seemed to be the only people uneasy with our presence. I'm always wary of being that guy, the obnoxious tourist thrusting a camera in everyone's face. I even carry a long telephoto lens just so I can avoid being that guy.

    +

    However, despite the fact that the ceremony was not a public spectacle by any means, the procession most definitely was, since it was headed for the heart of Ubud, down to the meeting of the two rivers which is both a sacred sight for the locals and tourist central for the city. Perhaps that's why no one seemed to mind us standing around the temple.

    +

    When we arrived only the men were at the temple. Most of them were turned out in immaculate white sarongs crisply tied without a fold out of place, topped with white shirts. Boys as young as five or six on up to teenagers were lined up to carry giant umbrellas, flags and various silk emblems which towered high above their heads on bamboo poles. The brigade of youngsters and the fluttering banners made up the front of the procession back to Ubud. The umbrellas and banners were used to shade the effigies of gods and demons that made up the middle of the procession.

    +

    The older men came next split into two groups, those warming up on drums, flutes and other musical instruments, and those still inside the temple, loading up the various offerings and even stone shrines, all of which they carried in groups, the weight slung between two long bamboo poles that rested on the shoulders of eight and sometimes ten men.

    +

    Once the men had all taken their places, as if on cue (though more likely via the walkie talkies some of the elders carried), the women arrived dressed in elaborate sarongs of rich gold and red silk. Most of the women, even the very young girls, wore thick coats of makeup on their faces, giving them a doll-like appearance reminiscent of Japanese geishas, though I'm pretty sure that wasn't the image they had in mind.

    +

    +

    Then, as with any parade you've ever seen, the band struck up a song. The children moved out in front, the older women placed their baskets on their heads, the men picked up their offerings and shrines and the whole affair began the slow walking march through the hills down into Ubud. We brought up the rear, the token tourists trailing the procession through the rice paddies and down the hill, past shops and restaurants, houses and even a resort or two until the street widened and eventually reached the main road through Ubud.

    +

    At that point we broke off and went up to a second story restaurant to have a beer and a bit of a snack, content to watch from a distance. As we sat upstairs in the fading light we watched as the river of white shirts hit the main road and flowed right, turning toward the city center, gradually growing smaller until the last white shirts disappeared down the hill.

    +

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/temple-ceremony-ubud.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/temple-ceremony-ubud.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5d3e285 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/temple-ceremony-ubud.html @@ -0,0 +1,402 @@ + + + + + The Balinese Temple Ceremony - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The Balinese Temple Ceremony

    + +
    +
    +

    Ubud, Bali, Indonesia

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Everything in Bali is two hundred meters from here. The island itself may in fact only be two hundred meters wide and two hundred meters long. To get from here to wherever we are staying? Two hundred meters. To get from here to the temple ceremony we were supposed to be at twenty minutes ago? Just two hundred meters more. The Balinese are either really bad at judging distance or unclear on the English words for numbers larger than two hundred.

    +

    We’ve been walking up this hill for at least 2km and we still haven’t caught sight of the temple, though now we can hear the drums, which is encouraging. One last local walks by, “Excuse me, it this the road to Tegallantang? Yes. How much farther is it? “Just up the road. Maybe two hundred meters.”

    +

    As it turns out, he’s the only one to say two hundred meters and literally be right about it.

    +
    + + Elephant Caves, Ubud, Bali photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Two days earlier we were out wandering the streets when it started to rain. We ducked into the nearest restaurant for lunch. Toward the end of the meal, as the rain was dying down and we were getting ready to leave, the owner came over and started talking to us about Ubud. We ordered another beer and in the end he invited us out to his temple to see the temple’s anniversary ceremony and procession through the city.

    +

    At the time we were thinking of leaving for the islands east of Bali, but we decided to stick around for a couple of extra days to see the temple ceremony.

    +

    Ubud grows on you. Sure, it has a lot of traffic and touristy elements and most of the shops sell things at prices roughly equal to what you’d expect in the States, but despite all that there’s something about the place. Maybe it’s the way every morning the streets are littered with tiny offerings, small banana leaf trays filled with flowers, bits of rice and other food, along with a few sticks of burning incense. Maybe it’s the immaculate, constantly tended gardens that grace the courtyards of every restaurant and guesthouse you enter. Maybe it’s the really awful, overpriced beer. No. Probably not that, but it does grow on you. Ubud that is, not the beer.

    +

    With a few extra days on our hands we did a lot of walking. We walked around the temples of the sacred monkey forest where we saw one of the namesake gray-haired Macaques (small monkeys) re-enact the opening scene of 2001 with a battered old aerosol can. Eventually it stopped banging the can on the ground and just turned it around, upside down, shook it, bit it, threw it and otherwise seemed to be saying, how do you work this thing?

    +
    + + Gray Macaques, Ubud, Bali photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    After four and half days though I’ll admit I wasn’t expecting much when we walked a couple of kilometers out of Ubud to the village of Tegallantang where we, along with a couple friends we met a few days earlier, met up with our friend from the restaurant.

    +

    I’ve been to a lot of Hindu temples. Enough in fact that I don’t feel the need to see any more, but Balinese temples are considerably different than Hindu temples in India. While Balinese temples look partly like Hindu temples in India, there are other elements that come from older religions. Bali is what happens when Hindu beliefs collide with animism. The Balinese seem to embrace the basic tenants of traditional Hinduism, but then add plenty of their own animist flourishes to the mix — like frequent and elaborate temple ceremonies.

    +
    + + men waiting for temple ceremony to begin, ubud, bali Pomp and circumstance and nose picking. photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Children waiting for temple ceremony to begin, Ubud, Bali photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + boy picking nose at temple ceremony, ubud, bali photographed by luxagraf + +
    Pomp and circumstance and nose picking.
    +
    + +

    By the time we arrived the temple portion of the ceremony was already over, which is just as well because it felt vaguely intrusive to be the only white people standing outside the temple, and would have felt even more so if they had invited us in. And I have no doubt they would have, as we seemed to be the only people uneasy with our presence. I’m always wary of being that guy, the obnoxious tourist thrusting a camera in everyone’s face. I even carry a long telephoto lens just so I can avoid being that guy.

    +

    However, despite the fact that the ceremony was not a public spectacle by any means, the procession most definitely was, since it was headed for the heart of Ubud, down to the meeting of the two rivers which is both a sacred sight for the locals and tourist central for the city. Perhaps that’s why no one seemed to mind us standing around the temple.

    +

    When we arrived only the men were at the temple. Most of them were turned out in immaculate white sarongs crisply tied without a fold out of place, topped with white shirts. Boys as young as five or six on up to teenagers were lined up to carry giant umbrellas, flags and various silk emblems which towered high above their heads on bamboo poles. The brigade of youngsters and the fluttering banners made up the front of the procession back to Ubud. The umbrellas and banners were used to shade the effigies of gods and demons that made up the middle of the procession.

    +
    + + + + Effigies, ceremony procession, Tegallantang, Bali photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Effigies, ceremony procession, Tegallantang, Bali photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    The older men came next split into two groups, those warming up on drums, flutes and other musical instruments, and those still inside the temple, loading up the various offerings and even stone shrines, all of which they carried in groups, the weight slung between two long bamboo poles that rested on the shoulders of eight and sometimes ten men.

    +
    + + temple procession, Ubud, Bali photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Once the men had all taken their places, as if on cue (though more likely via the walkie talkies some of the elders carried), the women arrived dressed in elaborate sarongs of rich gold and red silk. Most of the women, even the very young girls, wore thick coats of makeup on their faces, giving them a doll-like appearance reminiscent of Japanese geishas, though I’m pretty sure that wasn’t the image they had in mind.

    +
    + + Effigies, ceremony procession, Tegallantang, Bali photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Then, as with any parade you’ve ever seen, the band struck up a song. The children moved out in front, the older women placed their baskets on their heads, the men picked up their offerings and shrines and the whole affair began the slow walking march through the hills down into Ubud. We brought up the rear, the token tourists trailing the procession through the rice paddies and down the hill, past shops and restaurants, houses and even a resort or two until the street widened and eventually reached the main road through Ubud.

    +

    At that point we broke off and went up to a second story restaurant to have a beer and a bit of a snack, content to watch from a distance. As we sat upstairs in the fading light we watched as the river of white shirts hit the main road and flowed right, turning toward the city center, gradually growing smaller until the last white shirts disappeared down the hill.

    +
    + + temple ceremony procession, Ubud, Bali photographed by luxagraf + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/temple-ceremony-ubud.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/temple-ceremony-ubud.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..af0e172 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/06/temple-ceremony-ubud.txt @@ -0,0 +1,60 @@ +The Balinese Temple Ceremony +============================ + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 19 June 2011 + +Everything in Bali is two hundred meters from here. The island itself may in fact only be two hundred meters wide and two hundred meters long. To get from here to wherever we are staying? Two hundred meters. To get from here to the temple ceremony we were supposed to be at twenty minutes ago? Just two hundred meters more. The Balinese are either really bad at judging distance or unclear on the English words for numbers larger than two hundred. + +We've been walking up this hill for at least 2km and we still haven't caught sight of the temple, though now we can hear the drums, which is encouraging. One last local walks by, "Excuse me, it this the road to Tegallantang? Yes. How much farther is it? "Just up the road. Maybe two hundred meters." + +As it turns out, he's the only one to say two hundred meters and literally be right about it. + + + +Two days earlier we were out wandering the streets when it started to rain. We ducked into the nearest restaurant for lunch. Toward the end of the meal, as the rain was dying down and we were getting ready to leave, the owner came over and started talking to us about Ubud. We ordered another beer and in the end he invited us out to his temple to see the temple's anniversary ceremony and procession through the city. + +At the time we were thinking of leaving for the islands east of Bali, but we decided to stick around for a couple of extra days to see the temple ceremony. + +Ubud grows on you. Sure, it has a lot of traffic and touristy elements and most of the shops sell things at prices roughly equal to what you'd expect in the States, but despite all that there's something about the place. Maybe it's the way every morning the streets are littered with tiny offerings, small banana leaf trays filled with flowers, bits of rice and other food, along with a few sticks of burning incense. Maybe it's the immaculate, constantly tended gardens that grace the courtyards of every restaurant and guesthouse you enter. Maybe it's the really awful, overpriced beer. No. Probably not that, but it does grow on you. Ubud that is, not the beer. + + +With a few extra days on our hands we did a lot of walking. We walked around the temples of the sacred monkey forest where we saw one of the namesake gray-haired Macaques (small monkeys) re-enact the opening scene of 2001 with a battered old aerosol can. Eventually it stopped banging the can on the ground and just turned it around, upside down, shook it, bit it, threw it and otherwise seemed to be saying, [how do you work this thing](http://www.zefrank.com/theshow/archives/2006/05/051106.html)? + + + +After four and half days though I'll admit I wasn't expecting much when we walked a couple of kilometers out of Ubud to the village of Tegallantang where we, along with a couple friends we met a few days earlier, met up with our friend from the restaurant. + +I've been to a lot of Hindu temples. Enough in fact that I don't feel the need to see any more, but Balinese temples are considerably different than Hindu temples in India. While Balinese temples look partly like Hindu temples in India, there are other elements that come from older religions. Bali is what happens when Hindu beliefs collide with animism. The Balinese seem to embrace the basic tenants of traditional Hinduism, but then add plenty of their own animist flourishes to the mix -- like frequent and elaborate temple ceremonies. + + + + + +By the time we arrived the temple portion of the ceremony was already over, which is just as well because it felt vaguely intrusive to be the only white people standing outside the temple, and would have felt even more so if they had invited us in. And I have no doubt they would have, as we seemed to be the only people uneasy with our presence. I'm always wary of being that guy, the obnoxious tourist thrusting a camera in everyone's face. I even carry a long telephoto lens just so I can avoid being that guy. + +However, despite the fact that the ceremony was not a public spectacle by any means, the procession most definitely was, since it was headed for the heart of Ubud, down to the meeting of the two rivers which is both a sacred sight for the locals and tourist central for the city. Perhaps that's why no one seemed to mind us standing around the temple. + +When we arrived only the men were at the temple. Most of them were turned out in immaculate white sarongs crisply tied without a fold out of place, topped with white shirts. Boys as young as five or six on up to teenagers were lined up to carry giant umbrellas, flags and various silk emblems which towered high above their heads on bamboo poles. The brigade of youngsters and the fluttering banners made up the front of the procession back to Ubud. The umbrellas and banners were used to shade the effigies of gods and demons that made up the middle of the procession. + +
    + + + + +
    + +The older men came next split into two groups, those warming up on drums, flutes and other musical instruments, and those still inside the temple, loading up the various offerings and even stone shrines, all of which they carried in groups, the weight slung between two long bamboo poles that rested on the shoulders of eight and sometimes ten men. + + + +Once the men had all taken their places, as if on cue (though more likely via the walkie talkies some of the elders carried), the women arrived dressed in elaborate sarongs of rich gold and red silk. Most of the women, even the very young girls, wore thick coats of makeup on their faces, giving them a doll-like appearance reminiscent of Japanese geishas, though I'm pretty sure that wasn't the image they had in mind. + + + +Then, as with any parade you've ever seen, the band struck up a song. The children moved out in front, the older women placed their baskets on their heads, the men picked up their offerings and shrines and the whole affair began the slow walking march through the hills down into Ubud. We brought up the rear, the token tourists trailing the procession through the rice paddies and down the hill, past shops and restaurants, houses and even a resort or two until the street widened and eventually reached the main road through Ubud. + +At that point we broke off and went up to a second story restaurant to have a beer and a bit of a snack, content to watch from a distance. As we sat upstairs in the fading light we watched as the river of white shirts hit the main road and flowed right, turning toward the city center, gradually growing smaller until the last white shirts disappeared down the hill. + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/10/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/10/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a803c60 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/10/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,104 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: October 2011

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/10/worst-place-on-earth.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/10/worst-place-on-earth.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cecd77d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/10/worst-place-on-earth.amp @@ -0,0 +1,194 @@ + + + + + + +The Worst Place on Earth + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The Worst Place on Earth

    + + + +
    +
    +

    It was nearly two in the morning. It was hot, but I had been jumping in the salt water shower every half hour or so and that, combined with the oscillating fan on the floor at the foot of the bed, made the heat tolerable.

    +

    I lay on the bed, legs sticking to sheets. I had been lying there for several hours, with my tiny laptop on the bed next to me, trying to figure out why the Gili Islands disturbed me so much, trying to put my finger on what about this place made me so uncomfortable. I never came up with a precise answer, which is why I've never written anything about Gili Trawangan.

    +

    +

    I tried writing about everything I thought was wrong with the Gilis, but in the end it wasn't the hordes of hippie tourists, the Australians behaving badly, the ridiculously overpriced food and lodging or even the cats -- the only thing I'm really allergic to -- everywhere on the island, nor was it even all of those things combined that bothered me.

    +

    On the face of it Gili Trawangan is quite nice. It's small enough to walk around in a day and is surrounded by crystal clear water with a reef that could, with a bit of conservation effort, be quite remarkable. Sadly, it isn't remarkable[1], but the few moments I did enjoy on Gili Trawangan were all moments when my head was underwater and I could willfully ignore everything on the beach behind me.

    +

    +

    It's taken me months to realize what bothered me, but in the end it was clear. The problem with the Gili Islands is that they don't really exist.

    +

    What I mean by that is that the Gilis are not islands you go to and experience, rather they are ideas about what islands ought to be brought to life. The Gili Islands exist as a backdrop on which tourists can act out their fantasies about what "paradise" ought to be.

    +

    It's tempting to say there's nothing wrong with that, and maybe there isn't, but it isn't what I look for when I travel. Don't get me wrong, I didn't mind the crowds of the Gilis. The Gilis certainly aren't off the beaten path, but that's also something I've never been too interested in.

    +

    What interests me when I travel is the normal. It's been my experience that while the world is huge, it happens in very small, ordinary moments. I'm interested in seeing how things are done in all nooks and crooks of the planet. I enjoy seeing the daily life that happens on every street everywhere around the world. It's been my experience that every street, every park, every square has it's own form of ordinary and that any of it exists at all is extraordinary.

    +

    Looking for the ordinary has shaped the way I travel over the years. It's taught me to avoid the guesthouse when possible, to rent apartments where I can and to try to get to know blocks rather than neighborhoods, neighborhoods rather than cities. It's taught me that guidebooks are generally wrong and what you'll remember afterward are usually not things you'd planned to do.

    +

    I have no problem with popular tourist destinations, some of them are quite amazing -- there's a reason Pompeii and Angkor Wat are popular, because they're amazing places -- but they aren't what motivate me to leave home.

    +

    I realized months after I'd left the Gilis that I've never really been interested in the quest to find paradise. I own a house in what I consider a paradise. Athens GA is not perfect, but it's pretty near to paradise for me. If I were looking for paradise I wouldn't leave town much[2]

    +

    And that in the end is what the Gili Islands have to offer, a collective idea of what paradise looks like. The Gilis are a collection of paradise fantasies culled from decades of hippie travelers, scuba divers, honeymooners, and the rich, lost children of the West.

    +

    I eventually realized that the thing that made me uncomfortable, the thing that kept me up on what turned out to be our last night on Gili Trawangan, was the realization that this exists because I am here. I am, however much against my will, now responsible for this. My money has now helped perpetuate this place. I would not want to deny any paradise seeker the opportunity to act out their fantasy on the Gilis, but I prefer to be left out of it. Places like the Gilis can get along just fine without me.

    +
      +
    1. +

      Constantly dropping anchors on coral destroys reefs and, despite no shortage of mooring, nearly every boat that I saw pull into Gili Trawangan dropped anchor.↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      By the same token if there comes a day when I no longer think Athens is a paradise I will pick up and leave.↩

      +
      3. +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/10/worst-place-on-earth.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/10/worst-place-on-earth.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8d10220 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/10/worst-place-on-earth.html @@ -0,0 +1,496 @@ + + + + + The Worst Place On Earth - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The Worst Place on Earth

    + +
    +
    +

    Gili Trawangan, Indonesia

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    It was nearly two in the morning. It was hot, but I had been jumping in the salt water shower every half hour or so and that, combined with the oscillating fan on the floor at the foot of the bed, made the heat tolerable.

    +

    I lay on the bed, legs sticking to sheets. I had been lying there for several hours, with my tiny laptop on the bed next to me, trying to figure out why the Gili Islands disturbed me so much, trying to put my finger on what about this place made me so uncomfortable. I never came up with a precise answer, which is why I’ve never written anything about Gili Trawangan.

    +

    I tried writing about everything I thought was wrong with the Gilis, but in the end it wasn’t the hordes of hippie tourists, the Australians behaving badly, the ridiculously overpriced food and lodging or even the cats — the only thing I’m really allergic to — everywhere on the island, nor was it even all of those things combined that bothered me.

    +

    On the face of it Gili Trawangan is quite nice. It’s small enough to walk around in a day and is surrounded by crystal clear water with a reef that could, with a bit of conservation effort, be quite remarkable. Sadly, it isn’t remarkable[1], but the few moments I did enjoy on Gili Trawangan were all moments when my head was underwater and I could willfully ignore everything on the beach behind me.

    +
    + + Lombok as Viewed from Gili Trawangan, Indonesia photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It’s taken me months to realize what bothered me, but in the end it was clear. The problem with the Gili Islands is that they don’t really exist.

    +

    What I mean by that is that the Gilis are not islands you go to and experience, rather they are ideas about what islands ought to be brought to life. The Gili Islands exist as a backdrop on which tourists can act out their fantasies about what “paradise” ought to be.

    +

    It’s tempting to say there’s nothing wrong with that, and maybe there isn’t, but it isn’t what I look for when I travel. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t mind the crowds of the Gilis. The Gilis certainly aren’t off the beaten path, but that’s also something I’ve never been too interested in.

    +

    What interests me when I travel is the normal. It’s been my experience that while the world is huge, it happens in very small, ordinary moments. I’m interested in seeing how things are done in all nooks and crooks of the planet. I enjoy seeing the daily life that happens on every street everywhere around the world. It’s been my experience that every street, every park, every square has it’s own form of ordinary and that any of it exists at all is extraordinary.

    +

    Looking for the ordinary has shaped the way I travel over the years. It’s taught me to avoid the guesthouse when possible, to rent apartments where I can and to try to get to know blocks rather than neighborhoods, neighborhoods rather than cities. It’s taught me that guidebooks are generally wrong and what you’ll remember afterward are usually not things you’d planned to do.

    +

    I have no problem with popular tourist destinations, some of them are quite amazing — there’s a reason Pompeii and Angkor Wat are popular, because they’re amazing places — but they aren’t what motivate me to leave home.

    +

    I realized months after I’d left the Gilis that I’ve never really been interested in the quest to find paradise. I own a house in what I consider a paradise. Athens GA is not perfect, but it’s pretty near to paradise for me. If I were looking for paradise I wouldn’t leave town much[2]

    +

    And that in the end is what the Gili Islands have to offer, a collective idea of what paradise looks like. The Gilis are a collection of paradise fantasies culled from decades of hippie travelers, scuba divers, honeymooners, and the rich, lost children of the West.

    +

    I eventually realized that the thing that made me uncomfortable, the thing that kept me up on what turned out to be our last night on Gili Trawangan, was the realization that this exists because I am here. I am, however much against my will, now responsible for this. My money has now helped perpetuate this place. I would not want to deny any paradise seeker the opportunity to act out their fantasy on the Gilis, but I prefer to be left out of it. Places like the Gilis can get along just fine without me.

    +
      +
    1. +

      Constantly dropping anchors on coral destroys reefs and, despite no shortage of mooring, nearly every boat that I saw pull into Gili Trawangan dropped anchor.↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      By the same token if there comes a day when I no longer think Athens is a paradise I will pick up and leave.↩

      +
      3. +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +

    7 Comments

    + + + + + + +
    + +
    + +
    + Ally Potter + January 17, 2015 at 1:51 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Loved this post. Felt that I would feel the same, so hit up Nusa Lembongan instead and am currently sat reading your blog overlooking the serene ocean and feeling contented. Great blog!

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + January 22, 2015 at 8:18 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Ally-

    +

    Thanks for stopping by and I’m glad you like the site.

    +

    I hope you enjoy your time in Nusa, it is much, much better than the Gilis. I also hope that the internet on Nusa is faster than it used to be otherwise I fear luxagraf might be loading pretty slowly….

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Laura Truelove + August 11, 2015 at 11:28 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    I’ve recently returned from a two month journey backpacking around Bali, and found myself spending four nights on Gili Trawangan (although I originally wanted to go to Gili Air as I’d heard this island was more beautiful, I mistakenly purchased a ticket for Gili T). I felt this similar feeling of disturbance whilst on the island and wasn’t sure whether this boiled down to the horribly mistreated horses they use as transport. I couldn’t have found any way to sum up that feeling in my own words, but you somehow managed to do it in yours. Great read!

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + August 12, 2015 at 10:03 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Laura-

    +

    Ah yes, the horses, I didn’t even get around to mentioning that.

    +

    Re-reading this now this post feels a little bit entitled on my part, but I dunno, some places, I guess they’re just not for me.

    +

    Anyway, hope you had fun in the rest of your travels and I added your site to my RSS reader.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + sean + January 08, 2016 at 8:30 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    well put mate - manufactured paradise really doesn’t do it for me either and again I agree with you about staying somewhere for a few days and getting know the place your in - blocks, neighbourhood - rather than flying through and ticking off places… thanks for the report ( ps Spent time on Gili T and Lembongan myself - Lembongan definitely getting another visit - pretty sure Gili T won’t be)

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Michel K + January 01, 2017 at 2:24 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Thank you for this excellently written post. In fact, I was wondering about exactly the same ideas while walking from the east side of the island to its west. I had to pass by the “residential areas” and saw how unjust this world is. And when I arrived to the famous “sunset point”, I was thinking: “is it just me or is this island the worst destination on the planet?” I googled that thought and there you showed up. Thanks again.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + January 01, 2017 at 12:28 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Michel- Glad you enjoyed the post, if not the islands.

    +

    I need to get this post to show up in google searches that people do before they go to Gili T.

    +

    sean- glad you liked it. And yes, I’d definitely go back to nusa lembongan.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/10/worst-place-on-earth.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/10/worst-place-on-earth.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7c1485f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/10/worst-place-on-earth.txt @@ -0,0 +1,43 @@ +The Worst Place on Earth +======================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 17 October 2011 + +It was nearly two in the morning. It was hot, but I had been jumping in the salt water shower every half hour or so and that, combined with the oscillating fan on the floor at the foot of the bed, made the heat tolerable. + +I lay on the bed, legs sticking to sheets. I had been lying there for several hours, with my tiny laptop on the bed next to me, trying to figure out why the Gili Islands disturbed me so much, trying to put my finger on what about this place made me so uncomfortable. I never came up with a precise answer, which is why I've never written anything about Gili Trawangan. + +I tried writing about everything I thought was wrong with the Gilis, but in the end it wasn't the hordes of hippie tourists, the Australians behaving badly, the ridiculously overpriced food and lodging or even the cats -- the only thing I'm really allergic to -- everywhere on the island, nor was it even all of those things combined that bothered me. + +On the face of it Gili Trawangan is quite nice. It's small enough to walk around in a day and is surrounded by crystal clear water with a reef that could, with a bit of conservation effort, be quite remarkable. Sadly, it isn't remarkable[1], but the few moments I did enjoy on Gili Trawangan were all moments when my head was underwater and I could willfully ignore everything on the beach behind me. + + + +It's taken me months to realize what bothered me, but in the end it was clear. The problem with the Gili Islands is that they don't really exist. + +What I mean by that is that the Gilis are not islands you go to and experience, rather they are ideas about what islands ought to be brought to life. The Gili Islands exist as a backdrop on which tourists can act out their fantasies about what "paradise" ought to be. + +It's tempting to say there's nothing wrong with that, and maybe there isn't, but it isn't what I look for when I travel. Don't get me wrong, I didn't mind the crowds of the Gilis. The Gilis certainly aren't off the beaten path, but that's also something I've never been too interested in. + +What interests me when I travel is the normal. It's been my experience that while the world is huge, it happens in very small, ordinary moments. I'm interested in seeing how things are done in all nooks and crooks of the planet. I enjoy seeing the daily life that happens on every street everywhere around the world. It's been my experience that every street, every park, every square has it's own form of ordinary and that any of it exists at all is extraordinary. + +Looking for the ordinary has shaped the way I travel over the years. It's taught me to avoid the guesthouse when possible, to rent apartments where I can and to try to get to know blocks rather than neighborhoods, neighborhoods rather than cities. It's taught me that guidebooks are generally wrong and what you'll remember afterward are usually not things you'd planned to do. + +I have no problem with popular tourist destinations, some of them are quite amazing -- there's a reason Pompeii and Angkor Wat are popular, because they're amazing places -- but they aren't what motivate me to leave home. + +I realized months after I'd left the Gilis that I've never really been interested in the quest to find paradise. I own a house in what I consider a paradise. Athens GA is not perfect, but it's pretty near to paradise for me. If I were looking for paradise I wouldn't leave town much[2] + +And that in the end is what the Gili Islands have to offer, a collective idea of what paradise looks like. The Gilis are a collection of paradise fantasies culled from decades of hippie travelers, scuba divers, honeymooners, and the rich, lost children of the West. + +I eventually realized that the thing that made me uncomfortable, the thing that kept me up on what turned out to be our last night on Gili Trawangan, was the realization that *this exists because I am here. I am, however much against my will, now responsible for this. My money has now helped perpetuate this place.* I would not want to deny any paradise seeker the opportunity to act out their fantasy on the Gilis, but I prefer to be left out of it. Places like the Gilis can get along just fine without me. + +
      +
    1. +

      Constantly dropping anchors on coral destroys reefs and, despite no shortage of mooring, nearly every boat that I saw pull into Gili Trawangan dropped anchor.↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      By the same token if there comes a day when I no longer think Athens is a paradise I will pick up and leave.↩

      +
      3. +
    diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..775a643 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2011/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,172 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    2011, on luxagraf

    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/03/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/03/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..49ba1ef --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/03/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,104 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: March 2012

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/03/street-food-athens-georgia.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/03/street-food-athens-georgia.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b27d26e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/03/street-food-athens-georgia.amp @@ -0,0 +1,194 @@ + + + + + + +Street Food in Athens Georgia + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Street Food in Athens Georgia

    + + + +
    +
    +

    We went downtown today to the first (so far as I know) Athens Food Cart Festival. Athens is not a huge place. It's not what I'd call a small town either, though the downtown area manages to retain, for now, that feel. That, combined with the U.S. Government's seeming dislike for street vendors in general means that there are, to the best of my knowledge only two or three street vendors in town and none of them have anything like a regular presence anywhere.

    +

    It used to be different. There used to at least be JB, who had a sausage cart that could be counted on to be outside the 40 Watt every Friday and Saturday night. Sometimes JB would even follow the crowds to house parties, slinging sausage, beans and "comeback" sauce into the wee hours of the morning. I miss JB. I wrote about my experience with JB for Longshot Magazine a while back.

    +

    JB was irreplaceable. He left a vacuum that's never been properly filled. There is a 24 hour diner downtown, but there's something about eating on the street at night. It draws you out, makes you part of the city. It's a shared experience, street food. More communal and more intimate at the same time.

    +

    +

    Cheap food, made fresh, in front of you. Served hot, wrapped in newspaper. Street food is the people's food, it removes the mystery of the kitchen, lays the process bare. It's the staple diet of people around the world.

    +

    +

    I've had everything from fish and chips to deep fried water beetles from street vendors and it was all good. Yes, even the beetles. Part of the beauty of street food is you can see it all before you commit, so if it looks bad, well, on to the next cart.

    +

    For me places often come to be defined in large part by the food I ate. Especially looking back. Sites rarely stand out in my memory, but that delicious mystery meat I ate on the banks of the Mekong? Clear as day. When I think of India now I think of trains and chai. I think of little red clay cups piled beside the tracks, slowly dissolving in an afternoon thundershower. I think of little push carts clattering by, selling samosas and Chaats.

    +

    In Bangkok I lived for a month eating almost exclusively skewered meat grilled in a tiny cart with only a handful of glowing charcoal, tended by an old woman who spoke no English, but knew my order after two nights1. Six pork, six beef, spicy sauce, one bag of sticky rice.

    +

    In Paris I ate oysters from street vendors. In London fish and chips. In Laos noodle bowls. In Nicaragua empanadas and plantains. At home in Athens there used to be JB. Now there’s pretty much nothing.

    +

    In Athens this weekend that changed, if only for a meal or two. The deep friend Korean Hot Dog from Streets Café was amazing. As was the sausage from La Fonda. Several of the Atlanta-based trucks were great as well. But none of it will be there tomorrow. In fact it probably won't be there ever again. That's what was sad about the experience, it was great big tease. It was a reminder: you could have this. But you don't.

    +

    On some level my love of street food isn't really even about the food. The food is just the catalyst for something more. It's the common tether that brings us all to the same table in the end. There are huge gulfs between cultures, beliefs differ in ways that you’re never going to move beyond, but everyone understands food.

    +

    If you want to get to know someone, eat with them. It’s the universal social language.

    +

    And that's what makes a community, people coming together in collective spaces -- owned by no one -- and setting aside whatever might divide them for long enough to share a table, a taco, a noodle bowl, some rice.

    +

    +

    In order for people to come together, in order to establish the kind of commons that form the basis of a healthy community, you need some kind of anchor. You need something to tether the whole thing to the ground. Street food carts and trucks offer that anchor, that basis for bringing people together in a communal space.

    +

    That’s missing in Athens and it has been ever since JB stopped pulling into the 40 Watt parking lot. Athens has world class restaurants. Athens has world famous music venues and more bars than many cities twice its size. That's all great, but none of it brings us together the way street food could if we let it.

    +
      +
    1. +

      According to a friend who was in Bangkok last week she's still there, plying her trade.↩

      +
      2. +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/03/street-food-athens-georgia.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/03/street-food-athens-georgia.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1ef8d77 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/03/street-food-athens-georgia.html @@ -0,0 +1,401 @@ + + + + + Street Food In Athens Georgia - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Street Food in Athens Georgia

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    We went downtown today to the first (so far as I know) Athens Food Cart Festival. Athens is not a huge place. It’s not what I’d call a small town either, though the downtown area manages to retain, for now, that feel. That, combined with the U.S. Government’s seeming dislike for street vendors in general means that there are, to the best of my knowledge only two or three street vendors in town and none of them have anything like a regular presence anywhere.

    +

    It used to be different. There used to at least be JB, who had a sausage cart that could be counted on to be outside the 40 Watt every Friday and Saturday night. Sometimes JB would even follow the crowds to house parties, slinging sausage, beans and “comeback” sauce into the wee hours of the morning. I miss JB. I wrote about my experience with JB for Longshot Magazine a while back.

    +

    JB was irreplaceable. He left a vacuum that’s never been properly filled. There is a 24 hour diner downtown, but there’s something about eating on the street at night. It draws you out, makes you part of the city. It’s a shared experience, street food. More communal and more intimate at the same time.

    +

    +

    Cheap food, made fresh, in front of you. Served hot, wrapped in newspaper. Street food is the people’s food, it removes the mystery of the kitchen, lays the process bare. It’s the staple diet of people around the world.

    +

    Fish tacos, street food, athens GA

    +

    I’ve had everything from fish and chips to deep fried water beetles from street vendors and it was all good. Yes, even the beetles. Part of the beauty of street food is you can see it all before you commit, so if it looks bad, well, on to the next cart.

    +

    For me places often come to be defined in large part by the food I ate. Especially looking back. Sites rarely stand out in my memory, but that delicious mystery meat I ate on the banks of the Mekong? Clear as day. When I think of India now I think of trains and chai. I think of little red clay cups piled beside the tracks, slowly dissolving in an afternoon thundershower. I think of little push carts clattering by, selling samosas and Chaats.

    +

    In Bangkok I lived for a month eating almost exclusively skewered meat grilled in a tiny cart with only a handful of glowing charcoal, tended by an old woman who spoke no English, but knew my order after two nights1. Six pork, six beef, spicy sauce, one bag of sticky rice.

    +

    In Paris I ate oysters from street vendors. In London fish and chips. In Laos noodle bowls. In Nicaragua empanadas and plantains. At home in Athens there used to be JB. Now there’s pretty much nothing.

    +

    In Athens this weekend that changed, if only for a meal or two. The deep friend Korean Hot Dog from Streets Café was amazing. As was the sausage from La Fonda. Several of the Atlanta-based trucks were great as well. But none of it will be there tomorrow. In fact it probably won’t be there ever again. That’s what was sad about the experience, it was great big tease. It was a reminder: you could have this. But you don’t.

    +

    On some level my love of street food isn’t really even about the food. The food is just the catalyst for something more. It’s the common tether that brings us all to the same table in the end. There are huge gulfs between cultures, beliefs differ in ways that you’re never going to move beyond, but everyone understands food.

    +

    If you want to get to know someone, eat with them. It’s the universal social language.

    +

    And that’s what makes a community, people coming together in collective spaces — owned by no one — and setting aside whatever might divide them for long enough to share a table, a taco, a noodle bowl, some rice.

    +

    People and food come together, athens GA

    +

    In order for people to come together, in order to establish the kind of commons that form the basis of a healthy community, you need some kind of anchor. You need something to tether the whole thing to the ground. Street food carts and trucks offer that anchor, that basis for bringing people together in a communal space.

    +

    That’s missing in Athens and it has been ever since JB stopped pulling into the 40 Watt parking lot. Athens has world class restaurants. Athens has world famous music venues and more bars than many cities twice its size. That’s all great, but none of it brings us together the way street food could if we let it.

    +
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      According to a friend who was in Bangkok last week she’s still there, plying her trade.↩

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/03/street-food-athens-georgia.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/03/street-food-athens-georgia.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ab3027d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/03/street-food-athens-georgia.txt @@ -0,0 +1,52 @@ +Street Food in Athens Georgia +============================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 31 March 2012 + +We went downtown today to the first (so far as I know) [Athens Food Cart Festival][4]. Athens is not a huge place. It's not what I'd call a small town either, though the downtown area manages to retain, for now, that feel. That, combined with the U.S. Government's seeming dislike for street vendors in general means that there are, to the best of my knowledge only two or three street vendors in town and none of them have anything like a regular presence anywhere. + +It used to be different. There used to at least be JB, who had a sausage cart that could be counted on to be outside the 40 Watt every Friday and Saturday night. Sometimes JB would even follow the crowds to house parties, slinging sausage, beans and "comeback" sauce into the wee hours of the morning. I miss JB. I [wrote about my experience with JB][3] for Longshot Magazine a while back. + +JB was irreplaceable. He left a vacuum that's never been properly filled. There is a 24 hour diner downtown, but there's something about eating on the street at night. It draws you out, makes you part of the city. It's a shared experience, street food. More communal and more intimate at the same time. + + + +Cheap food, made fresh, in front of you. Served hot, wrapped in newspaper. Street food is the people's food, it removes the mystery of the kitchen, lays the process bare. It's the staple diet of people around the world. + +Fish tacos, street food, athens GA + +I've had everything from fish and chips to deep fried water beetles from street vendors and it was all good. Yes, even the beetles. Part of the beauty of street food is you can see it all before you commit, so if it looks bad, well, on to the next cart. + +For me places often come to be defined in large part by the food I ate. Especially looking back. Sites rarely stand out in my memory, but that delicious mystery meat I ate on the banks of the Mekong? Clear as day. When I think of India now I think of trains and chai. I think of little red clay cups piled beside the tracks, slowly dissolving in an afternoon thundershower. I think of little push carts clattering by, selling samosas and Chaats. + +In Bangkok I lived for a month eating almost exclusively skewered meat grilled in a tiny cart with only a handful of glowing charcoal, tended by an old woman who spoke no English, but knew my order after two nights1. Six pork, six beef, spicy sauce, one bag of sticky rice. + +In Paris I ate oysters from street vendors. In London fish and chips. In Laos noodle bowls. In Nicaragua empanadas and plantains. At home in Athens there used to be JB. Now there’s pretty much nothing. + +In Athens this weekend that changed, if only for a meal or two. The deep friend Korean Hot Dog from [Streets Café][1] was amazing. As was the sausage from [La Fonda][2]. Several of the Atlanta-based trucks were great as well. But none of it will be there tomorrow. In fact it probably won't be there ever again. That's what was sad about the experience, it was great big tease. It was a reminder: you could have this. But you don't. + +On some level my love of street food isn't really even about the food. The food is just the catalyst for something more. It's the common tether that brings us all to the same table in the end. There are huge gulfs between cultures, beliefs differ in ways that you’re never going to move beyond, but everyone understands food. + +If you want to get to know someone, eat with them. It’s the universal social language. + +And that's what makes a community, people coming together in collective spaces -- owned by no one -- and setting aside whatever might divide them for long enough to share a table, a taco, a noodle bowl, some rice. + +People and food come together, athens GA + +In order for people to come together, in order to establish the kind of commons that form the basis of a healthy community, you need some kind of anchor. You need something to tether the whole thing to the ground. Street food carts and trucks offer that anchor, that basis for bringing people together in a communal space. + +That’s missing in Athens and it has been ever since JB stopped pulling into the 40 Watt parking lot. Athens has world class restaurants. Athens has world famous music venues and more bars than many cities twice its size. That's all great, but none of it brings us together the way street food could if we let it. + +[1]: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Streets-Cafe/145003412180488 +[2]: http://www.lafondadawgs.com/ +[3]: http://one.longshotmag.com/article/going-for-seconds +[4]: http://athensfoodcartfest.wordpress.com/ + +
      +
    1. +

      According to a friend who was in Bangkok last week she's still there, plying her trade.↩

      +
      2. +
    + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/05/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/05/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2d8e258 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/05/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,104 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Archive: May 2012

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    Things Behind the Sun

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    My grandparents left the home they lived in for 60 years today. They can no longer afford to live at home with the level of care they now require.

    +

    I don't know how much of my life was spent in that house, probably well over a year if you added up all the holidays and family gatherings.

    +

    I can smell the house, I can see the bedrooms though I haven't actually walked down the hall in many, many years. I remember trying to fall asleep in the front room to the red glow of the candle bulbs my grandmother put up at Christmas. I remember listening to Neil Diamond 8 tracks in the same room. I remember my cousin walking around the kitchen with the fantastically long, coiled phone cord trailing behind her (still the longest phone cord I've ever seen).

    +

    +

    And now I'm thousands of miles away and someone is clearing out the house. Moving out the furniture, dividing up a few possessions among children and grandchildren and all I can think about is that I've never even taken a picture of the house.

    +

    I'd like to stand in the street one last time and look at the low, brick house, the curved curb and the perpetually dead lawn, to take a picture, not to remember it, I'll never forget it anyway, but simply to have done it. To have taken the time to do it because I recognized it meant something to me; but I didn't.

    +

    I'd like it to be evening when I take the picture, the sort of desert evening that is pure relief, when the sky sighs a light grey-blue glow at twilight and the temperature finally falls below a hundred. The dry air is still, the clouds silent in the distance, behind the mountains. I'd like to frame the photo on the left with the junipers that aren't there any more, but were when I was younger. In the center I'd like to see the old brown Datsun truck (long since sold) that used to meet us in Utah, Arizona, Colorado to go camping for a week each spring. Zion National Park, Canyonlands, Arches, Natural Bridges, the wild southwest desert. The small brown truck with its white camper shell, tent and stove tucked in the back, fishing poles in long tubes hanging from the roof inside the shell, the silver washpan my grandfather poured scalding water into every morning to shave, a little mirror hanging from the camper shell hinge. My grandparents slept in cots in a tent. They were well into their sixties by then.

    +

    I'd like to get Pepper in the picture. I only saw him a few weeks of the year, but he was the closest thing I ever had to a dog when I was young. And perhaps Honcho, the ornery cat I never really liked, but he was tough and I always respected him.

    +

    I can see this image in my mind, see it quite clearly, but I'll never be able to take it. It's just a house, a structure made of brick and wood. Nothing more. Everything else is your mind, where you can keep it forever. I'm not sure if I keep saying that to myself because I believe it or because I want to. It's true either way. Everything else is in your mind. Even if you didn't think to remember it until the memories were all you had.

    +

    Image adapted from Dusk by Kevin Dooley, Flickr

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    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/05/things-behind-sun.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/05/things-behind-sun.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..14ec1d8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/05/things-behind-sun.html @@ -0,0 +1,390 @@ + + + + + Things Behind The Sun - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Things Behind the Sun

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    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
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    twilight, Tucson, image modified from one by kevin dooley, Flickr.

    +

    My grandparents left the home they lived in for 60 years today. They can no longer afford to live at home with the level of care they now require.

    +

    I don’t know how much of my life was spent in that house, probably well over a year if you added up all the holidays and family gatherings.

    +

    I can smell the house, I can see the bedrooms though I haven’t actually walked down the hall in many, many years. I remember trying to fall asleep in the front room to the red glow of the candle bulbs my grandmother put up at Christmas. I remember listening to Neil Diamond 8 tracks in the same room. I remember my cousin walking around the kitchen with the fantastically long, coiled phone cord trailing behind her (still the longest phone cord I’ve ever seen).

    +

    +

    And now I’m thousands of miles away and someone is clearing out the house. Moving out the furniture, dividing up a few possessions among children and grandchildren and all I can think about is that I’ve never even taken a picture of the house.

    +

    I’d like to stand in the street one last time and look at the low, brick house, the curved curb and the perpetually dead lawn, to take a picture, not to remember it, I’ll never forget it anyway, but simply to have done it. To have taken the time to do it because I recognized it meant something to me; but I didn’t.

    +

    I’d like it to be evening when I take the picture, the sort of desert evening that is pure relief, when the sky sighs a light grey-blue glow at twilight and the temperature finally falls below a hundred. The dry air is still, the clouds silent in the distance, behind the mountains. I’d like to frame the photo on the left with the junipers that aren’t there any more, but were when I was younger. In the center I’d like to see the old brown Datsun truck (long since sold) that used to meet us in Utah, Arizona, Colorado to go camping for a week each spring. Zion National Park, Canyonlands, Arches, Natural Bridges, the wild southwest desert. The small brown truck with its white camper shell, tent and stove tucked in the back, fishing poles in long tubes hanging from the roof inside the shell, the silver washpan my grandfather poured scalding water into every morning to shave, a little mirror hanging from the camper shell hinge. My grandparents slept in cots in a tent. They were well into their sixties by then.

    +

    I’d like to get Pepper in the picture. I only saw him a few weeks of the year, but he was the closest thing I ever had to a dog when I was young. And perhaps Honcho, the ornery cat I never really liked, but he was tough and I always respected him.

    +

    I can see this image in my mind, see it quite clearly, but I’ll never be able to take it. It’s just a house, a structure made of brick and wood. Nothing more. Everything else is your mind, where you can keep it forever. I’m not sure if I keep saying that to myself because I believe it or because I want to. It’s true either way. Everything else is in your mind. Even if you didn’t think to remember it until the memories were all you had.

    +

    Image adapted from Dusk by Kevin Dooley, Flickr

    +
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/05/things-behind-sun.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/05/things-behind-sun.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7280bb0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/05/things-behind-sun.txt @@ -0,0 +1,30 @@ +Things Behind the Sun +===================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 20 May 2012 + +twilight, Tucson, image modified from one by kevin dooley, Flickr. + +My grandparents left the home they lived in for 60 years today. They can no longer afford to live at home with the level of care they now require. + +I don't know how much of my life was spent in that house, probably well over a year if you added up all the holidays and family gatherings. + +I can smell the house, I can see the bedrooms though I haven't actually walked down the hall in many, many years. I remember trying to fall asleep in the front room to the red glow of the candle bulbs my grandmother put up at Christmas. I remember listening to Neil Diamond 8 tracks in the same room. I remember my cousin walking around the kitchen with the fantastically long, coiled phone cord trailing behind her (still the longest phone cord I've ever seen). + + + +And now I'm thousands of miles away and someone is clearing out the house. Moving out the furniture, dividing up a few possessions among children and grandchildren and all I can think about is that I've never even taken a picture of the house. + +I'd like to stand in the street one last time and look at the low, brick house, the curved curb and the perpetually dead lawn, to take a picture, not to remember it, I'll never forget it anyway, but simply to have done it. To have taken the time to do it because I recognized it meant something to me; but I didn't. + +I'd like it to be evening when I take the picture, the sort of desert evening that is pure relief, when the sky sighs a light grey-blue glow at twilight and the temperature finally falls below a hundred. The dry air is still, the clouds silent in the distance, behind the mountains. I'd like to frame the photo on the left with the junipers that aren't there any more, but were when I was younger. In the center I'd like to see the old brown Datsun truck (long since sold) that used to meet us in Utah, Arizona, Colorado to go camping for a week each spring. Zion National Park, Canyonlands, Arches, Natural Bridges, the wild southwest desert. The small brown truck with its white camper shell, tent and stove tucked in the back, fishing poles in long tubes hanging from the roof inside the shell, the silver washpan my grandfather poured scalding water into every morning to shave, a little mirror hanging from the camper shell hinge. My grandparents slept in cots in a tent. They were well into their sixties by then. + +I'd like to get Pepper in the picture. I only saw him a few weeks of the year, but he was the closest thing I ever had to a dog when I was young. And perhaps Honcho, the ornery cat I never really liked, but he was tough and I always respected him. + +I can see this image in my mind, see it quite clearly, but I'll never be able to take it. It's just a house, a structure made of brick and wood. Nothing more. Everything else is your mind, where you can keep it forever. I'm not sure if I keep saying that to myself because I believe it or because I want to. It's true either way. Everything else is in your mind. Even if you didn't think to remember it until the memories were all you had. + +Image adapted from [Dusk][1] by Kevin Dooley, Flickr + +[1]: http://www.flickr.com/photos/pagedooley/5174263185/ diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ba58621 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2012/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,116 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    Walk Slowly

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    +

    2012, on luxagraf

    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/all-the-pretty-beaches.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/all-the-pretty-beaches.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4796c15 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/all-the-pretty-beaches.amp @@ -0,0 +1,193 @@ + + + + + + +All the Pretty Beaches + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    All the Pretty Beaches

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    I was lucky; I grew up by the ocean. Surprisingly, or at least surprising to me, I never reached that point where I took it for granted. When something is right there for so long sometimes it blends into the background noise and you stop noticing it. Familiarity breeds contempt. Or at least complacency. But I've never felt complacent about my proximity to the sea. It's the one thing I miss living in Athens. How could you not? It's too big a thing to take for granted; it's were we came from. And it remains the one of the last true boundaries between the known and the unknown.

    +

    Boundary lands are always the most interesting places -- the seashore, the edge of timberline, where the city starts to give way to the country. These are the fringes of our world, the peripheral edges of our collective vision where everything is less certain, but more possible, more inviting. Boundaries are the gray areas where life feels most real, most truly momentary because the boundaries themselves are ever in flux.

    +

    The seashore is also just plain fun. Lounging in a hammock strung between two palm trees, sipping cocktails and enjoying the sunshine seems to be high on most people's list of things they think they would do if they won the lottery.

    +

    I've spent a good bit of my time traveling either at or around the seashore, from Thailand to India, to Nicaragua and Indonesia. The ocean may well be the only constant there is when you're traveling. I've been to plenty of places simply to see what the beaches were like -- Goa, India; Nusa Lembongan, Indonesia; Little Corn Island, Nicaragua and plenty more I haven't written about.

    +

    These days though I'm less inclined to travel somewhere solely for the promise of nice beaches because I found St. George Island.

    +

    I stumbled upon St. George Island a couple years ago. St. George is just off the Gulf Coast of northwest Florida, only about 7 hours from where I live (9 with babies). There are better places if you're looking to dive or snorkel. Ditto if it's nightlife you're after. But if you're looking for a seemingly endless amount of gorgeous white sand beaches you'll share with only a few migratory birds, St. George is among the best boundary land in the world.

    +

    I first arrived here largely by accident. My wife and I tagged along on an invitation to share a cheap beach house someone else had rented. We came back a year later. And again six months after that. And we hope to be back for a fourth visit before the year is over.

    +

    St. George is more than just a nice beach though, it's a little backwater in time. It's a little slice of the world as it used to be, the world I grew up in, before the proliferation of mega-resorts and all-inclusive vacation package extravaganzas. St. George doesn't offer anything like that. There's little more to St. George than a store, a gas station and a couple of seafood trailers offering up fresh shrimp, snapper and scallops from nearby Apalachicola. There are some condos, but the two motels are rundown affairs that look like backwater holdouts from the early 1980s. There's nothing about this place that even hints at the world of resorts and all-inclusive packages. And that's the way I like it.

    +

    It's entirely possible that by the time the mid-summer tourism peak rolls around at Independence Day St. George Island is unbearably crowded with north Florida rednecks, but, having only been here in the shoulder months of May, September and October, I have trouble picturing it. For the most part there's rarely been another person on the beach, let alone a crowd, when we're here. The surprising thing though is that by all rights it should be crowded, even in the off season, but it's not.

    +

    St. George is long and narrow, some thirty miles from one end to the other, but rarely more than a half mile across. It's part of a barrier island chain, along with Dog Island and St Vincent Island, that provide shelter from the Gulf seas and help create the Apalachicola Bay.

    +

    +

    Roughly a third of the island, the entire western end, is closed off to a private, gated community. To karmically balance that the entire eastern half of the island is protected from development by the Dr. Julian Bruce St. George Island State Park. If we weren't fortunate enough to know someone willing to rent us a beach house on the cheap, we'd be camping here. Even if you're not camping the park is worth a visit. Hardly anyone seems to stray much beyond the beach parking lots so if you walk for a bit you'll easily find miles of beach you'll only have to share with a few plovers, sandpipers and the occasional Great Blue Heron standing atop the dunes behind you.

    +

    One day I rented a crappy bike and rode out through the state park to the very eastern tip of the island where a small channel of water separates St. George from the uninhabited Dog Island. Aside from a few fishermen clustered around the leeward side of the channel, there was no one around.

    +

    St. George was once little more than rolling sand dunes covered in sea oats and tall grasses. Dunes still occupy the central portion of the island, particularly here in the state park where the dunes have been spared development. On the windward side the dunes turn to beaches which look out on the Gulf of Mexico. St. George acts as a barrier island for Apalachicola Bay, but most of the time there's little to protect against. The Gulf is typically about as calm of waters as you could hope for. Of course when the storms come, they really come. Hurricanes have been rearranging St George ever since it was created, even splitting it into two islands and then bringing it back together again. The fishermen ended up liking that extra entrance to the bay. What was originally the doing of a hurricane is now a properly dredged channel, though it's certainly within a storm's power to change that again.

    +

    +

    I spent some time exploring the dunes along the east end, watching the herons standing tall and silent while Laughing Gulls cried in the air overhead. A pair of ospreys made lazy circles above the cluster of fishermen and pelicans occasionally dive bombed into the sea to pluck out an unlucky fish. After a while it got hot in the wind-sheltered, sun-baked sand dunes so I walked back to the shore for a swim before making the questionable decision to ride back along the beach. Florida sand is sugary fine stuff, not particularly supportive when you put a fair amount of weight on it. There were stretches where I could ride, but I ended up walking a good few miles as well, stopping for a swim whenever I got tired.

    +

    Back at the state park entrance I briefly detoured across the island to the leeward shore. The back side of the island is a totally different beast. Here the dunes give way to actual soil which supports a band of pine and palmetto forest that eventually opens up to wide, reed-filled tidal marshes. The marshlands are interspersed with what is locally known as hammocks -- slightly raised bits of porous humus capable of sustaining of Live Oaks, Cedars and the occasional Cypress tree, small deciduous islands is a sea of reeds. The marshes overlook the oyster fields of the Apalachicola Bay and, on a clear day, the mainland of Florida two or three miles away. Apalachicola Bay is so shallow it's tempting to think you could walk back to the mainland, though I've no idea why you would want to do that.

    +

    There's not much to St. George, but it's all I need. Were it not for the need to earn the bio-survival tickets necessary for obtaining food and shelter in this country I would rarely leave this place. A house with a view of the water, perhaps a boat for fishing and getting around the bay, and, to my mind anyway, you'd be well set for life. In the mean time, I'll take what I can get of St. George.

    +
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    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/all-the-pretty-beaches.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/all-the-pretty-beaches.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..48132db --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/all-the-pretty-beaches.html @@ -0,0 +1,380 @@ + + + + + All The Pretty Beaches - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    All the Pretty Beaches

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    St. George Island, Florida, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Beach, St George Island, Florida. By Scott Gilbertson

    +

    I was lucky; I grew up by the ocean. Surprisingly, or at least surprising to me, I never reached that point where I took it for granted. When something is right there for so long sometimes it blends into the background noise and you stop noticing it. Familiarity breeds contempt. Or at least complacency. But I’ve never felt complacent about my proximity to the sea. It’s the one thing I miss living in Athens. How could you not? It’s too big a thing to take for granted; it’s were we came from. And it remains the one of the last true boundaries between the known and the unknown.

    +

    Boundary lands are always the most interesting places — the seashore, the edge of timberline, where the city starts to give way to the country. These are the fringes of our world, the peripheral edges of our collective vision where everything is less certain, but more possible, more inviting. Boundaries are the gray areas where life feels most real, most truly momentary because the boundaries themselves are ever in flux.

    +

    The seashore is also just plain fun. Lounging in a hammock strung between two palm trees, sipping cocktails and enjoying the sunshine seems to be high on most people’s list of things they think they would do if they won the lottery.

    +

    I’ve spent a good bit of my time traveling either at or around the seashore, from Thailand to India, to Nicaragua and Indonesia. The ocean may well be the only constant there is when you’re traveling. I’ve been to plenty of places simply to see what the beaches were like — Goa, India; Nusa Lembongan, Indonesia; Little Corn Island, Nicaragua and plenty more I haven’t written about.

    +

    These days though I’m less inclined to travel somewhere solely for the promise of nice beaches because I found St. George Island.

    +

    Beach, St George Island, Florida. By Scott GilbertsonI stumbled upon St. George Island a couple years ago. St. George is just off the Gulf Coast of northwest Florida, only about 7 hours from where I live (9 with babies). There are better places if you’re looking to dive or snorkel. Ditto if it’s nightlife you’re after. But if you’re looking for a seemingly endless amount of gorgeous white sand beaches you’ll share with only a few migratory birds, St. George is among the best boundary land in the world.

    +

    I first arrived here largely by accident. My wife and I tagged along on an invitation to share a cheap beach house someone else had rented. We came back a year later. And again six months after that. And we hope to be back for a fourth visit before the year is over.

    +

    St. George is more than just a nice beach though, it’s a little backwater in time. It’s a little slice of the world as it used to be, the world I grew up in, before the proliferation of mega-resorts and all-inclusive vacation package extravaganzas. St. George doesn’t offer anything like that. There’s little more to St. George than a store, a gas station and a couple of seafood trailers offering up fresh shrimp, snapper and scallops from nearby Apalachicola. There are some condos, but the two motels are rundown affairs that look like backwater holdouts from the early 1980s. There’s nothing about this place that even hints at the world of resorts and all-inclusive packages. And that’s the way I like it.

    +

    It’s entirely possible that by the time the mid-summer tourism peak rolls around at Independence Day St. George Island is unbearably crowded with north Florida rednecks, but, having only been here in the shoulder months of May, September and October, I have trouble picturing it. For the most part there’s rarely been another person on the beach, let alone a crowd, when we’re here. The surprising thing though is that by all rights it should be crowded, even in the off season, but it’s not.

    +

    St. George is long and narrow, some thirty miles from one end to the other, but rarely more than a half mile across. It’s part of a barrier island chain, along with Dog Island and St Vincent Island, that provide shelter from the Gulf seas and help create the Apalachicola Bay.

    +

    Beach, St George Island, Florida. By Scott Gilbertson

    +

    Roughly a third of the island, the entire western end, is closed off to a private, gated community. To karmically balance that the entire eastern half of the island is protected from development by the Dr. Julian Bruce St. George Island State Park. If we weren’t fortunate enough to know someone willing to rent us a beach house on the cheap, we’d be camping here. Even if you’re not camping the park is worth a visit. Hardly anyone seems to stray much beyond the beach parking lots so if you walk for a bit you’ll easily find miles of beach you’ll only have to share with a few plovers, sandpipers and the occasional Great Blue Heron standing atop the dunes behind you.

    +

    One day I rented a crappy bike and rode out through the state park to the very eastern tip of the island where a small channel of water separates St. George from the uninhabited Dog Island. Aside from a few fishermen clustered around the leeward side of the channel, there was no one around.

    +

    St. George was once little more than rolling sand dunes covered in sea oats and tall grasses. Dunes still occupy the central portion of the island, particularly here in the state park where the dunes have been spared development. On the windward side the dunes turn to beaches which look out on the Gulf of Mexico. St. George acts as a barrier island for Apalachicola Bay, but most of the time there’s little to protect against. The Gulf is typically about as calm of waters as you could hope for. Of course when the storms come, they really come. Hurricanes have been rearranging St George ever since it was created, even splitting it into two islands and then bringing it back together again. The fishermen ended up liking that extra entrance to the bay. What was originally the doing of a hurricane is now a properly dredged channel, though it’s certainly within a storm’s power to change that again.

    +

    Great Blue Heron, St George Island, Florida. By Scott Gilbertson

    +

    I spent some time exploring the dunes along the east end, watching the herons standing tall and silent while Laughing Gulls cried in the air overhead. A pair of ospreys made lazy circles above the cluster of fishermen and pelicans occasionally dive bombed into the sea to pluck out an unlucky fish. After a while it got hot in the wind-sheltered, sun-baked sand dunes so I walked back to the shore for a swim before making the questionable decision to ride back along the beach. Florida sand is sugary fine stuff, not particularly supportive when you put a fair amount of weight on it. There were stretches where I could ride, but I ended up walking a good few miles as well, stopping for a swim whenever I got tired.

    +

    Back at the state park entrance I briefly detoured across the island to the leeward shore. The back side of the island is a totally different beast. Here the dunes give way to actual soil which supports a band of pine and palmetto forest that eventually opens up to wide, reed-filled tidal marshes. The marshlands are interspersed with what is locally known as hammocks — slightly raised bits of porous humus capable of sustaining of Live Oaks, Cedars and the occasional Cypress tree, small deciduous islands is a sea of reeds. The marshes overlook the oyster fields of the Apalachicola Bay and, on a clear day, the mainland of Florida two or three miles away. Apalachicola Bay is so shallow it’s tempting to think you could walk back to the mainland, though I’ve no idea why you would want to do that.

    +

    There’s not much to St. George, but it’s all I need. Were it not for the need to earn the bio-survival tickets necessary for obtaining food and shelter in this country I would rarely leave this place. A house with a view of the water, perhaps a boat for fishing and getting around the bay, and, to my mind anyway, you’d be well set for life. In the mean time, I’ll take what I can get of St. George.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/all-the-pretty-beaches.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/all-the-pretty-beaches.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5ebc39c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/all-the-pretty-beaches.txt @@ -0,0 +1,58 @@ +All the Pretty Beaches +====================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 26 May 2013 + +Beach, St George Island, Florida. By Scott Gilbertson + +I was lucky; I grew up by the ocean. Surprisingly, or at least surprising to me, I never reached that point where I took it for granted. When something is right there for so long sometimes it blends into the background noise and you stop noticing it. Familiarity breeds contempt. Or at least complacency. But I've never felt complacent about my proximity to the sea. It's the one thing I miss living in Athens. How could you not? It's too big a thing to take for granted; it's were we came from. And it remains the one of the last true boundaries between the known and the unknown. + +Boundary lands are always the most interesting places -- the seashore, the edge of timberline, where the city starts to give way to the country. These are the fringes of our world, the peripheral edges of our collective vision where everything is less certain, but more possible, more inviting. Boundaries are the gray areas where life feels most real, most truly momentary because the boundaries themselves are ever in flux. + +The seashore is also just plain fun. Lounging in a hammock strung between two palm trees, sipping cocktails and enjoying the sunshine seems to be high on most people's list of things they think they would do if they won the lottery. + +I've spent a good bit of my time traveling either at or around the seashore, from [Thailand][1] to [India][2], to [Nicaragua][3] and [Indonesia][4]. The ocean may well be the only constant there is when you're traveling. I've been to plenty of places simply to see what the beaches were like -- [Goa, India][8]; [Nusa Lembongan, Indonesia][9]; [Little Corn Island, Nicaragua][10] and plenty more I haven't written about. + +These days though I'm less inclined to travel somewhere solely for the promise of nice beaches because I found St. George Island. + +Beach, St George Island, Florida. By Scott GilbertsonI stumbled upon St. George Island a couple years ago. St. George is just off the Gulf Coast of northwest Florida, only about 7 hours from where I live (9 with babies). There are better places if you're looking to dive or snorkel. Ditto if it's nightlife you're after. But if you're looking for a seemingly endless amount of gorgeous white sand beaches you'll share with only a few migratory birds, St. George is among the best boundary land in the world. + +I first arrived here largely by accident. My wife and I tagged along on an invitation to share a cheap beach house someone else had rented. We came back a year later. And again six months after that. And we hope to be back for a fourth visit before the year is over. + +St. George is more than just a nice beach though, it's a little backwater in time. It's a little slice of the world as it used to be, the world I grew up in, before the proliferation of mega-resorts and all-inclusive vacation package extravaganzas. St. George doesn't offer anything like that. There's little more to St. George than a store, a gas station and a couple of seafood trailers offering up fresh shrimp, snapper and scallops from nearby Apalachicola. There are some condos, but the two motels are rundown affairs that look like backwater holdouts from the early 1980s. There's nothing about this place that even hints at the world of resorts and all-inclusive packages. And that's the way I like it. + +It's entirely possible that by the time the mid-summer tourism peak rolls around at Independence Day St. George Island is unbearably crowded with north Florida rednecks, but, having only been here in the shoulder months of May, September and October, I have trouble picturing it. For the most part there's rarely been another person on the beach, let alone a crowd, when we're here. The surprising thing though is that by all rights it *should* be crowded, even in the off season, but it's not. + +St. George is long and narrow, some thirty miles from one end to the other, but rarely more than a half mile across. It's part of a barrier island chain, along with Dog Island and St Vincent Island, that provide shelter from the Gulf seas and help create the Apalachicola Bay. + +Beach, St George Island, Florida. By Scott Gilbertson + +Roughly a third of the island, the entire western end, is closed off to a private, gated community. To karmically balance that the entire eastern half of the island is protected from development by the [Dr. Julian Bruce St. George Island State Park][5]. If we weren't fortunate enough to know someone willing to rent us a beach house on the cheap, we'd be [camping here][7]. Even if you're not camping the park is worth a visit. Hardly anyone seems to stray much beyond the beach parking lots so if you walk for a bit you'll easily find miles of beach you'll only have to share with a few plovers, sandpipers and the occasional Great Blue Heron standing atop the dunes behind you. + +One day I rented a crappy bike and rode out through the state park to the very eastern tip of the island where a small channel of water separates St. George from the uninhabited Dog Island. Aside from a few fishermen clustered around the leeward side of the channel, there was no one around. + +St. George was once little more than rolling sand dunes covered in sea oats and tall grasses. Dunes still occupy the central portion of the island, particularly here in the state park where the dunes have been spared development. On the windward side the dunes turn to beaches which look out on the Gulf of Mexico. St. George acts as a barrier island for Apalachicola Bay, but most of the time there's little to protect against. The Gulf is typically about as calm of waters as you could hope for. Of course when the storms come, they really come. Hurricanes have been rearranging St George ever since it was created, even splitting it into two islands and then bringing it back together again. The fishermen ended up liking that extra entrance to the bay. What was originally the doing of a hurricane is now a properly dredged channel, though it's certainly within a storm's power to change that again. + +Great Blue Heron, St George Island, Florida. By Scott Gilbertson + +I spent some time exploring the dunes along the east end, watching the herons standing tall and silent while Laughing Gulls cried in the air overhead. A pair of ospreys made lazy circles above the cluster of fishermen and pelicans occasionally dive bombed into the sea to pluck out an unlucky fish. After a while it got hot in the wind-sheltered, sun-baked sand dunes so I walked back to the shore for a swim before making the questionable decision to ride back along the beach. Florida sand is sugary fine stuff, not particularly supportive when you put a fair amount of weight on it. There were stretches where I could ride, but I ended up walking a good few miles as well, stopping for a swim whenever I got tired. + +Back at the state park entrance I briefly detoured across the island to the leeward shore. The back side of the island is a totally different beast. Here the dunes give way to actual soil which supports a band of pine and palmetto forest that eventually opens up to wide, reed-filled tidal marshes. The marshlands are interspersed with what is locally known as hammocks -- slightly raised bits of porous humus capable of sustaining of Live Oaks, Cedars and the occasional Cypress tree, small deciduous islands is a sea of reeds. The marshes overlook the [oyster fields of the Apalachicola Bay][6] and, on a clear day, the mainland of Florida two or three miles away. Apalachicola Bay is so shallow it's tempting to think you could walk back to the mainland, though I've no idea why you would want to do that. + +There's not much to St. George, but it's all I need. Were it not for the need to earn the bio-survival tickets necessary for obtaining food and shelter in this country I would rarely leave this place. A house with a view of the water, perhaps a boat for fishing and getting around the bay, and, to my mind anyway, you'd be well set for life. In the mean time, I'll take what I can get of St. George. + + + +[1]: /writing/thailand/ +[2]: /writing/india/ +[3]: /writing/nicaragua/ +[4]: /writing/indonesia/ +[5]: http://www.floridastateparks.org/stgeorgeisland/ +[6]: /2013/may/22/consider-the-apalachicola-oyster/ +[7]: http://www.floridastateparks.org/stgeorgeisland/activities.cfm#12 +[8]: /2005/nov/20/fish-story/ +[9]: /2011/jun/23/best-snorkeling-world/ +[10]: /2008/apr/05/little-island-sun/ + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/consider-the-apalachicola-oyster.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/consider-the-apalachicola-oyster.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ed3ccd6 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/consider-the-apalachicola-oyster.amp @@ -0,0 +1,191 @@ + + + + + + +Consider the Apalachicola Oyster + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Consider the Apalachicola Oyster

    + + + +
    +
    +

    +

    Just below the rough, wooden bar currently holding up my beer are four boat slips, one of which holds a 28-foot boat I could actually afford to buy. Technically. Provided I didn't also need food and shelter for my family. Beyond the boat is the junction of river and bay, where the bay narrows back into a river channel which, based on my hour or so of observing, is used mainly by shrimping vessels headed somewhere further upstream. Downstream the reeds thicken and marsh proper begins and beyond that the water broadens out to form Apalachicola Bay with its endless shallows and oysterbeds.

    +

    The slightly dilapidated boat down on the docks below looks like a better and better deal with every passing beer. So far though the half dozen raw Apalachicola oysters I've downed have provided enough sustenance to prevent me from emptying my savings. I am not yet the new owner, but should the oyster fields run dry, who knows?

    +

    If there is a simultaneously gluttonous and yet clean, light food to match the oyster I have not found it. One part light sweetness, one part salty smoothness, oysters are a just about perfect food for those who've acquired the taste. Not cooked, though cooked, especially an oyster roast done over an open fire with some sheet metal and damp burlap, can be an amazing thing. But no, not cooked. Embrace gluttony and slurp them down raw. In front of me are half a dozen empty shells, calcified evidence of a flagrantly gluttonous afternoon.

    +

    Out across the water, just beyond where the reeds of the estuary give way to the shallow, oyster-laden expanses of the Apalachicola Bay, a blue-hulled, single-masted boat is anchored, two people lounge in the cockpit, shirtless, lazing in the sun, reminding me that I too ought to have a boat. Not a big boat. Certainly not a ship. Just something for coastal cruising that can still stand up to the occasional ocean crossing. A boat. My gaze drifts down to the docks in front of me, the for sale sign still threaded through the mainmast rigging of what really is a not all that bad looking boat... But first, more oysters.

    +

    +

    If you know the name Apalachicola at all it's likely because of its eponymous oysters. Very few things, let alone culinary things, are as attached to place as oysters. In fact, once you get beyond the Rockefeller, ordering "oysters" is akin to walking in a bar and ordering "a beer." But unlike beer, oysters don't have brands, they have places -- Pemaquid, Wellfleet, Blue Point, Apalachicola.

    +

    Ask a marine biologist and they will point out that there are really only a handful of oyster species in the world and many of them, like those that produce pearls, aren't part of our culinary repertoire. In fact, in the U.S. there are really only three species of oysters consumed -- Pacific (Crassostrea gigas), Kumamoto (Crassostrea sikamea) and Eastern, sometimes called Atlantic or Gulf oysters (Crassostrea virginica). It's the difference in place and environment -- water temperature, sea floor conditions, available nutrients and so on -- not species that produce the different sizes and shapes of oysters you see. That's why, with a handful of exceptions, almost every variety of oyster you've ever seen in a restaurant is named after its point of origin and is not actually a separate species or even subspecies.

    +

    An oyster's point of origin is not just the determining factor in how it tastes, it's also the best place to eat one. Oysters are sometimes treated as a fine dining item, but I've always thought of them more of the street food of wharves and marinas, or, as in Paris, actual street food. Oysters are simple -- there's not even any cooking involved -- eating them should be simple too.

    +

    My favorite way to eat oysters is at an open air raw bar, preferably on the docks somewhere and preferably within view of the oyster boats and the waters they ply. Oysters are best served on a tray with some crackers on the side, which are best politely handed back to your server or, if you're doing it right, tossed in the water for the fish to consume. If you must put something on them, try a little of the local hot sauce (in Apalachicola that would be Ed's Red).

    +

    +

    My best oyster experience was in Pemaquid, Maine where I actually got to watch an oysterman tie up the boat, exchange a few hand gestures with the bartender and bring up two buckets of fresh oysters pulled straight out of the hold all while I sat sipping a beer, waiting on another dozen. In Wellfleet there were no boats in, but there was still plenty of salt air, rough pine tables and a good view of the oyster flats just beyond the harbor. In Paris I just stood there and slurped before walking on again.

    +

    If Apalachicola has such a setup it's hidden well enough that I never found it.

    +

    Instead we settled for a raw bar/restaurant which I would never have entered under normal circumstances. The sort of purposefully tacky place designed to entice tourists with deliberate misspellings and references to parrotheads painted on the stairs. It was almost enough to send me retreating back to the car, but the sign promised views of the marsh, and, frankly, I'd already driven the wharf area once and this place was, as best I could tell, our only hope. As it turned out the covered upstairs deck had a lovely view of the marshes and the staff was friendly enough.

    +

    Half a dozen oysters later I'd changed my tune a bit on Apalachicola oysters. Apalachicola oysters have something of a lowly status among your oyster connoisseurs. Here the waters are warmer and the oysters therefore larger and somewhat more risky to eat than colder water varieties. Of course bigger is relative. In his book The Big Oyster: History on the Half Shell, Mark Kurlansky describes how the once mighty oyster trade of New York used to bring in oysters the size of dinner plates. Quite frankly, though I love oysters, that sounds repulsive.

    +

    Oysters are good things, but dinner plate sized oysters would most definitely be too much of a good thing. And while I enjoyed my Apalachicola oysters I do still think there are better oysters out there -- Beausoleils remain my personal favorite (and are one of the few varieties I know of not named after their place of origin -- New Brunswick). That said, I regret waiting until my third trip to the area to sample the local bivalves. Only a fool would pass on the chance to eat an oyster plucked from waters you can watch while eating it and thankfully, I am no longer that fool.

    +

    Sadly I am also not yet the owner of a boat. Not the one down on the docks in front of me nor any other. But one day I will be. I don't know where I'll go exactly, don't know what I'll do, but I have a sneaking suspicion that there will be some harbors, most likely some marinas, some wharves where the oyster boats might also tie up in the evenings and where I might find a cold beer or two and some lovely, gluttonous, yet so light and clean, little oysters to make sure the beer doesn't send everything cockeyed, to make sure the world stays nicely on keel even without a boat.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/consider-the-apalachicola-oyster.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/consider-the-apalachicola-oyster.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b927b8d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/consider-the-apalachicola-oyster.html @@ -0,0 +1,344 @@ + + + + + Consider The Apalachicola Oyster - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Consider the Apalachicola Oyster

    + +
    +
    +

    Apalachicola, Florida, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Apalachicola Oyster, raw, on the half shell.

    +

    Just below the rough, wooden bar currently holding up my beer are four boat slips, one of which holds a 28-foot boat I could actually afford to buy. Technically. Provided I didn’t also need food and shelter for my family. Beyond the boat is the junction of river and bay, where the bay narrows back into a river channel which, based on my hour or so of observing, is used mainly by shrimping vessels headed somewhere further upstream. Downstream the reeds thicken and marsh proper begins and beyond that the water broadens out to form Apalachicola Bay with its endless shallows and oysterbeds.

    +

    The slightly dilapidated boat down on the docks below looks like a better and better deal with every passing beer. So far though the half dozen raw Apalachicola oysters I’ve downed have provided enough sustenance to prevent me from emptying my savings. I am not yet the new owner, but should the oyster fields run dry, who knows?

    +

    If there is a simultaneously gluttonous and yet clean, light food to match the oyster I have not found it. One part light sweetness, one part salty smoothness, oysters are a just about perfect food for those who’ve acquired the taste. Not cooked, though cooked, especially an oyster roast done over an open fire with some sheet metal and damp burlap, can be an amazing thing. But no, not cooked. Embrace gluttony and slurp them down raw. In front of me are half a dozen empty shells, calcified evidence of a flagrantly gluttonous afternoon.

    +

    Out across the water, just beyond where the reeds of the estuary give way to the shallow, oyster-laden expanses of the Apalachicola Bay, a blue-hulled, single-masted boat is anchored, two people lounge in the cockpit, shirtless, lazing in the sun, reminding me that I too ought to have a boat. Not a big boat. Certainly not a ship. Just something for coastal cruising that can still stand up to the occasional ocean crossing. A boat. My gaze drifts down to the docks in front of me, the for sale sign still threaded through the mainmast rigging of what really is a not all that bad looking boat… But first, more oysters.

    +

    Shrimp boat headed upstream; Apalachicola River and Marsh.

    +

    If you know the name Apalachicola at all it’s likely because of its eponymous oysters. Very few things, let alone culinary things, are as attached to place as oysters. In fact, once you get beyond the Rockefeller, ordering “oysters” is akin to walking in a bar and ordering “a beer.” But unlike beer, oysters don’t have brands, they have places — Pemaquid, Wellfleet, Blue Point, Apalachicola.

    +

    One gallon can of Apalachicola Oysters.Ask a marine biologist and they will point out that there are really only a handful of oyster species in the world and many of them, like those that produce pearls, aren’t part of our culinary repertoire. In fact, in the U.S. there are really only three species of oysters consumed — Pacific (Crassostrea gigas), Kumamoto (Crassostrea sikamea) and Eastern, sometimes called Atlantic or Gulf oysters (Crassostrea virginica). It’s the difference in place and environment — water temperature, sea floor conditions, available nutrients and so on — not species that produce the different sizes and shapes of oysters you see. That’s why, with a handful of exceptions, almost every variety of oyster you’ve ever seen in a restaurant is named after its point of origin and is not actually a separate species or even subspecies.

    +

    An oyster’s point of origin is not just the determining factor in how it tastes, it’s also the best place to eat one. Oysters are sometimes treated as a fine dining item, but I’ve always thought of them more of the street food of wharves and marinas, or, as in Paris, actual street food. Oysters are simple — there’s not even any cooking involved — eating them should be simple too.

    +

    My favorite way to eat oysters is at an open air raw bar, preferably on the docks somewhere and preferably within view of the oyster boats and the waters they ply. Oysters are best served on a tray with some crackers on the side, which are best politely handed back to your server or, if you’re doing it right, tossed in the water for the fish to consume. If you must put something on them, try a little of the local hot sauce (in Apalachicola that would be Ed’s Red).

    +

    Docks in Pemaquid, Maine, waiting on an oyster boat.

    +

    My best oyster experience was in Pemaquid, Maine where I actually got to watch an oysterman tie up the boat, exchange a few hand gestures with the bartender and bring up two buckets of fresh oysters pulled straight out of the hold all while I sat sipping a beer, waiting on another dozen. In Wellfleet there were no boats in, but there was still plenty of salt air, rough pine tables and a good view of the oyster flats just beyond the harbor. In Paris I just stood there and slurped before walking on again.

    +

    If Apalachicola has such a setup it’s hidden well enough that I never found it.

    +

    Instead we settled for a raw bar/restaurant which I would never have entered under normal circumstances. The sort of purposefully tacky place designed to entice tourists with deliberate misspellings and references to parrotheads painted on the stairs. It was almost enough to send me retreating back to the car, but the sign promised views of the marsh, and, frankly, I’d already driven the wharf area once and this place was, as best I could tell, our only hope. As it turned out the covered upstairs deck had a lovely view of the marshes and the staff was friendly enough.

    +

    Half a dozen oysters later I’d changed my tune a bit on Apalachicola oysters. Apalachicola oysters have something of a lowly status among your oyster connoisseurs. Here the waters are warmer and the oysters therefore larger and somewhat more risky to eat than colder water varieties. Of course bigger is relative. In his book The Big Oyster: History on the Half Shell, Mark Kurlansky describes how the once mighty oyster trade of New York used to bring in oysters the size of dinner plates. Quite frankly, though I love oysters, that sounds repulsive.

    +

    Oysters are good things, but dinner plate sized oysters would most definitely be too much of a good thing. And while I enjoyed my Apalachicola oysters I do still think there are better oysters out there — Beausoleils remain my personal favorite (and are one of the few varieties I know of not named after their place of origin — New Brunswick). That said, I regret waiting until my third trip to the area to sample the local bivalves. Only a fool would pass on the chance to eat an oyster plucked from waters you can watch while eating it and thankfully, I am no longer that fool.

    +

    Sadly I am also not yet the owner of a boat. Not the one down on the docks in front of me nor any other. But one day I will be. I don’t know where I’ll go exactly, don’t know what I’ll do, but I have a sneaking suspicion that there will be some harbors, most likely some marinas, some wharves where the oyster boats might also tie up in the evenings and where I might find a cold beer or two and some lovely, gluttonous, yet so light and clean, little oysters to make sure the beer doesn’t send everything cockeyed, to make sure the world stays nicely on keel even without a boat.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/consider-the-apalachicola-oyster.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/consider-the-apalachicola-oyster.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e69963b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/consider-the-apalachicola-oyster.txt @@ -0,0 +1,43 @@ +Consider the Apalachicola Oyster +================================ + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 22 May 2013 + +Apalachicola Oyster, raw, on the half shell. + +Just below the rough, wooden bar currently holding up my beer are four boat slips, one of which holds a 28-foot boat I could actually afford to buy. Technically. Provided I didn't also need food and shelter for my family. Beyond the boat is the junction of river and bay, where the bay narrows back into a river channel which, based on my hour or so of observing, is used mainly by shrimping vessels headed somewhere further upstream. Downstream the reeds thicken and marsh proper begins and beyond that the water broadens out to form Apalachicola Bay with its endless shallows and oysterbeds. + +The slightly dilapidated boat down on the docks below looks like a better and better deal with every passing beer. So far though the half dozen raw Apalachicola oysters I've downed have provided enough sustenance to prevent me from emptying my savings. I am not yet the new owner, but should the oyster fields run dry, who knows? + +If there is a simultaneously gluttonous and yet clean, light food to match the oyster I have not found it. One part light sweetness, one part salty smoothness, oysters are a just about perfect food for those who've acquired the taste. Not cooked, though cooked, especially an oyster roast done over an open fire with some sheet metal and damp burlap, can be an amazing thing. But no, not cooked. Embrace gluttony and slurp them down raw. In front of me are half a dozen empty shells, calcified evidence of a flagrantly gluttonous afternoon. + +Out across the water, just beyond where the reeds of the estuary give way to the shallow, oyster-laden expanses of the Apalachicola Bay, a blue-hulled, single-masted boat is anchored, two people lounge in the cockpit, shirtless, lazing in the sun, reminding me that I too ought to have a boat. Not a big boat. Certainly not a ship. Just something for coastal cruising that can still stand up to the occasional ocean crossing. A boat. My gaze drifts down to the docks in front of me, the for sale sign still threaded through the mainmast rigging of what really is a not all that bad looking boat... But first, more oysters. + +Shrimp boat headed upstream; Apalachicola River and Marsh. + +If you know the name Apalachicola at all it's likely because of its eponymous oysters. Very few things, let alone culinary things, are as attached to place as oysters. In fact, once you get beyond the Rockefeller, ordering "oysters" is akin to walking in a bar and ordering "a beer." But unlike beer, oysters don't have brands, they have places -- Pemaquid, Wellfleet, Blue Point, Apalachicola. + +One gallon can of Apalachicola Oysters.Ask a marine biologist and they will point out that there are really only a handful of oyster species in the world and many of them, like those that produce pearls, aren't part of our culinary repertoire. In fact, in the U.S. there are really only three species of oysters consumed -- Pacific (Crassostrea gigas), Kumamoto (Crassostrea sikamea) and Eastern, sometimes called Atlantic or Gulf oysters (Crassostrea virginica). It's the difference in place and environment -- water temperature, sea floor conditions, available nutrients and so on -- not species that produce the different sizes and shapes of oysters you see. That's why, with a handful of exceptions, almost every variety of oyster you've ever seen in a restaurant is named after its point of origin and is not actually a separate species or even subspecies. + +An oyster's point of origin is not just the determining factor in how it tastes, it's also the best place to eat one. Oysters are sometimes treated as a fine dining item, but I've always thought of them more of the street food of wharves and marinas, or, as in Paris, actual street food. Oysters are simple -- there's not even any cooking involved -- eating them should be simple too. + +My favorite way to eat oysters is at an open air raw bar, preferably on the docks somewhere and preferably within view of the oyster boats and the waters they ply. Oysters are best served on a tray with some crackers on the side, which are best politely handed back to your server or, if you're doing it right, tossed in the water for the fish to consume. If you must put something on them, try a little of the local hot sauce (in Apalachicola that would be Ed's Red). + +Docks in Pemaquid, Maine, waiting on an oyster boat. + +My best oyster experience was in Pemaquid, Maine where I actually got to watch an oysterman tie up the boat, exchange a few hand gestures with the bartender and bring up two buckets of fresh oysters pulled straight out of the hold all while I sat sipping a beer, waiting on another dozen. In Wellfleet there were no boats in, but there was still plenty of salt air, rough pine tables and a good view of the oyster flats just beyond the harbor. In Paris I just stood there and slurped before walking on again. + +If Apalachicola has such a setup it's hidden well enough that I never found it. + +Instead we settled for a raw bar/restaurant which I would never have entered under normal circumstances. The sort of purposefully tacky place designed to entice tourists with deliberate misspellings and references to parrotheads painted on the stairs. It was almost enough to send me retreating back to the car, but the sign promised views of the marsh, and, frankly, I'd already driven the wharf area once and this place was, as best I could tell, our only hope. As it turned out the covered upstairs deck had a lovely view of the marshes and the staff was friendly enough. + +Half a dozen oysters later I'd changed my tune a bit on Apalachicola oysters. Apalachicola oysters have something of a lowly status among your oyster connoisseurs. Here the waters are warmer and the oysters therefore larger and somewhat more risky to eat than colder water varieties. Of course bigger is relative. In his book [The Big Oyster: History on the Half Shell][1], Mark Kurlansky describes how the once mighty oyster trade of New York used to bring in oysters the size of dinner plates. Quite frankly, though I love oysters, that sounds repulsive. + +Oysters are good things, but dinner plate sized oysters would most definitely be too much of a good thing. And while I enjoyed my Apalachicola oysters I do still think there are better oysters out there -- Beausoleils remain my personal favorite (and are one of the few varieties I know of not named after their place of origin -- New Brunswick). That said, I regret waiting until my third trip to the area to sample the local bivalves. Only a fool would pass on the chance to eat an oyster plucked from waters you can watch while eating it and thankfully, I am no longer that fool. + +Sadly I am also not yet the owner of a boat. Not the one down on the docks in front of me nor any other. But one day I will be. I don't know where I'll go exactly, don't know what I'll do, but I have a sneaking suspicion that there will be some harbors, most likely some marinas, some wharves where the oyster boats might also tie up in the evenings and where I might find a cold beer or two and some lovely, gluttonous, yet so light and clean, little oysters to make sure the beer doesn't send everything cockeyed, to make sure the world stays nicely on keel even without a boat. + +[1]: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Big_Oyster:_History_on_the_Half_Shell + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0b01d50 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,113 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Archive: May 2013

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    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/king-birds.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/king-birds.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..057712a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/king-birds.amp @@ -0,0 +1,195 @@ + + + + + + +King of Birds + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    King of Birds

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    The sunset light is perfect, golden, the sort that photographers fantasize about, but the birds are still hard to see, moving far too fast to get a good look at any details on them. Some part of their heads is deep red color, near the eye and the rest of them is black and white. I have ideas, but I don't know for sure.

    +

    My wife is searching Google images on her phone, but Google thinks that "tern" is a misspelling of "turn", which causes both of us to briefly contemplate how fast the world of Idiocracy is approaching. And still no positive identification of the three sleek black and white birds with splashes of vermilion across their faces, skimming the shoreline in tight formation, beaks open, skimming the water from time to time.

    +

    I have a bird book. It's at home on the sideboard. It's been too long since I did this sort of thing, birdwatching. It didn't occur to me that I might want the book. The binoculars are automatic, they nearly alway make the trip even if they spend the majority of it tucked at the bottom or a bag or rattling around in an ammo can.

    +

    I grew up birding. My father was a biologist. Birding was just one of many things we did on family hikes. There were plant pressings, lizards caught and sometimes kept. Snakes, snails, frogs, insects too. But I always liked watching the birds.

    +

    There's something wonderfully ephemeral about watching birds. They're there, but then at any given moment they can flutter tiny wings and disappear into a thicket of trees, or swoop huge spans of wing that slowly and majestically lift their bodies up into the air until they become just a thin black line on the distant horizon.

    +

    I may not have actually pursued identifications and list making much in my adult years, but I've never tired of watching birds just be birds.

    +

    I started traveling on my feet. Hiking the Sierra Nevada, the Trinity Alps, the White Mountains, the deserts of Arizona, Utah and Colorado. I spent a lot of time out there on trails, resting on rocks, wondering, what is this thin wisp of plant clinging to life on the edge of a sandstone cliff? What is this hummingbird buzzing me like an angry hornet? Spend enough time outdoors and I think some level of naturalism finds you.

    +

    That I remain, after all these years, drawn to birds could be old habits not dying, but it could also be the simple fact that birds are everywhere. Even in the densest examples of human population where the crush of people is often quite literal, like Ciudad de México or the entrance to a subway in New York at rush hour, there are still birds there. Sparrows, pigeons, starlings. Survivors.

    +

    Watching birds teaches you to see the world a bit differently. You're always alert to flittering movements in your peripheral vision. After a while you start to scan the tree line, the edges of the marsh, the place where the buildings meet the sky, the borderlands where movement begins. You quite literally see the world differently.

    +

    I've never really written about it here because it was something that seemed too idiosyncratic to share. Even I think it perhaps a bit odd to spend time watching birds. Or maybe not.

    +

    The birds might lead you to look at the world differently, to be part of the world in ways that you are not the rest of the time. It requires that you be both in your self, mindful and aware of your surroundings (lest you trip and fall or worse), but also to be out of yourself, to be aware of the other and its movements, its awareness. It's a reminder that you are not just in the world, but an active part of it.

    +

    Watching birds becomes a gateway to much more. You can't spend much time watching birds without starting to think about insects and sticks, bushes, trees, water, habitats, ecology, geography, weather, architecture. Everything on earth is intrinsically linked. Most of it much more closely linked than we generally realize.

    +

    Now that I have two young children I've decided to get back into the world of birding, identification, lists and all. In part because it's a good way to get out in nature, and there's nothing that teaches so readily or excites children so much as nature. Also in part because it was part of my own childhood, but also because I want to be able to teach the art of bird watching to my children. They're less than a year old right now, far too young to use binoculars or even pay attention to anything for more than a minute or two, but they already enjoy watching the robins and blue jays that prance on our deck at home. But I'm not trying to get them bird watching right now, I'm relearning the art myself. Relearning how to identify, how to observe birds and their world.

    +

    You can't teach your children something if you aren't already well versed in it yourself. Moreover you can't hope to instill any sense of enthusiasm if you don't have it yourself. Even babies have powerfully accurate bullshit detectors.

    +

    I don't necessarily care if my children get into birding or not. It's not the birds I'd like them to care about; it's the sense of curiosity about the world around them that I'd like to pass on. It's that sense of curiosity and wonder that makes bird watching worth doing and that curiosity carries will beyond the binocular lens. Bird watching is part of the lost art of paying attention to not just the world around you, but the details within that world, to stop, to watch, to make something else the center of your world for a few minutes and to consider its world, to see how it lives, what it does, what it wants, how it lives. To observe, to really watch. To record what you saw when it makes sense to do so and to just watch and enjoy when it doesn't. That's bird watching. At least that's what it means to me.

    +

    I was brought up in nature -- birding, hiking, camping, backpacking, fishing, climbing, kayaking. These were the things my family did for fun. I want to create similar experiences for my kids, to take them out into nature to watch and identify wildlife, to cook on camp stoves, to smell wood fires warming coffee in the morning, to cozy up in a sleeping bag, to watch the stars from inside a tent, to hit the trails at dawn and head for the high country of the mountains because the high country is where human beings are meant to go, to push yourself, your knowledge of the world, your understanding and feeling of being alive beyond where it is today. To never stop exploring, as my former employer emblazons on all its advertising. Disingenuous though it may be on a North Face tag, the words are nevertheless perhaps the best advice there is.

    +

    More than just teaching my kids about birds I want to teach them to have insatiable curiosity, to look at the world as ever-changing and always new, always with something enticing just around the next bend. I don't want them to say, "look daddy, a bird", but "daddy, what kind of bird is that, what is it doing, where is it going why is it doing that where does it sleep what does it eat?" and the thousands of other questions a curious child will think of -- questions I can't even imagine.

    +

    I'm not 100 percent sure yet what I think the role of a good parent is, but I lean toward this: that you point them in the right direction and get the hell out of the way. To answer the easy questions so that they have enough of a start, the confidence to start asking the really hard questions, the ones even I can't answer.

    +

    And I think one of the best ways to get them started on the curiosity road is to get them out exploring the natural world and exploring it in detail, watching birds, hiking trails, climbing mountains and watching the pines sway in the wind while you eat lunch, seen the starts through the screen of the tent and all the other things I did and wished I had done as a child.

    +

    But you can't teach your children these things if you don't do them yourself. If you don't have a curiosity about the world you won't be able to pass it along. You can't fake it. So I'm getting back into the natural world, into bird watching down here on the shores of the Gulf coast because I want to relearn everything I once knew, still do know, buried somewhere deep down, and pull it back up to the surface both so I can pass it on, but also so I can enjoy it again. I can remember a time when my whole world could momentarily be forgotten and everything about the world suddenly wrapped up in the skittish flitter of a warbler or a Sanderling darting the shoreline or a Black Skimmer, ahem, skimming the shoreline, its partly-red bill strikingly red against the blue of sea and sky, its mouth open as if trying to swallow the ocean whole.

    +

    [In addition to forgetting the bird book, I did not have my camera on me when we down at the shoreline. the image at the top of the post is by Ed Yourdon, who posted something that looked eerily similar to our experience on Flickr with a CC license that allow me to use it here. Thanks Ed.]

    +
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    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/king-birds.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/king-birds.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0760183 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/king-birds.html @@ -0,0 +1,390 @@ + + + + + King Of Birds - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    King of Birds

    + +
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    St. George Island, Florida, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
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    +
    + + black skimmer photographed by fishhawk, Flickr CC + +
    image by
    +
    + +

    The setting sun is in our eyes. The birds are hard to see, moving far too fast to see any details about them. Some part of their head is a deep red color, you catch flashes of it when they come out of the sun. The rest of them is starkly black and white. I have ideas, but I don’t know for sure. Shorebirds have never been my strong suit.

    +

    My wife is searching Google images on her phone, but Google thinks that “tern” is a misspelling of “turn”. Three more come by, sleek black and white birds with splashes of vermilion across their faces, skimming the shoreline in tight formation, beaks open, skimming the water from time to time.

    +

    I have a bird book. It’s at home on the sideboard. It’s been too long since I did this sort of thing, birdwatching. It didn’t occur to me that I might want the book. The binoculars are automatic, they nearly always make the trip even if they spend the majority of it tucked at the bottom of a bag or rattling around in an ammo can.

    +

    I grew up birding. My father was a biologist. Birding was just one of many things we did on family hikes. There were plant pressings, lizards caught and sometimes kept. Snakes, snails, frogs, insects too. But I always liked watching the birds.

    +

    There’s something wonderfully ephemeral about watching birds. They’re there, but then at any given moment they can flutter tiny wings and disappear into a thicket of trees, or swoop huge spans of wing that slowly and majestically lift their bodies up into the air until they become just a thin black line on the distant horizon.

    +

    I may not have actually pursued identifications and list making much in my adult years, but I’ve never tired of watching birds be birds.

    +

    I started traveling using my feet. Start where you are, with what you have right? I started hiking. I traveled to the Sierra Nevada, the Trinity Alps, the White Mountains, the deserts of Arizona, Utah and Colorado. I spent a lot of time out there on trails, resting on rocks, wondering, what is this thin wisp of plant clinging to life on the edge of a sandstone cliff? What is this hummingbird buzzing me like an angry hornet? Spend enough time outdoors and you become a naturalist.

    +

    That I remain, after all these years, drawn to birds could be old habits not dying, but it could also be the simple fact that birds are everywhere. Even in the densest examples of human population where the crush of people is often literal, like Ciudad de México or the entrance to a subway in New York at rush hour, there are still birds there. Sparrows, pigeons, starlings. Survivors.

    +

    Watching birds teaches you to see the world a bit differently. You’re always alert to flittering movements in your peripheral vision. After a while you start to scan the tree line, the edges of the marsh, the place where the buildings meet the sky, the borderlands, the places where movement begins. You quite literally see the world differently.

    +

    Birds lead you to look at the world differently, to be part of the world in ways that you are not without them. Birdwatching requires that you be both in your self, mindful and aware of your surroundings (lest you trip and fall, or worse), but also to be out of yourself, to be aware of the other and its movements, its awareness. It’s a reminder that you are not just in the world, but an active part of it.

    +

    Watching birds becomes a gateway to much more. You can’t spend much time watching birds without starting to think about insects and sticks, bushes, trees, water, habitats, ecology, geography, weather, architecture. Everything on earth is intrinsically linked to everything else.

    +

    Now that I have two young children I’ve decided to get back into the world of birding, identification, lists and all. In part because it’s a good way to get out in nature. There’s nothing that teaches so readily or excites children so much as nature.

    +

    I want to be able to teach the art of birdwatching to my children. They’re less than a year old right now, far too young to use binoculars or even pay attention to anything for more than a minute or two, but they already enjoy watching the robins and blue jays that prance on our deck at home.

    +

    I’m not trying to get them bird watching right now though. I’m relearning the art myself. Relearning how to identify, how to observe birds and their world. You can’t teach your children something if you aren’t already well versed in it yourself. Moreover you can’t hope to instill any sense of enthusiasm if you don’t have it yourself. Even babies have powerfully accurate bullshit detectors.

    +

    I don’t necessarily care if my children get into birding or not. It’s not the birds I’d like them to care about; it’s the sense of curiosity about the world around them that I’d like to pass on. It’s that sense of curiosity and wonder that makes bird watching worth doing and that curiosity carries will beyond the binocular lens. Bird watching is part of the lost art of paying attention to not just the world around you, but the details within that world, to stop, to watch, to make something else the center of your world for a few minutes and to consider its world, to see how it lives, what it does, what it wants, how it lives. To observe, to really watch. To record what you saw when it makes sense to do so and to just watch and enjoy when it doesn’t. That’s bird watching. At least that’s what it means to me.

    +

    I was brought up in nature — birding, hiking, camping, backpacking, fishing, climbing, kayaking. These were the things my family did for fun. I want to create similar experiences for my kids, to take them out into nature to watch and identify wildlife, to cook on camp stoves, to smell wood fires warming coffee in the morning, to cozy up in a sleeping bag, to watch the stars from inside a tent, to hit the trails at dawn and head for the high country of the mountains because the high country is where human beings are meant to go, to push yourself, your knowledge of the world, your understanding and feeling of being alive beyond where it is today.

    +

    The world is ever-changing, always new. There’s always something enticing around the next bend. I don’t want them to say, “look daddy, a bird”, but “daddy, what kind of bird is that? What is it doing? Where is it going? Why is it doing that? Where does it sleep? What does it eat?” and the thousands of other questions a curious child will think of — questions I can’t even imagine.

    +

    I’m not 100 percent sure yet what I think the role of a good parent is, but I lean toward this: that you point them in the right direction and get the hell out of the way. Answer the easy questions so that they have a start, and the confidence to start asking the really hard questions, the ones I can’t answer.

    +

    The best ways to get them started on the curiosity road is to get them out exploring the natural world, exploring it in detail, watching birds, hiking trails, climbing mountains, watching the pines sway in the wind while you eat lunch, seeing the stars through the screen of the tent, and all the other things I did and wished I had done as a child.

    +

    But you can’t teach your children these things if you don’t do them yourself. If you don’t have a curiosity about the world you won’t be able to pass it along. You can’t fake it.

    +

    So I’m getting back into the natural world, into bird watching down here on the shores of the Gulf coast because I want to re-learn everything I once knew, still do know, buried somewhere deep down, and pull it back up to the surface so I can enjoy it again. Maybe I can even pass it on.

    +

    I can remember a time when my whole world could momentarily be forgotten and everything about the world suddenly wrapped up in the skittish flitter of a warbler or a Sanderling darting the shoreline or a Black Skimmer, ahem, skimming the shoreline, its partly-red bill strikingly red against the blue of sea and sky, its mouth open as if trying to swallow the ocean whole.

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/king-birds.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/king-birds.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c9ce9a9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/king-birds.txt @@ -0,0 +1,52 @@ +King of Birds +============= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 30 May 2013 + + + +The setting sun is in our eyes. The birds are hard to see, moving far too fast to see any details about them. Some part of their head is a deep red color, you catch flashes of it when they come out of the sun. The rest of them is starkly black and white. I have ideas, but I don't know for sure. Shorebirds have never been my strong suit. + +My wife is searching Google images on her phone, but Google thinks that "tern" is a misspelling of "turn". Three more come by, sleek black and white birds with splashes of vermilion across their faces, skimming the shoreline in tight formation, beaks open, *skimming the water from time to time*. + +I have a bird book. It's at home on the sideboard. It's been too long since I did this sort of thing, birdwatching. It didn't occur to me that I might want the book. The binoculars are automatic, they nearly always make the trip even if they spend the majority of it tucked at the bottom of a bag or rattling around in an ammo can. + +I grew up birding. My father was a biologist. Birding was just one of many things we did on family hikes. There were plant pressings, lizards caught and sometimes kept. Snakes, snails, frogs, insects too. But I always liked watching the birds. + +There's something wonderfully ephemeral about watching birds. They're there, but then at any given moment they can flutter tiny wings and disappear into a thicket of trees, or swoop huge spans of wing that slowly and majestically lift their bodies up into the air until they become just a thin black line on the distant horizon. + +I may not have actually pursued identifications and list making much in my adult years, but I've never tired of watching birds be birds. + +I started traveling using my feet. Start where you are, with what you have right? I started hiking. I traveled to the Sierra Nevada, the Trinity Alps, the White Mountains, the deserts of Arizona, Utah and Colorado. I spent a lot of time out there on trails, resting on rocks, wondering, what is this thin wisp of plant clinging to life on the edge of a sandstone cliff? What is this hummingbird buzzing me like an angry hornet? Spend enough time outdoors and you become a naturalist. + +That I remain, after all these years, drawn to birds could be old habits not dying, but it could also be the simple fact that birds are everywhere. Even in the densest examples of human population where the crush of people is often literal, like [Ciudad de México](/jrnl/2018/09/big-exit) or the entrance to a subway in New York at rush hour, there are still birds there. Sparrows, pigeons, starlings. Survivors. + +Watching birds teaches you to see the world a bit differently. You're always alert to flittering movements in your peripheral vision. After a while you start to scan the tree line, the edges of the marsh, the place where the buildings meet the sky, the borderlands, the places where movement begins. You quite literally see the world differently. + +Birds lead you to look at the world differently, to be part of the world in ways that you are not without them. Birdwatching requires that you be both in your self, mindful and aware of your surroundings (lest you trip and fall, or worse), but also to be out of yourself, to be aware of the other and its movements, its awareness. It's a reminder that you are not just in the world, but an active part of it. + +Watching birds becomes a gateway to much more. You can't spend much time watching birds without starting to think about insects and sticks, bushes, trees, water, habitats, ecology, geography, weather, architecture. Everything on earth is intrinsically linked to everything else. + +Now that I have two young children I've decided to get back into the world of birding, identification, lists and all. In part because it's a good way to get out in nature. There's nothing that teaches so readily or excites children so much as nature. + +I want to be able to teach the art of birdwatching to my children. They're less than a year old right now, far too young to use binoculars or even pay attention to anything for more than a minute or two, but they already enjoy watching the robins and blue jays that prance on our deck at home. + +I'm not trying to get them bird watching right now though. I'm relearning the art myself. Relearning how to identify, how to observe birds and their world. You can't teach your children something if you aren't already well versed in it yourself. Moreover you can't hope to instill any sense of enthusiasm if you don't have it yourself. Even babies have powerfully accurate bullshit detectors. + +I don't necessarily care if my children get into birding or not. It's not the birds I'd like them to care about; it's the sense of curiosity about the world around them that I'd like to pass on. It's that sense of curiosity and wonder that makes bird watching worth doing and that curiosity carries will beyond the binocular lens. Bird watching is part of the lost art of paying attention to not just the world around you, but the details within that world, to stop, to watch, to make something else the center of your world for a few minutes and to consider its world, to see how it lives, what it does, what it wants, how it lives. To observe, to really watch. To record what you saw when it makes sense to do so and to just watch and enjoy when it doesn't. That's bird watching. At least that's what it means to me. + +I was brought up in nature -- birding, hiking, camping, backpacking, fishing, climbing, kayaking. These were the things my family did for fun. I want to create similar experiences for my kids, to take them out into nature to watch and identify wildlife, to cook on camp stoves, to smell wood fires warming coffee in the morning, to cozy up in a sleeping bag, to watch the stars from inside a tent, to hit the trails at dawn and head for the high country of the mountains because the high country is where human beings are meant to go, to push yourself, your knowledge of the world, your understanding and feeling of being alive beyond where it is today. + +The world is ever-changing, always new. There's always something enticing around the next bend. I don't want them to say, "look daddy, a bird", but "daddy, what kind of bird is that? What is it doing? Where is it going? Why is it doing that? Where does it sleep? What does it eat?" and the thousands of other questions a curious child will think of -- questions I can't even imagine. + +I'm not 100 percent sure yet what I think the role of a good parent is, but I lean toward this: that you point them in the right direction and get the hell out of the way. Answer the easy questions so that they have a start, and the confidence to start asking the really hard questions, the ones I can't answer. + +The best ways to get them started on the curiosity road is to get them out exploring the natural world, exploring it in detail, watching birds, hiking trails, climbing mountains, watching the pines sway in the wind while you eat lunch, seeing the stars through the screen of the tent, and all the other things I did and wished I had done as a child. + +But you can't teach your children these things if you don't do them yourself. If you don't have a curiosity about the world you won't be able to pass it along. You can't fake it. + +So I'm getting back into the natural world, into bird watching down here on the shores of the Gulf coast because I want to re-learn everything I once knew, still do know, buried somewhere deep down, and pull it back up to the surface so I can enjoy it again. Maybe I can even pass it on. + +I can remember a time when my whole world could momentarily be forgotten and everything about the world suddenly wrapped up in the skittish flitter of a warbler or a Sanderling darting the shoreline or a Black Skimmer, ahem, *skimming the shoreline*, its partly-red bill strikingly red against the blue of sea and sky, its mouth open as if trying to swallow the ocean whole. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/oysterman-wanted.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/oysterman-wanted.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8fd1ee5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/oysterman-wanted.amp @@ -0,0 +1,195 @@ + + + + + + +Oysterman Wanted + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    Oysterman Wanted

    + + + +
    +
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    +

    Doug's Seafood trailer is just that, an unassuming yellow trailer with red trim and lettering that reads, appropriately, Doug's Seafood. Doug arrives on St. George Island every morning and parks in a vacant lot just west of the bridge. Come 5 P.M., Doug heads back to Eastpoint. In the mean time Doug and his trailer sit in the vacant lot, which is, like all vacant lots and driveways in the area, covered with the local version of gravel -- oyster shells.

    +

    The shells give off a blinding white glare in the midday sun, driving you to the shade of the small awning Doug extends out to make the trailer more welcoming. As your eyes adjust to the shadows you'll notice Doug himself sitting on a red plastic folding chair, perched amongst half a dozen white plastic coolers stocked full of local shrimp, scallops, oysters, snapper, grouper and even local favorites like mullet, if you ask for it.

    +

    I first met Doug while on a quest for shrimp. Not a lot was said, though I do remember Doug offering his thoughts on the weather, which were wrong. In fact Doug's thoughts on the weather have been wrong pretty much every time I've heard them. But there aren't a lot of locals found on St. George and even most of the permanent residents aren't originally from the area. So I started talking to Doug in hopes of learning about the island and Apalachicola. I've gleaned a few things, but mostly I know a lot about Doug's bypass surgery or the liver trouble that made him stop eating raw oysters. Whatever the case I've noticed my trips to Doug's Seafood have become progressively longer and longer the more time I spend on the island.

    +

    Even if you never bother to talk to Doug you'll get to know a few of his thoughts just from standing there under the awning, reading what's scrawled across the side of the trailer. Thin permanent marker has been used to create a kind of unsolicited FAQ for potential customers -- "yes it's raw seafood", "yes you have to cook it first" and "no it's not ready to eat." There are probably half a dozen phrases altogether. None exactly rude, but all carrying a sense of exasperation and all pointed enough to make you stop and think about what you're about to ask before you ask it.

    +

    These are necessary, according to Doug, to make sure no one gets sick. They also probably help discourage the sort of poorly thought out questions that might irritate the sole proprietor of Doug's Seafood.

    +

    It seems to work. Doug manages to smile to nearly everyone and never so much as roles his eyes -- visibly anyway -- in the face of what I can only assume is a Herculean confrontation with Tourist Americanus that would leave many a lesser man indignantly scrawling even more magic marker across the side of the trailer. Or worse.

    +

    Doug does, if you talk about something other than the weather or his heart, come rather quickly around to the problems of the local area, which are unsurprisingly, all a result of tourism. He's never exactly moaned about tourists, but he does very nearly spit when he says the word, something I recognize from growing up in a seaside town full of people who also simltaneously needed and disliked tourists. But of course here I'm a stranger here like the rest. I may know that I have to cook the shrimp, but otherwise I'm as much a part of Doug's problems as anyone else on St. George Island.

    +

    +

    The problem is we've all become tourists. None of us are shrimpers or oystermen anymore.

    +

    That's why all coastal towns will eventually convert from real industries like fishing or shipping ports, to tourism-based economies. There's no stopping it. If your patch of coast hasn't done it yet, and this one is still holding out hope, it will. Best get your sarcastic FAQ boards painted now, before the tide of tourism washes the last of industry out to sea.

    +

    There's another sign I think about, just over the bridge in Eastpoint, Oysterman Wanted it reads. Every time I drive by I find myself wondering, will anyone ever call that number? I love oysters, especially fresh off the boat, but it seems like you might as well hang out a sign asking for cobblers or loom workers.

    +

    Part of me thinks that the sign is just there to bolster the local spirit. Apalachicola is doing an admirable job of fighting tooth and nail to keep things as they once were, when the Bay was full of oystermen and the horizon at night lit up with trawlers dragging their nets. But even people like Doug seem to know that world is doomed. Even the people resisting the transition know they're no longer fighting for their way of life. Nor are they even fighting to give their children some small slice of the life they loved. They're just fighting to keep the thinnest resemblance of what they've always known around until they leave this world. They're fighting to keep from having to watch the death of everything they know.

    +

    +

    The world of oystermen and local fishing industry will fade away though. How could it not? Once there were loom workers, now there are not. Once there was a seemingly endless shoreline to dock a boat beside, soon there will be nothing but condos. Economies change; people change. And so it goes.

    +

    And yet, and yet. There's something that feels different about the way tourism grinds other things to dust. I think it's the finality of it. Once a place makes that transition, once the economy crosses that invisible threshold and goes full tourism there seems to be no coming back. So long as the tourists come everyone loves their new tourist economy. And then one day the tourists stop and the town dies. Ask the residents of the Salton Sea. Ask Mystic, Connecticut. Ask the Adirondacks. Coral Gables. Niagara Falls.

    +

    +

    Tourism is a fickle thing, but that's not really the long term problem if you live in a tourist economy. The problem is that tourism does not create a demand for useful things. Oysters are useful things. Shrimp are useful things. Colorful buoys and a finely sanded boardwalk for strolling are only useful things so long as there are tourists to buy and occupy them.

    +

    In the beginning there are always tourists, and in some places there seemingly always will be, but tourism is a marketing-driven economy and eventually someone else comes along with better marketing and more money. The hotels go vacant. Restaurant tables stand empty. Buildings fall into disrepair and soon all that's left are the facades, the boardwalks with faux pilings too weak to actually tie up a trawler and no one left who know how to sail one anyway.

    +

    It's hard work fishing; even harder to be an oysterman. I wouldn't do it; I doubt I could do it. Far easier to open a bar, build a new hotel or maybe sell trinkets just across from that really nice and shiny new boardwalk.

    +

    And so it goes.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/oysterman-wanted.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/oysterman-wanted.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a1ab875 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/oysterman-wanted.html @@ -0,0 +1,382 @@ + + + + + Oysterman Wanted - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Oysterman Wanted

    + +
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    +

    St. George Island, Florida, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Old, rotting oyster boat, Apalachicola FL.

    +

    Doug’s Seafood trailer is just that, an unassuming yellow trailer with red trim and lettering that reads, appropriately, Doug’s Seafood. Doug arrives on St. George Island every morning and parks in a vacant lot just west of the bridge. Come 5 P.M., Doug heads back to Eastpoint. In the mean time Doug and his trailer sit in the vacant lot, which is, like all vacant lots and driveways in the area, covered with the local version of gravel — oyster shells.

    +

    The shells give off a blinding white glare in the midday sun, driving you to the shade of the small awning Doug extends out to make the trailer more welcoming. As your eyes adjust to the shadows you’ll notice Doug himself sitting on a red plastic folding chair, perched amongst half a dozen white plastic coolers stocked full of local shrimp, scallops, oysters, snapper, grouper and even local favorites like mullet, if you ask for it.

    +

    I first met Doug while on a quest for shrimp. Not a lot was said, though I do remember Doug offering his thoughts on the weather, which were wrong. In fact Doug’s thoughts on the weather have been wrong pretty much every time I’ve heard them. But there aren’t a lot of locals found on St. George and even most of the permanent residents aren’t originally from the area. So I started talking to Doug in hopes of learning about the island and Apalachicola. I’ve gleaned a few things, but mostly I know a lot about Doug’s bypass surgery or the liver trouble that made him stop eating raw oysters. Whatever the case I’ve noticed my trips to Doug’s Seafood have become progressively longer and longer the more time I spend on the island.

    +

    Even if you never bother to talk to Doug you’ll get to know a few of his thoughts just from standing there under the awning, reading what’s scrawled across the side of the trailer. Thin permanent marker has been used to create a kind of unsolicited FAQ for potential customers — “yes it’s raw seafood”, “yes you have to cook it first” and “no it’s not ready to eat.” There are probably half a dozen phrases altogether. None exactly rude, but all carrying a sense of exasperation and all pointed enough to make you stop and think about what you’re about to ask before you ask it.

    +

    These are necessary, according to Doug, to make sure no one gets sick. They also probably help discourage the sort of poorly thought out questions that might irritate the sole proprietor of Doug’s Seafood.

    +

    It seems to work. Doug manages to smile to nearly everyone and never so much as roles his eyes — visibly anyway — in the face of what I can only assume is a Herculean confrontation with Tourist Americanus that would leave many a lesser man indignantly scrawling even more magic marker across the side of the trailer. Or worse.

    +

    Doug does, if you talk about something other than the weather or his heart, come rather quickly around to the problems of the local area, which are unsurprisingly, all a result of tourism. He’s never exactly moaned about tourists, but he does very nearly spit when he says the word, something I recognize from growing up in a seaside town full of people who also simltaneously needed and disliked tourists. But of course here I’m a stranger here like the rest. I may know that I have to cook the shrimp, but otherwise I’m as much a part of Doug’s problems as anyone else on St. George Island.

    +

    Shrimp trawler, Apalachicola, FL

    +

    The problem is we’ve all become tourists. None of us are shrimpers or oystermen anymore.

    +

    That’s why all coastal towns will eventually convert from real industries like fishing or shipping ports, to tourism-based economies. There’s no stopping it. If your patch of coast hasn’t done it yet, and this one is still holding out hope, it will. Best get your sarcastic FAQ boards painted now, before the tide of tourism washes the last of industry out to sea.

    +

    There’s another sign I think about, just over the bridge in Eastpoint, Oysterman Wanted it reads. Every time I drive by I find myself wondering, will anyone ever call that number? I love oysters, especially fresh off the boat, but it seems like you might as well hang out a sign asking for cobblers or loom workers.

    +

    Part of me thinks that the sign is just there to bolster the local spirit. Apalachicola is doing an admirable job of fighting tooth and nail to keep things as they once were, when the Bay was full of oystermen and the horizon at night lit up with trawlers dragging their nets. But even people like Doug seem to know that world is doomed. Even the people resisting the transition know they’re no longer fighting for their way of life. Nor are they even fighting to give their children some small slice of the life they loved. They’re just fighting to keep the thinnest resemblance of what they’ve always known around until they leave this world. They’re fighting to keep from having to watch the death of everything they know.

    +

    Storm over the docks, Apalachicola FL.

    +

    The world of oystermen and local fishing industry will fade away though. How could it not? Once there were loom workers, now there are not. Once there was a seemingly endless shoreline to dock a boat beside, soon there will be nothing but condos. Economies change; people change. And so it goes.

    +

    And yet, and yet. There’s something that feels different about the way tourism grinds other things to dust. I think it’s the finality of it. Once a place makes that transition, once the economy crosses that invisible threshold and goes full tourism there seems to be no coming back. So long as the tourists come everyone loves their new tourist economy. And then one day the tourists stop and the town dies. Ask the residents of the Salton Sea. Ask Mystic, Connecticut. Ask the Adirondacks. Coral Gables. Niagara Falls.

    +

    Colorful buoys, Apalachicola, FL

    +

    Tourism is a fickle thing, but that’s not really the long term problem if you live in a tourist economy. The problem is that tourism does not create a demand for useful things. Oysters are useful things. Shrimp are useful things. Colorful buoys and a finely sanded boardwalk for strolling are only useful things so long as there are tourists to buy and occupy them.

    +

    In the beginning there are always tourists, and in some places there seemingly always will be, but tourism is a marketing-driven economy and eventually someone else comes along with better marketing and more money. The hotels go vacant. Restaurant tables stand empty. Buildings fall into disrepair and soon all that’s left are the facades, the boardwalks with faux pilings too weak to actually tie up a trawler and no one left who know how to sail one anyway.

    +

    It’s hard work fishing; even harder to be an oysterman. I wouldn’t do it; I doubt I could do it. Far easier to open a bar, build a new hotel or maybe sell trinkets just across from that really nice and shiny new boardwalk.

    +

    And so it goes.

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/oysterman-wanted.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/oysterman-wanted.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b7cc8f5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/05/oysterman-wanted.txt @@ -0,0 +1,52 @@ +Oysterman Wanted +================ + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 29 May 2013 + +Old, rotting oyster boat, Apalachicola FL. + +Doug's Seafood trailer is just that, an unassuming yellow trailer with red trim and lettering that reads, appropriately, *Doug's Seafood*. Doug arrives on St. George Island every morning and parks in a vacant lot just west of the bridge. Come 5 P.M., Doug heads back to Eastpoint. In the mean time Doug and his trailer sit in the vacant lot, which is, like all vacant lots and driveways in the area, covered with the local version of gravel -- oyster shells. + +The shells give off a blinding white glare in the midday sun, driving you to the shade of the small awning Doug extends out to make the trailer more welcoming. As your eyes adjust to the shadows you'll notice Doug himself sitting on a red plastic folding chair, perched amongst half a dozen white plastic coolers stocked full of local shrimp, scallops, oysters, snapper, grouper and even local favorites like mullet, if you ask for it. + +I first met Doug while on a quest for shrimp. Not a lot was said, though I do remember Doug offering his thoughts on the weather, which were wrong. In fact Doug's thoughts on the weather have been wrong pretty much every time I've heard them. But there aren't a lot of locals found on St. George and even most of the permanent residents aren't originally from the area. So I started talking to Doug in hopes of learning about the island and Apalachicola. I've gleaned a few things, but mostly I know a lot about Doug's bypass surgery or the liver trouble that made him stop eating raw oysters. Whatever the case I've noticed my trips to Doug's Seafood have become progressively longer and longer the more time I spend on the island. + +Even if you never bother to talk to Doug you'll get to know a few of his thoughts just from standing there under the awning, reading what's scrawled across the side of the trailer. Thin permanent marker has been used to create a kind of unsolicited FAQ for potential customers -- "yes it's raw seafood", "yes you have to cook it first" and "no it's not ready to eat." There are probably half a dozen phrases altogether. None exactly rude, but all carrying a sense of exasperation and all pointed enough to make you stop and think about what you're about to ask before you ask it. + +These are necessary, according to Doug, to make sure no one gets sick. They also probably help discourage the sort of poorly thought out questions that might irritate the sole proprietor of Doug's Seafood. + +It seems to work. Doug manages to smile to nearly everyone and never so much as roles his eyes -- visibly anyway -- in the face of what I can only assume is a Herculean confrontation with *Tourist Americanus* that would leave many a lesser man indignantly scrawling even more magic marker across the side of the trailer. Or worse. + +Doug does, if you talk about something other than the weather or his heart, come rather quickly around to the problems of the local area, which are unsurprisingly, all a result of tourism. He's never exactly moaned about tourists, but he does very nearly spit when he says the word, something I recognize from [growing up in a seaside town][2] full of people who also simltaneously needed and disliked tourists. But of course here I'm a stranger here like the rest. I may know that I have to cook the shrimp, but otherwise I'm as much a part of Doug's problems as anyone else on St. George Island. + +Shrimp trawler, Apalachicola, FL + +The problem is we've all become tourists. None of us are shrimpers or oystermen anymore. + +That's why all coastal towns will eventually convert from real industries like fishing or shipping ports, to tourism-based economies. There's no stopping it. If your patch of coast hasn't done it yet, and this one is still holding out hope, it will. Best get your sarcastic FAQ boards painted now, before the tide of tourism washes the last of industry out to sea. + +There's another sign I think about, just over the bridge in Eastpoint, *Oysterman Wanted* it reads. Every time I drive by I find myself wondering, will anyone ever call that number? [I love oysters][1], especially fresh off the boat, but it seems like you might as well hang out a sign asking for cobblers or loom workers. + +Part of me thinks that the sign is just there to bolster the local spirit. Apalachicola is doing an admirable job of fighting tooth and nail to keep things as they once were, when the Bay was full of oystermen and the horizon at night lit up with trawlers dragging their nets. But even people like Doug seem to know that world is doomed. Even the people resisting the transition know they're no longer fighting for their way of life. Nor are they even fighting to give their children some small slice of the life they loved. They're just fighting to keep the thinnest resemblance of what they've always known around until they leave this world. They're fighting to keep from having to watch the death of everything they know. + +Storm over the docks, Apalachicola FL. + +The world of oystermen and local fishing industry will fade away though. How could it not? Once there were loom workers, now there are not. Once there was a seemingly endless shoreline to dock a boat beside, soon there will be nothing but condos. Economies change; people change. And so it goes. + +And yet, and yet. There's something that feels different about the way tourism grinds other things to dust. I think it's the finality of it. Once a place makes that transition, once the economy crosses that invisible threshold and goes full tourism there seems to be no coming back. So long as the tourists come everyone loves their new tourist economy. And then one day the tourists stop and the town dies. Ask the residents of the Salton Sea. Ask Mystic, Connecticut. Ask the Adirondacks. Coral Gables. Niagara Falls. + +Colorful buoys, Apalachicola, FL + +Tourism is a fickle thing, but that's not really the long term problem if you live in a tourist economy. The problem is that tourism does not create a demand for useful things. Oysters are useful things. Shrimp are useful things. Colorful buoys and a finely sanded boardwalk for strolling are only useful things so long as there are tourists to buy and occupy them. + +In the beginning there are always tourists, and in some places there seemingly always will be, but tourism is a marketing-driven economy and eventually someone else comes along with [better marketing and more money][3]. The hotels go vacant. Restaurant tables stand empty. Buildings fall into disrepair and soon all that's left are the facades, the boardwalks with faux pilings too weak to actually tie up a trawler and no one left who know how to sail one anyway. + +It's hard work fishing; even harder to be an oysterman. I wouldn't do it; I doubt I could do it. Far easier to open a bar, build a new hotel or maybe sell trinkets just across from that really nice and shiny new boardwalk. + +And so it goes. + +[1]: /2013/may/22/consider-the-apalachicola-oyster/ +[2]: /2005/oct/20/twenty-more-minutes-go/ +[3]: http://www.notesfromtheroad.com/dryworld/bahia-palace_05.html diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..430c399 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2013/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,120 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    2013, on luxagraf

    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/colors.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/colors.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..eefd14d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/colors.amp @@ -0,0 +1,186 @@ + + + + + + +Colors + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Colors

    + + + +
    +
    +

    The best thing to do after eating some muffins is head to the park.

    +

    +

    Here in the South autumn is never as spectacular as is in New England. The colors here are neither as intense nor as long lasting. But still, it is our autumn, our season, our reminder. And this is by far the most colorful year of leaves that I've seen in 15 years.

    +

    I've spent a good deal of time watching this particular tree next to the swing sets. I've watched it progress from just a faint hint of red at the outer fringes, to something more, as it the red borderline crept toward the center, eventually swallowing the whole tree. The green is pushed inward, back down into the trunk where it will lie waiting through the cold of winter.

    +

    +

    The day I took these pictures I noticed that this red progression inward also happens on the individual leaves, which start with a bit of red at edge and slowly get swallowed up into redness before they fall.

    +

    +

    +

    +

    These images are a couple of weeks old though. We braved the cold and wind again this morning. The tree was bare. Winter.

    +

    And so it goes.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/colors.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/colors.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..446ed02 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/colors.html @@ -0,0 +1,390 @@ + + + + + Colors - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Colors

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The best thing to do after eating some muffins is head to the park.

    +

    swings

    +

    Here in the South autumn is never as spectacular as is in New England. The colors here are neither as intense nor as long lasting. But still, it is our autumn, our season, our reminder. And this is by far the most colorful year of leaves that I’ve seen in 15 years.

    +

    I’ve spent a good deal of time watching this particular tree next to the swing sets. I’ve watched it progress from just a faint hint of red at the outer fringes, to something more, as it the red borderline crept toward the center, eventually swallowing the whole tree. The green is pushed inward, back down into the trunk where it will lie waiting through the cold of winter.

    +

    swings

    +

    The day I took these pictures I noticed that this red progression inward also happens on the individual leaves, which start with a bit of red at edge and slowly get swallowed up into redness before they fall.

    +

    swings

    +

    swings

    +

    swings

    +

    These images are a couple of weeks old though. We braved the cold and wind again this morning. The tree was bare. Winter.

    +

    And so it goes.

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/colors.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/colors.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3046a38 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/colors.txt @@ -0,0 +1,30 @@ +Colors +====== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 22 November 2014 + +The best thing to do after [eating some muffins][1] is head to the park. + +swings + +Here in the South autumn is never as spectacular as is in New England. The colors here are neither as intense nor as long lasting. But still, it is our autumn, our season, our reminder. And this is by far the most colorful year of leaves that I've seen in 15 years. + +I've spent a good deal of time watching this particular tree next to the swing sets. I've watched it progress from just a faint hint of red at the outer fringes, to something more, as it the red borderline crept toward the center, eventually swallowing the whole tree. The green is pushed inward, back down into the trunk where it will lie waiting through the cold of winter. + +swings + +The day I took these pictures I noticed that this red progression inward also happens on the individual leaves, which start with a bit of red at edge and slowly get swallowed up into redness before they fall. + +swings + +swings + +swings + +These images are a couple of weeks old though. We braved the cold and wind again this morning. The tree was bare. Winter. + +And so it goes. + +[1]: /jrnl/2014/11/muffins diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/creamed-corn.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/creamed-corn.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..de63fcf --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/creamed-corn.amp @@ -0,0 +1,179 @@ + + + + + + +Creamed Corn + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Creamed Corn

    + + + +
    +
    +

    I am thankful for my family, for electricity, clean water, vaccines and everything else that keeps me and my family alive, that allowed us to evolve out of the tree canopy, walk out in to the tall grass and keep walking, slowly on, for millennia. And who will hopefully keep walking slowly, long after I am gone.

    +

    +

    I'm also thankful for the web. This right here. The best form of communication and non-local connection that we've come up with since the beginning of time. I am very grateful to have my health and thankful for the privilege of being born into a life that allows me the free time and opportunity to partake in the web. I am thankful for the wealth of human knowledge, understanding and connection that that exists out here between the 1s and 0s and corporate owned routers that log it all for, ahem, backup purposes.

    +

    Most of all I'm thankful for being alive.

    +

    +

    And for creamed corn, which doesn't look like much in a pot, but it is, trust me.

    +

    And for William Burroughs, who summed it up best.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/creamed-corn.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/creamed-corn.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ebeb2f7 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/creamed-corn.html @@ -0,0 +1,386 @@ + + + + + Creamed Corn - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Creamed Corn

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    I am thankful for my family, for electricity, clean water, vaccines and everything else that keeps me and my family alive, that allowed us to evolve out of the tree canopy, walk out in to the tall grass and keep walking, slowly on, for millennia. And who will hopefully keep walking slowly, long after I am gone.

    +

    cousins

    +

    I’m also thankful for the web. This right here. The best form of communication and non-local connection that we’ve come up with since the beginning of time. I am very grateful to have my health and thankful for the privilege of being born into a life that allows me the free time and opportunity to partake in the web. I am thankful for the wealth of human knowledge, understanding and connection that that exists out here between the 1s and 0s and corporate owned routers that log it all for, ahem, backup purposes.

    +

    Most of all I’m thankful for being alive.

    +

    creamed corn

    +

    And for creamed corn, which doesn’t look like much in a pot, but it is, trust me.

    +

    And for William Burroughs, who summed it up best.

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/creamed-corn.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/creamed-corn.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2795c49 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/creamed-corn.txt @@ -0,0 +1,22 @@ +Creamed Corn +============ + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 27 November 2014 + +I am thankful for my family, for electricity, clean water, vaccines and everything else that keeps me and my family alive, that allowed us to evolve out of the tree canopy, walk out in to the tall grass and keep walking, slowly on, for millennia. And who will hopefully keep walking slowly, long after I am gone. + +cousins + +I'm also thankful for the web. This right here. The best form of communication and non-local connection that we've come up with since the beginning of time. I am very grateful to have my health and thankful for the privilege of being born into a life that allows me the free time and opportunity to partake in the web. I am thankful for the wealth of human knowledge, understanding and connection that that exists out here between the 1s and 0s and corporate owned routers that log it all for, ahem, *backup purposes*. + +Most of all I'm thankful for being alive. + +creamed corn + +And for creamed corn, which doesn't look like much in a pot, but it is, trust me. + +And for William Burroughs, who [summed it up best][1]. + +[1]: http://academic.brooklyn.cuny.edu/modlang/carasi/thanksgivingprayer.htm diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/halloween.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/halloween.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8dd8b12 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/halloween.amp @@ -0,0 +1,212 @@ + + + + + + +Halloween + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Halloween

    + + + +
    +
    +

    Me: What do you want to be for Halloween?

    +

    O: A bird?

    +

    L: A bird.

    +

    C: What kind of bird?

    +

    O: uh, um, an owl?

    +

    L: An owl.

    +

    C: An owl? Okay.

    +

    Ten hours of sewing later, C has created two owls:

    +

    +

    +

    +

    A couple days before Halloween, Bear Hollow Zoo always puts together a thing called "Boo in the Zoo" for kids. It's mostly older kid stuff, learning about the animals and so on, but the girls love running around the zoo so we went. L is getting new molars, so she mostly chewed her hands, but as luck would have it the animal they had out for the kids when we were there was... an owl.

    +

    +

    +

    +

    +

    For Halloween we went over to the Boulevard area where a few of our friends live. We stopped in at a kids party and then walked the neighborhood. L and O quickly discovered that encountering strangers is easier to overcome when they give you candy. Halloween, delivering the life lessons.

    +

    +

    +

    +

    +

    +

    +

    +

    Down the street from our friends there's a "ghost" band, the Ghosties, that plays every year. It just wouldn't be Halloween music without a Theremin. Pretty sure there are some well-known Athens musicians under those sheets.

    +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/halloween.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/halloween.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0c0a71f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/halloween.html @@ -0,0 +1,406 @@ + + + + + Halloween - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Halloween

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Me: What do you want to be for Halloween?

    +

    O: A bird?

    +

    L: A bird.

    +

    C: What kind of bird?

    +

    O: uh, um, an owl?

    +

    L: An owl.

    +

    C: An owl? Okay.

    +

    Ten hours of sewing later, C has created two owls:

    +

    owl costume

    +

    owl costume

    +

    owl costume

    +

    A couple days before Halloween, Bear Hollow Zoo always puts together a thing called “Boo in the Zoo” for kids. It’s mostly older kid stuff, learning about the animals and so on, but the girls love running around the zoo so we went. L is getting new molars, so she mostly chewed her hands, but as luck would have it the animal they had out for the kids when we were there was… an owl.

    +

    bear hollow halloween

    +

    bear hollow halloween

    +

    bear hollow halloween

    +

    bear hollow halloween

    +

    For Halloween we went over to the Boulevard area where a few of our friends live. We stopped in at a kids party and then walked the neighborhood. L and O quickly discovered that encountering strangers is easier to overcome when they give you candy. Halloween, delivering the life lessons.

    +

    halloween in blvd

    +

    halloween in blvd

    +

    halloween in blvd

    +

    halloween in blvd

    +

    halloween in blvd

    +

    halloween in blvd

    +

    halloween in blvd

    +

    Down the street from our friends there’s a “ghost” band, the Ghosties, that plays every year. It just wouldn’t be Halloween music without a Theremin. Pretty sure there are some well-known Athens musicians under those sheets.

    +

    halloween in blvd

    +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/halloween.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/halloween.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6709b8a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/halloween.txt @@ -0,0 +1,64 @@ +Halloween +========= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 01 November 2014 + +Me: What do you want to be for Halloween? + +O: A bird? + +L: A bird. + +C: What kind of bird? + +O: uh, um, an owl? + +L: An owl. + +C: An owl? Okay. + +Ten hours of sewing later, C has created two owls: + +owl costume + +owl costume + +owl costume + +A couple days before Halloween, [Bear Hollow Zoo][1] always puts together a thing called "Boo in the Zoo" for kids. It's mostly older kid stuff, learning about the animals and so on, but the girls love running around the zoo so we went. L is getting new molars, so she mostly chewed her hands, but as luck would have it the animal they had out for the kids when we were there was... an owl. + +bear hollow halloween + +bear hollow halloween + +bear hollow halloween + +bear hollow halloween + +For Halloween we went over to the Boulevard area where a few of our friends live. We stopped in at a kids party and then walked the neighborhood. L and O quickly discovered that encountering strangers is easier to overcome when they give you candy. Halloween, delivering the life lessons. + +halloween in blvd + +halloween in blvd + +halloween in blvd + +halloween in blvd + +halloween in blvd + +halloween in blvd + +halloween in blvd + +Down the street from our friends there's a "ghost" band, the Ghosties, that plays every year. It just wouldn't be Halloween music without a Theremin. Pretty sure there are some well-known Athens musicians under those sheets. + +halloween in blvd + + +
    + + +[1]: http://www.athensclarkecounty.com/Facilities/Facility/Details/1 diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4de7cd1 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,116 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: November 2014

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/memorial-park.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/memorial-park.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c5729ee --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/memorial-park.amp @@ -0,0 +1,195 @@ + + + + + + +Memorial Park + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Memorial Park

    + + + +
    +
    +

    The first time I ever heard a loon was canoe camping beside a pond in Baxter State Park, Maine. When you have no idea what that sound is (what that sound is? -L and O), a loon call in the dark is terrifying.

    +

    It's a been a long time since then, but I'll never forget that sound. I think about it every time we walk around the pond at Memorial Park.

    +

    +

    The pond at Memorial Park looks nothing like this one, which is the one I camped by in Maine, but memory is a funny thing. For whatever reason the little pond at Memorial Park reminds me of that one in Maine. There is no physical resemblance at all. Baxter is a wild place with few people around. The pond at Memorial Park is the opposite. There's even a fountain in the middle. Still, something about it.

    +

    L and O have never heard a loon, never been to Baxter State Park. Yet.

    +

    They're happy with the swings and the slides and the ducks.

    +

    +

    +

    +

    +

    +

    +

    Geese they are not such big fans of, but last week the geese weren't around. Just ducks.

    +

    +

    And climbing, you can never climb atop too many rocks.

    +

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/memorial-park.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/memorial-park.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..aa65669 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/memorial-park.html @@ -0,0 +1,395 @@ + + + + + Memorial Park - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Memorial Park

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The first time I ever heard a loon was canoe camping beside a pond in Baxter State Park, Maine. When you have no idea what that sound is (what that sound is? -L and O), a loon call in the dark is terrifying.

    +

    It’s a been a long time since then, but I’ll never forget that sound. I think about it every time we walk around the pond at Memorial Park.

    +

    Pond in Baxter State Park Maine

    +

    The pond at Memorial Park looks nothing like this one, which is the one I camped by in Maine, but memory is a funny thing. For whatever reason the little pond at Memorial Park reminds me of that one in Maine. There is no physical resemblance at all. Baxter is a wild place with few people around. The pond at Memorial Park is the opposite. There’s even a fountain in the middle. Still, something about it.

    +

    L and O have never heard a loon, never been to Baxter State Park. Yet.

    +

    They’re happy with the swings and the slides and the ducks.

    +

    +

    +

    +

    +

    +

    +

    Geese they are not such big fans of, but last week the geese weren’t around. Just ducks.

    +

    +

    And climbing, you can never climb atop too many rocks.

    +

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
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    + +
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    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/memorial-park.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/memorial-park.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fd3bb7b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/memorial-park.txt @@ -0,0 +1,38 @@ +Memorial Park +============= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 09 November 2014 + +The first time I ever heard a loon was canoe camping beside a pond in Baxter State Park, Maine. When you have no idea what *that sound* is (*what that sound is?* -L and O), a loon call in the dark is terrifying. + +It's a been a long time since then, but I'll never forget that sound. I think about it every time we walk around the pond at Memorial Park. + +Pond in Baxter State Park Maine + +The pond at Memorial Park looks nothing like this one, which is the one I camped by in Maine, but memory is a funny thing. For whatever reason the little pond at Memorial Park reminds me of that one in Maine. There is no physical resemblance at all. Baxter is a wild place with few people around. The pond at Memorial Park is the opposite. There's even a fountain in the middle. Still, something about it. + +L and O have never heard a loon, never been to Baxter State Park. Yet. + +They're happy with the swings and the slides and the ducks. + + + + + + + + + + + + + +Geese they are not such big fans of, but last week the geese weren't around. Just ducks. + + + +And climbing, you can never climb atop too many rocks. + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/muffins.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/muffins.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..20b1a66 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/muffins.amp @@ -0,0 +1,186 @@ + + + + + + +Muffins + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Muffins

    + + + +
    +
    +

    When you're two years old everything in the world is new every day. Even things you saw yesterday look different, feel different, are, inexplicably, different today.

    +

    +

    The world is chaos. The patterns we live our lives by are things we have discovered for ourselves, created for ourselves -- sometimes consciously, sometimes not.

    +

    When you're two years old you have far fewer of these self-made patterns in your world. Each one you discover, each one that is imposed on you has far more importance and power than than any one will when you're twenty, forty, sixty, eighty.

    +

    Current patterns. Tuesdays we go to Gymnastics. Sunday mornings we hike Sandy Creek Nature Center. Saturdays we eat muffins. Because muffins are awesome (awesome enough that Captain Beefheart has a song about muffins).

    +

    +

    O insisted that I take pictures of her and L eating muffins. I snapped a few shots and put the camera away, but she complained. Eventually I was made to understand that for her, take pictures of eating muffins was a literal statement. I had foolishly just taken picture of her with muffins. So...

    +

    +

    +

    I also caused great distress when I forgot to photograph my coffee, so I let O do it. Okay, I held the camera, but she pushed the shutter and said cheese. Authorship is always a little fuzzy.

    +

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/muffins.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/muffins.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cc05a98 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/muffins.html @@ -0,0 +1,390 @@ + + + + + Muffins - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Muffins

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    When you’re two years old everything in the world is new every day. Even things you saw yesterday look different, feel different, are, inexplicably, different today.

    +

    mischievous muffin eater

    +

    The world is chaos. The patterns we live our lives by are things we have discovered for ourselves, created for ourselves — sometimes consciously, sometimes not.

    +

    When you’re two years old you have far fewer of these self-made patterns in your world. Each one you discover, each one that is imposed on you has far more importance and power than than any one will when you’re twenty, forty, sixty, eighty.

    +

    Current patterns. Tuesdays we go to Gymnastics. Sunday mornings we hike Sandy Creek Nature Center. Saturdays we eat muffins. Because muffins are awesome (awesome enough that Captain Beefheart has a song about muffins).

    +

    O eating muffins

    +

    O insisted that I take pictures of her and L eating muffins. I snapped a few shots and put the camera away, but she complained. Eventually I was made to understand that for her, take pictures of eating muffins was a literal statement. I had foolishly just taken picture of her with muffins. So…

    +

    O eating muffins, mouth open

    +

    L eating muffins, mouth open

    +

    I also caused great distress when I forgot to photograph my coffee, so I let O do it. Okay, I held the camera, but she pushed the shutter and said cheese. Authorship is always a little fuzzy.

    +

    espresso

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/muffins.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/muffins.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f8a9469 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/11/muffins.txt @@ -0,0 +1,29 @@ +Muffins +======= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 16 November 2014 + +When you're two years old everything in the world is new every day. Even things you saw yesterday look different, feel different, *are*, inexplicably, different today. + +mischievous muffin eater + +The world is chaos. The patterns we live our lives by are things we have discovered for ourselves, created for ourselves -- sometimes consciously, sometimes not. + +When you're two years old you have far fewer of these self-made patterns in your world. Each one you discover, each one that is imposed on you has far more importance and power than than any one will when you're twenty, forty, sixty, eighty. + +Current patterns. Tuesdays we go to Gymnastics. Sunday mornings we hike Sandy Creek Nature Center. Saturdays we eat muffins. Because muffins are awesome (awesome enough that Captain Beefheart has [a song about muffins](//www.youtube.com/watch?v=ptoN-5QE0Lw)). + + +O eating muffins + +O insisted that I take pictures of her and L eating muffins. I snapped a few shots and put the camera away, but she complained. Eventually I was made to understand that for her, *take pictures of eating muffins* was a literal statement. I had foolishly just taken picture of her *with* muffins. So... + +O eating muffins, mouth open + +L eating muffins, mouth open + +I also caused great distress when I forgot to photograph my coffee, so I let O do it. Okay, I held the camera, but she pushed the shutter and said cheese. Authorship is always a little fuzzy. + +espresso diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/1969-yellowstone-trailer.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/1969-yellowstone-trailer.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..368f55f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/1969-yellowstone-trailer.amp @@ -0,0 +1,187 @@ + + + + + + +Our New 1969 Yellowstone Trailer + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Our New 1969 Yellowstone Trailer

    + + + +
    +
    +

    [Note, I have since sold the Yellowstone in favor of a 1969 Dodge Travco Motorhome. I'm leaving this here for posterity, but if you're interested in Yellowstones, alas, luxagraf turns out to be a poor resource.]

    +

    There was very little under our Christmas tree this year. Of course the girls got some gifts (balance bikes from us, plus the grandparents' gifts), but my wife and I didn't exchange gifts. Or rather we gave ourselves some things that didn't belong under the Christmas tree. The big one was our son, who was born a few days before.

    +

    The other was a new (well, new to us) 1969 Yellowstone travel trailer.

    +

    +

    It's 16ft long, single axle and in desperate need of some restoration. Still, thanks to some friends, we managed to tow it home without too much trouble. It's currently at my in-laws' house since we need to sell off our 1969 truck before we have room at the side of our house.

    +

    +

    The plan is to gut the trailer, reframe, re-wire and re-plumb everything. I plan to keep the stove, the light fixtures and the drawer and cabinet handles. That's about it from what I've seen so far. It would be cool to try building it back as close to the original as possible, but I've yet to find another like this model, which has a rear door. I'm also not so concerned with authenticity as practicality and comfort.

    +

    Plus I plan to get rid of the extraneous unnecessaries like the air conditioning and heater and instead install some solar panels and batteries so we don't need shore power. We like to avoid campgrounds full of RVs and trailers packed like sardines in a tin. We're more drawn to BLM and National Forest land where the camping is (often) free, the amenities few and the people fewer.

    +

    That's the plan anyway. I'd be lying if I didn't admit it seems a little overwhelming at times. I saw a quote somewhere, I think it was on one of the Dodge Travco forums, but it was something to the effect of, there's no camper more expensive than the one you get for free. This one wasn't free, but it wasn't much either.

    +

    I've never restored anything before, but I know I'll figure out. I also have a lot of very skilled friends who have already volunteered to help with some of the stuff I'm not as knowledgable about, like 12V wiring. And yes, I know what I'm getting into, thanks. That doesn't make it any less daunting though.

    +

    +

    Still, it's like any long journey, you just put one foot in front of the other. Unscrew the drawer handles one day, rip out the carpet another, pry out the interior paneling, gut the cabinets and so on until next thing you know the bones of the thing are there in front of you. Then you slowly put it all back together again, one foot in front of the other, back up the mountain.

    +

    In the mean time, in the evenings, after the kids are in bed, I cover the kitchen table in old maps and plot routes through the cities and into the dark expanses of green, brown and white unknowns. There are no real blank parts of the map anymore, to misquote Joseph Conrad, but there sure are a lot of empty spaces left. And miles to go before I sleep.

    +

    [If there's interest, I'll post up some restoration photos once we get rolling on the project.]

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/1969-yellowstone-trailer.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/1969-yellowstone-trailer.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a80960c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/1969-yellowstone-trailer.html @@ -0,0 +1,535 @@ + + + + + Our New 1969 Yellowstone Trailer - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Our New 1969 Yellowstone Trailer

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    [Note, I have since sold the Yellowstone in favor of a 1969 Dodge Travco Motorhome. I’m leaving this here for posterity, but if you’re interested in Yellowstones, alas, luxagraf turns out to be a poor resource.]

    +

    There was very little under our Christmas tree this year. Of course the girls got some gifts (balance bikes from us, plus the grandparents’ gifts), but my wife and I didn’t exchange gifts. Or rather we gave ourselves some things that didn’t belong under the Christmas tree. The big one was our son, who was born a few days before.

    +

    The other was a new (well, new to us) 1969 Yellowstone travel trailer.

    +

    our new 1969 yellowstone travel trailer

    +

    It’s 16ft long, single axle and in desperate need of some restoration. Still, thanks to some friends, we managed to tow it home without too much trouble. It’s currently at my in-laws’ house since we need to sell off our 1969 truck before we have room at the side of our house.

    +

    1969 yellowstone travel trailer unrestored interior

    +

    The plan is to gut the trailer, reframe, re-wire and re-plumb everything. I plan to keep the stove, the light fixtures and the drawer and cabinet handles. That’s about it from what I’ve seen so far. It would be cool to try building it back as close to the original as possible, but I’ve yet to find another like this model, which has a rear door. I’m also not so concerned with authenticity as practicality and comfort.

    +

    Plus I plan to get rid of the extraneous unnecessaries like the air conditioning and heater and instead install some solar panels and batteries so we don’t need shore power. We like to avoid campgrounds full of RVs and trailers packed like sardines in a tin. We’re more drawn to BLM and National Forest land where the camping is (often) free, the amenities few and the people fewer.

    +

    That’s the plan anyway. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit it seems a little overwhelming at times. I saw a quote somewhere, I think it was on one of the Dodge Travco forums, but it was something to the effect of, there’s no camper more expensive than the one you get for free. This one wasn’t free, but it wasn’t much either.

    +

    I’ve never restored anything before, but I know I’ll figure out. I also have a lot of very skilled friends who have already volunteered to help with some of the stuff I’m not as knowledgable about, like 12V wiring. And yes, I know what I’m getting into, thanks. That doesn’t make it any less daunting though.

    +

    1969 yellowstone travel trailer and my daughter

    +

    Still, it’s like any long journey, you just put one foot in front of the other. Unscrew the drawer handles one day, rip out the carpet another, pry out the interior paneling, gut the cabinets and so on until next thing you know the bones of the thing are there in front of you. Then you slowly put it all back together again, one foot in front of the other, back up the mountain.

    +

    In the mean time, in the evenings, after the kids are in bed, I cover the kitchen table in old maps and plot routes through the cities and into the dark expanses of green, brown and white unknowns. There are no real blank parts of the map anymore, to misquote Joseph Conrad, but there sure are a lot of empty spaces left. And miles to go before I sleep.

    +

    [If there’s interest, I’ll post up some restoration photos once we get rolling on the project.]

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +

    7 Comments

    + + + + + + +
    + +
    + +
    + Sean + January 11, 2015 at 8:45 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Yeah, interested in updates!

    +

    Really, really lovely site, by the way — I got here from an old webmonkey post of yours about setting up a home server, and I wound up spending a lot more time here than there, enjoying the great writing and photography (and practically invisible interface). Thanks for sharing all of it.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + January 11, 2015 at 10:20 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Sean-

    +

    That’s a really nice thing to say, thank you.

    +

    Right now I haven’t done much, but I’m hoping to get some time to work on the trailer soon.

    +

    Thanks for stopping by and glad you enjoyed the site.

    +

    [And if you need help with a server tutorial feel free to email me.]

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Robin Henderson + October 03, 2016 at 12:36 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Hi, my husband and I recently acquired a 1978 Yellowstone Country Club trailer. It looks pretty much like yours, I was wondering if you found an owners manual ?

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + October 09, 2016 at 7:50 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Robin-

    +

    Sorry, our trailer didn’t come with any manuals or any other documentation. The Tincantourists site has some basic info and there might be some in the forums there who could help track something down.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + The Varns + July 11, 2017 at 10:24 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    We just acquired a 1969 Yellowstone, exactly like you one you had. Trying to find the VIN. We have looked all over the tongue for it. Would you remember or know exactly where yours was? Perhaps a lead on how to contact the buyer of your 69 Yellowstone? I know this is an older post, so hopefully you still have some info on it. Thank you for your time, Jamie

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + July 16, 2017 at 12:26 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @The Varns- I never got as far as registering it so I never looked for a VIN. I know from hanging around airstream forums that they typically have VINs on the front tongue, but no idea if that’s true of all trailers or just airstreams.

    +

    For what it’s worth, our Travco had no VIN that anyone has ever been able to find. Previous owner had the state of NC just make one up and that’s what it’s registered under now. ¯_(ツ)_/¯

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Kimberly Mayer + October 25, 2017 at 4:20 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    My parents had this camper (I believe this same year) when I was a kid. Looking at the 2 pics you have posted, it is exactly as I remember. Does the side of the camper opposite the kitchen have a pull-out couch? There was a kitchen table that folded down and made a bed in the front of the camper and my sister and I slept in the bunk above the kitchen table. The rear of the camper was a bathroom (back left corner), heater and a storage cabinet. I have a lot of great memories of this camper and would love to watch your restoration progress.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/1969-yellowstone-trailer.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/1969-yellowstone-trailer.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..20292b7 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/1969-yellowstone-trailer.txt @@ -0,0 +1,34 @@ +Our New 1969 Yellowstone Trailer +================================ + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 29 December 2014 + +[**Note, I have since sold the Yellowstone in favor of a [1969 Dodge Travco Motorhome](https://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2015/06/big-blue-bus). I'm leaving this here for posterity, but if you're interested in Yellowstones, alas, luxagraf turns out to be a poor resource.**] + +There was very little under our Christmas tree this year. Of course the girls got some gifts (balance bikes from us, plus the grandparents' gifts), but my wife and I didn't exchange gifts. Or rather we gave ourselves some things that didn't belong under the Christmas tree. The big one was our son, who was born a few days before. + +The other was a new (well, new to us) 1969 Yellowstone travel trailer. + +our new 1969 yellowstone travel trailer + +It's 16ft long, single axle and in desperate need of some restoration. Still, thanks to some friends, we managed to tow it home without too much trouble. It's currently at my in-laws' house since we need to sell off our 1969 truck before we have room at the side of our house. + +1969 yellowstone travel trailer unrestored interior + +The plan is to gut the trailer, reframe, re-wire and re-plumb everything. I plan to keep the stove, the light fixtures and the drawer and cabinet handles. That's about it from what I've seen so far. It would be cool to try building it back as close to the original as possible, but I've yet to find another like this model, which has a rear door. I'm also not so concerned with authenticity as practicality and comfort. + +Plus I plan to get rid of the extraneous unnecessaries like the air conditioning and heater and instead install some solar panels and batteries so we don't need shore power. We like to avoid campgrounds full of RVs and trailers packed like sardines in a tin. We're more drawn to BLM and National Forest land where the camping is (often) free, the amenities few and the people fewer. + +That's the plan anyway. I'd be lying if I didn't admit it seems a little overwhelming at times. I saw a quote somewhere, I think it was on one of the Dodge Travco forums, but it was something to the effect of, there's no camper more expensive than the one you get for free. This one wasn't free, but it wasn't much either. + +I've never restored anything before, but I know I'll figure out. I also have a lot of very skilled friends who have already volunteered to help with some of the stuff I'm not as knowledgable about, like 12V wiring. And yes, I know what I'm getting into, thanks. That doesn't make it any less daunting though. + +1969 yellowstone travel trailer and my daughter + +Still, it's like any long journey, you just put one foot in front of the other. Unscrew the drawer handles one day, rip out the carpet another, pry out the interior paneling, gut the cabinets and so on until next thing you know the bones of the thing are there in front of you. Then you slowly put it all back together again, one foot in front of the other, back up the mountain. + +In the mean time, in the evenings, after the kids are in bed, I cover the kitchen table in old maps and plot routes through the cities and into the dark expanses of green, brown and white unknowns. There are no real blank parts of the map anymore, to misquote Joseph Conrad, but there sure are a lot of empty spaces left. And miles to go before I sleep. + +[If there's interest, I'll post up some restoration photos once we get rolling on the project.] diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/bourbon-bacon-bark.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/bourbon-bacon-bark.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4a1720d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/bourbon-bacon-bark.amp @@ -0,0 +1,196 @@ + + + + + + +Bourbon Bacon Bark + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Bourbon Bacon Bark

    + + + +
    +
    +

    Hygge is a Danish word. There is no real English translation. Approximations apparently include "togetherness", "well-being" and something like "coziness" if coziness were a word we applied not to physical things, but mental ones.

    +

    It is in other words, more or less impossible to pin down in English, but here's what's easy to understand -- the feeling the word is meant to describe. Abandon words and picture your ideal day spent with your favorite people, eating the best food you've ever had and so on. Notice the feeling that produces in you. That, as I understand it, is more or less Hygge.

    +

    It's a hard thing to come by most of the time in our culture. Most people work all day and most people do not have Hygge-inducing jobs. It also seem to be pretty near impossible to manufacture Hygge out of thin air.

    +

    The only way I know how to manufacture something like Hygge out of thin air is to take a few of my favorite people and make something wonderful like Bourbon Bacon Bark.

    +

    +

    I am a pretty good cook, but a terrible baker. The rest of the year I avoid baking. The precision necessary for good results just doesn't appeal to me most of the time. But this time of year is all about sugar so I give it shot anyway. Besides, my wife makes a fantastic fudge which can pick up the slack when my efforts fall short.

    +

    I stick with simpler things I'm not likely to screw up, like sugar cookies. Or my more recent addition, Bourbon Bacon Bark.

    +

    It started last year when I ran across this amazing recipe over at NWEdible. As good as that recipe is I'm completely unable to follow a recipe without injecting my own ideas in there somewhere. About half a second after I saw the title of that recipe I knew it was missing just one small, alliterative ingredient -- bacon.

    +

    Bourbon Bacon Bark. The words just feel right -- there's a rhythm there that almost guarantees the results will be great. This is what happens when writers cook.

    +

    If you'd like to make my version, follow NWEdible's recipe, but when you're melting the butter, toss in a tablespoon or two of bacon fat.

    +

    Then, when you stir in the pecans at the end, go ahead and add in a couple nice thick slices of bacon cooked up extra crispy and crumbled. Without the chocolate it isn't all that pretty.

    +

    +

    The point of course is get everyone involved. I finished off dozens of crème brûlées a night in my time at the 5 & 10 dessert station, so I know very well how badly melted sugar burns. Suffice to say kids would not enjoy it, so I kept the girls back a bit, which earned me this look.

    +

    +

    Chocolate on the other hand is pretty harmless. And the girls are big on stirring things. Even things that don't need to be stirred.

    +

    +

    +

    Until of course the chocolate is gone. You're making more right? What?

    +

    +

    Plenty of Bourbon Bacon Bark left though.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/bourbon-bacon-bark.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/bourbon-bacon-bark.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f231834 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/bourbon-bacon-bark.html @@ -0,0 +1,399 @@ + + + + + Bourbon Bacon Bark - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Bourbon Bacon Bark

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Hygge is a Danish word. There is no real English translation. Approximations apparently include “togetherness”, “well-being” and something like “coziness” if coziness were a word we applied not to physical things, but mental ones.

    +

    It is in other words, more or less impossible to pin down in English, but here’s what’s easy to understand — the feeling the word is meant to describe. Abandon words and picture your ideal day spent with your favorite people, eating the best food you’ve ever had and so on. Notice the feeling that produces in you. That, as I understand it, is more or less Hygge.

    +

    It’s a hard thing to come by most of the time in our culture. Most people work all day and most people do not have Hygge-inducing jobs. It also seem to be pretty near impossible to manufacture Hygge out of thin air.

    +

    The only way I know how to manufacture something like Hygge out of thin air is to take a few of my favorite people and make something wonderful like Bourbon Bacon Bark.

    +

    bourbon bacon toffee bark

    +

    I am a pretty good cook, but a terrible baker. The rest of the year I avoid baking. The precision necessary for good results just doesn’t appeal to me most of the time. But this time of year is all about sugar so I give it shot anyway. Besides, my wife makes a fantastic fudge which can pick up the slack when my efforts fall short.

    +

    I stick with simpler things I’m not likely to screw up, like sugar cookies. Or my more recent addition, Bourbon Bacon Bark.

    +

    It started last year when I ran across this amazing recipe over at NWEdible. As good as that recipe is I’m completely unable to follow a recipe without injecting my own ideas in there somewhere. About half a second after I saw the title of that recipe I knew it was missing just one small, alliterative ingredient — bacon.

    +

    Bourbon Bacon Bark. The words just feel right — there’s a rhythm there that almost guarantees the results will be great. This is what happens when writers cook.

    +

    If you’d like to make my version, follow NWEdible’s recipe, but when you’re melting the butter, toss in a tablespoon or two of bacon fat.

    +

    Then, when you stir in the pecans at the end, go ahead and add in a couple nice thick slices of bacon cooked up extra crispy and crumbled. Without the chocolate it isn’t all that pretty.

    +

    bourbon bacon toffee bark unchocolated

    +

    The point of course is get everyone involved. I finished off dozens of crème brûlées a night in my time at the 5 & 10 dessert station, so I know very well how badly melted sugar burns. Suffice to say kids would not enjoy it, so I kept the girls back a bit, which earned me this look.

    +

    fake scorn

    +

    Chocolate on the other hand is pretty harmless. And the girls are big on stirring things. Even things that don’t need to be stirred.

    +

    chocolate stir

    +

    chocolate face

    +

    Until of course the chocolate is gone. You’re making more right? What?

    +

    chocolate face

    +

    Plenty of Bourbon Bacon Bark left though.

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/bourbon-bacon-bark.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/bourbon-bacon-bark.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7e7c405 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/bourbon-bacon-bark.txt @@ -0,0 +1,50 @@ +Bourbon Bacon Bark +================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 18 December 2014 + +[Hygge][1] is a Danish word. There is no real English translation. Approximations apparently include "togetherness", "well-being" and something like "coziness" if coziness were a word we applied not to physical things, but mental ones. + +It is in other words, more or less impossible to pin down in English, but here's what's easy to understand -- the feeling the word is meant to describe. Abandon words and picture your ideal day spent with your favorite people, eating the best food you've ever had and so on. Notice the feeling that produces in you. That, as I understand it, is more or less Hygge. + +It's a hard thing to come by most of the time in our culture. Most people work all day and most people do not have Hygge-inducing jobs. It also seem to be pretty near impossible to manufacture Hygge out of thin air. + +The only way I know how to manufacture something like Hygge out of thin air is to take a few of my favorite people and make something wonderful like Bourbon Bacon Bark. + +bourbon bacon toffee bark + +I am a pretty good cook, but a terrible baker. The rest of the year I avoid baking. The precision necessary for good results just doesn't appeal to me most of the time. But this time of year is all about sugar so I give it shot anyway. Besides, my wife makes a fantastic fudge which can pick up the slack when my efforts fall short. + +I stick with simpler things I'm not likely to screw up, like sugar cookies. Or my more recent addition, Bourbon Bacon Bark. + +It started last year when I ran across this [amazing recipe over at NWEdible](http://www.nwedible.com/2013/12/bourbon-pecan-toffee-bark.html). As good as that recipe is I'm completely unable to follow a recipe without injecting my own ideas in there somewhere. About half a second after I saw the title of that recipe I knew it was missing just one small, alliterative ingredient -- bacon. + +Bourbon Bacon Bark. The words just feel right -- there's a rhythm there that almost guarantees the results will be great. This is what happens when writers cook. + +If you'd like to make my version, follow NWEdible's recipe, but when you're melting the butter, toss in a tablespoon or two of bacon fat. + +Then, when you stir in the pecans at the end, go ahead and add in a couple nice thick slices of bacon cooked up extra crispy and crumbled. Without the chocolate it isn't all that pretty. + +bourbon bacon toffee bark unchocolated + +The point of course is get everyone involved. I finished off dozens of crème brûlées a night in my time at the [5 & 10][2] dessert station, so I know very well how badly melted sugar burns. Suffice to say kids would not enjoy it, so I kept the girls back a bit, which earned me this look. + +fake scorn + +Chocolate on the other hand is pretty harmless. And the girls are big on stirring things. Even things that don't need to be stirred. + +chocolate stir + +chocolate face + +Until of course the chocolate is gone. You're making more right? What? + +chocolate face + +Plenty of Bourbon Bacon Bark left though. + +[1]: http://www.visitdenmark.com/en-us/denmark/culture/art-danish-hygge +[2]: http://fiveandten.com/ + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3df7bfa --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,110 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: December 2014

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/night-before.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/night-before.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..87711b5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/night-before.amp @@ -0,0 +1,180 @@ + + + + + + +The Night Before + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The Night Before

    + + + +
    +
    +

    Every voyage has a night before. These quiet hours of darkness before the journey begins.

    +

    +

    We tend to remember the excitement of the next morning, when our senses are on edge, hyper-aware and it's easy to be anchored in the now. This is why we remember so clearly the smell of salt on the air, the soft pad of bare feet on the deck, the sound of water slapping the hull. Or maybe it's clatter of wheels on the rails, the soft sway of sleeper cars in the early morning light, the hum of jet engine, the first light as you pop up above the clouds.

    +

    All of these things mark beginnings.

    +

    Me, I like that night before. I like when you're still imagining what it might be like. Still trying to picture it all in your head, fit yourself into your own imagination. You're still the one at the helm. Tomorrow life will take over, steer you where it will, but that night before everything is possible.

    +

    The hardest voyage for me to imagine is my children. My son will come forth out of the world tomorrow. I try to picture what he looks like. It's marginally easier than it was with my daughters, since I can imagine he might look like they did. But he won't. Not really. Because it's impossible to conceive of what someone will look like before you meet them. Impossible, but fun to try.

    +

    It's likewise impossible to imagine what your life with them will be like, beyond knowing that it will be inconceivably great.

    +

    That's why there are these nights before, to reflect, to imagine, to remember that we are here to go. Forward. Onward. Always.

    +

    [Milky Way image by John Fowler, Flickr CC]

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/night-before.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/night-before.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9c81180 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/night-before.html @@ -0,0 +1,388 @@ + + + + + The Night Before - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The Night Before

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Every voyage has a night before. These quiet hours of darkness before the journey begins.

    +

    Milky Way, by John Fowler, flickr cc licensed

    +

    We tend to remember the excitement of the next morning, when our senses are on edge, hyper-aware and it’s easy to be anchored in the now. This is why we remember so clearly the smell of salt on the air, the soft pad of bare feet on the deck, the sound of water slapping the hull. Or maybe it’s clatter of wheels on the rails, the soft sway of sleeper cars in the early morning light, the hum of jet engine, the first light as you pop up above the clouds.

    +

    All of these things mark beginnings.

    +

    Me, I like that night before. I like when you’re still imagining what it might be like. Still trying to picture it all in your head, fit yourself into your own imagination. You’re still the one at the helm. Tomorrow life will take over, steer you where it will, but that night before everything is possible.

    +

    The hardest voyage for me to imagine is my children. My son will come forth out of the world tomorrow. I try to picture what he looks like. It’s marginally easier than it was with my daughters, since I can imagine he might look like they did. But he won’t. Not really. Because it’s impossible to conceive of what someone will look like before you meet them. Impossible, but fun to try.

    +

    It’s likewise impossible to imagine what your life with them will be like, beyond knowing that it will be inconceivably great.

    +

    That’s why there are these nights before, to reflect, to imagine, to remember that we are here to go. Forward. Onward. Always.

    +

    [Milky Way image by John Fowler, Flickr CC]

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/night-before.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/night-before.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3ae1a91 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/12/night-before.txt @@ -0,0 +1,27 @@ +The Night Before +================ + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Friday, 19 December 2014 + +Every voyage has a night before. These quiet hours of darkness before the journey begins. + +Milky Way, by John Fowler, flickr cc licensed + +We tend to remember the excitement of the next morning, when our senses are on edge, hyper-aware and it's easy to be anchored in the now. This is why we remember so clearly the smell of salt on the air, the soft pad of bare feet on the deck, the sound of water slapping the hull. Or maybe it's clatter of wheels on the rails, the soft sway of sleeper cars in the early morning light, the hum of jet engine, the first light as you pop up above the clouds. + +All of these things mark beginnings. + +Me, I like that night before. I like when you're still imagining what it might be like. Still trying to picture it all in your head, fit yourself into your own imagination. You're still the one at the helm. Tomorrow life will take over, steer you where it will, but that night before everything is possible. + +The hardest voyage for me to imagine is my children. My son will come forth out of the world tomorrow. I try to picture what he looks like. It's marginally easier than it was with my daughters, since I can imagine he might look like they did. But he won't. Not really. Because it's impossible to conceive of what someone will look like before you meet them. Impossible, but fun to try. + +It's likewise impossible to imagine what your life with them will be like, beyond knowing that it will be inconceivably great. + +That's why there are these nights before, to reflect, to imagine, to remember that we are here to go. Forward. Onward. Always. + + +[Milky Way image by [John Fowler, Flickr CC][1]] + +[1]: https://www.flickr.com/photos/snowpeak/14351894398/ diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2244f8e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2014/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,140 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    2014, on luxagraf

    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/01/bring-on-the-change.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/01/bring-on-the-change.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..04cda37 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/01/bring-on-the-change.amp @@ -0,0 +1,186 @@ + + + + + + +Bring on the Change + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Bring on the Change

    + + + +
    +
    +

    I've been thinking about this little mantra ever since I saw it six or seven years ago. I don't think I've ever seen what I consider the secret to happiness so succinctly and completely captured.

    +

    I'm reprinting it here because I've been putting into action lately. And the author of this little guide happiness, Mark Pilgrim, removed his entire online presence back in 2011. When he originally published it in '09 or so he said he was on step 4. I assume he eventually made it to step 8.

    +
    +
      +
    1. Stop buying stuff you don't need
      2. +
    2. Pay off all your credit cards
      3. +
    3. Get rid of all the stuff that doesn't fit in your house/apartment storage lockers, etc.
      4. +
    4. Get rid of all the stuff that doesn't fit on the first floor of your house attic, garage, etc.
      5. +
    5. Get rid of all the stuff that doesn't fit in one room of your house
      6. +
    6. Get rid of all the stuff that doesn't fit in a suitcase
      7. +
    7. Get rid of all the stuff that doesn't fit in a backpack
      8. +
    8. Get rid of the backpack
      9. +
    +
    +

    I would say I am simultaneously on steps 2 and 4, with 5 and even 6 in sight.

    +

    For the record, while I understand wandering monks and the like, right now I personally have no desire to go beyond step 7. Still, if I learned nothing else from Tolstoy, I did learn that you never know when you'll end wandering.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/01/bring-on-the-change.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/01/bring-on-the-change.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5b428d1 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/01/bring-on-the-change.html @@ -0,0 +1,395 @@ + + + + + Bring On The Change - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Bring on the Change

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    I’ve been thinking about this little mantra ever since I saw it six or seven years ago. I don’t think I’ve ever seen what I consider the secret to happiness so succinctly and completely captured.

    +

    I’m reprinting it here because I’ve been putting into action lately. And the author of this little guide happiness, Mark Pilgrim, removed his entire online presence back in 2011. When he originally published it in ‘09 or so he said he was on step 4. I assume he eventually made it to step 8.

    +
    +
      +
    1. Stop buying stuff you don’t need
      2. +
    2. Pay off all your credit cards
      3. +
    3. Get rid of all the stuff that doesn’t fit in your house/apartment storage lockers, etc.
      4. +
    4. Get rid of all the stuff that doesn’t fit on the first floor of your house attic, garage, etc.
      5. +
    5. Get rid of all the stuff that doesn’t fit in one room of your house
      6. +
    6. Get rid of all the stuff that doesn’t fit in a suitcase
      7. +
    7. Get rid of all the stuff that doesn’t fit in a backpack
      8. +
    8. Get rid of the backpack
      9. +
    +
    +

    I would say I am simultaneously on steps 2 and 4, with 5 and even 6 in sight.

    +

    For the record, while I understand wandering monks and the like, right now I personally have no desire to go beyond step 7. Still, if I learned nothing else from Tolstoy, I did learn that you never know when you’ll end wandering.

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/01/bring-on-the-change.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/01/bring-on-the-change.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..40b2d60 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/01/bring-on-the-change.txt @@ -0,0 +1,23 @@ +Bring on the Change +=================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Friday, 01 January 2016 + +I've been thinking about this little mantra ever since I saw it six or seven years ago. I don't think I've ever seen what I consider the secret to happiness so succinctly and completely captured. + +I'm reprinting it here because I've been putting into action lately. And the author of this little guide happiness, Mark Pilgrim, removed his entire online presence back in 2011. When he originally published it in '09 or so he said he was on step 4. I assume he eventually made it to step 8. + +>1. Stop buying stuff you don't need +>2. Pay off all your credit cards +>3. Get rid of all the stuff that doesn't fit in your house/apartment storage lockers, etc. +>4. Get rid of all the stuff that doesn't fit on the first floor of your house attic, garage, etc. +>5. Get rid of all the stuff that doesn't fit in one room of your house +>6. Get rid of all the stuff that doesn't fit in a suitcase +>7. Get rid of all the stuff that doesn't fit in a backpack +>8. Get rid of the backpack + +I would say I am simultaneously on steps 2 and 4, with 5 and even 6 in sight. + +For the record, while I understand wandering monks and the like, right now I personally have no desire to go beyond step 7. Still, if I learned nothing else from Tolstoy, I did learn that you never know when you'll end wandering. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/01/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/01/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..97d0a87 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/01/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,104 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: January 2016

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/03/another-spring.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/03/another-spring.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fd61fdf --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/03/another-spring.amp @@ -0,0 +1,215 @@ + + + + + + +Another Spring + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Another Spring

    + + + +
    +
    +

    This becomes a day like any other that is somehow different. Then another and another. Little things. The air feels brighter. The river is lower. Less practical footwear appears on the feet around you.

    +

    The mornings are crisp and the pollen hasn't started yet. The trees still bare though the smaller shrubs turn purple and white. Everything feels fragile but possible again.

    +

    +

    It might not last. It's possible another snow storm is yet to come, but you have to cast your lot with some version of the future.

    +

    And then the pollen does start. The world coalesces out of its dream state into great lime green clouds of oak and pecan pollen. A world of runny eyes and burning lungs. It's awful for a week to ten days. Then the catkins fall in great heaps that mat in the corners of the deck, choke the gutters and require a rake to get out of the yard.

    +

    Then the clouds of pollen disappear and you know summer heat is only a week or two away. This is how it goes around here, year after year. It typically starts a bit before calendar spring. I'm not good with dates though. I'm not good with time actually. Unless I have a deadline.

    +

    Human are the only ones with deadlines. Spring comes when it comes.

    +

    There is the spring equinox. The plane of Earth's equator passes through the center of the Sun with admirable regularity. It might not mark spring precisely, but from here on out there's more light in the day than darkness.

    +

    If you whip out your stopwatch you'll notice that the length of day and night aren't exactly the same, but then if you're the sort to whip out a stopwatch for holidays probably no one is going to invite your to their equinox party anyway. It's close enough. It's something to mark, somehow.

    +

    One of the unfortunate side effects of not being religious or subscribing to any particular religion1 is that you have little to mark. Days and months slide by. Changes proceed largely without us or without our marking them in any way. Secularists don't have potlucks.

    +
    + +
    Secular potlucks? Chicken!
    +
    +

    One of the wonderful things about the internet though is that it makes communities possible that would otherwise not be possible. No church to attend every Sunday with the same people? No problem, start a Facebook group2. Profit. Or at least potluck.

    +

    Which is the world's longest intro to we went to an equinox party and easter egg hunt with a bunch of fellow secularists. And it was great. There was even old school climbing equipment of the sort children could take real risks on. I'd like to attribute that to the lack of religion present, but that would be stretching it. I think it was just some playground equipment that time forgot.

    +

    +
    + +
    If your twin sister climbs something, there's no way you aren't going to do the same.
    +
    +

    There was an egg hunt as well, though my children are a bit young to get too into it. They are far more enthralled by the own anticipation of a thing than any thing itself. Actually maybe that's not something you grow out of, I think I'm the same way. The potluck was good. It had chicken. It marked a thing, a change, or the symbol of a change, that the weather sometimes aligns with, sometimes does not. But it lacked a certain gravitas.

    +
    + +
    A couple of sticks, some water, hours gone.
    +
    +

    Not that spring has much gravitas. But there is a certain violence to change, even seasonal change, that seems like it's worth a pause, however brief, to reflect. The snow melts, the rain falls, it all goes somewhere. Water cuts through red Georgia mud. Trees are washed from banks. Rocks tumble down to sand, slow canyons carved a bit more every year as the silt and sand rolls down from the Appalachia to the sea. The mountains themselves are changing, getting smaller, their sides steeper. All this change destroys what came before.

    +

    We like to paint spring as something that emerges out of winter, something that grows up from some blankness, and it does from one perspective, but we overlook that it destroys what came before. There is no change without destruction and decay. It's possible to recast that destruction in pretty words, but it is always destruction, especially from the point of view of what came before. It would be interesting to hear what the caterpillar thinks of the butterfly.

    +

    I'm never going to get the collective solemnity of ceremony without religion though. I know that. That sort of gravity comes from larger groups of like minded people than I will ever find, even on Facebook. For now I'll settle for potlucks.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      The sun god religions obsess over rules, power and control when we all know potlucks are what matters. ↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      It'd be a whole lot cooler if Facebook wasn't the mediator of anyone's community, but for now that's where the people are so that's where the communities are. Just remember that the people behind Facebook are true Burroughsian shits and act accordingly. ↩

      +
      3. +
    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/03/another-spring.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/03/another-spring.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..449cd61 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/03/another-spring.html @@ -0,0 +1,438 @@ + + + + + Another Spring - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Another Spring

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    This becomes a day like any other that is somehow different. Then another and another. Little things. The air feels brighter. The river is lower. Less practical footwear appears on the feet around you.

    +

    The mornings are crisp and the pollen hasn’t started yet. The trees still bare though the smaller shrubs turn purple and white. Everything feels fragile but possible again.

    +
    + + Bumblebee on bright pink flowers photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It might not last. It’s possible another snow storm is yet to come, but you have to cast your lot with some version of the future.

    +

    And then the pollen does start. The world coalesces out of its dream state into great lime green clouds of oak and pecan pollen. A world of runny eyes and burning lungs. It’s awful for a week to ten days. Then the catkins fall in great heaps that mat in the corners of the deck, choke the gutters and require a rake to get out of the yard.

    +

    Then the clouds of pollen disappear and you know summer heat is only a week or two away. This is how it goes around here, year after year. It typically starts a bit before calendar spring. I’m not good with dates though. I’m not good with time actually. Unless I have a deadline.

    +

    Human are the only ones with deadlines. Spring comes when it comes.

    +

    There is the spring equinox. The plane of Earth’s equator passes through the center of the Sun with admirable regularity. It might not mark spring precisely, but from here on out there’s more light in the day than darkness.

    +

    If you whip out your stopwatch you’ll notice that the length of day and night aren’t exactly the same, but then if you’re the sort to whip out a stopwatch for holidays probably no one is going to invite your to their equinox party anyway. It’s close enough. It’s something to mark, somehow.

    +

    One of the unfortunate side effects of not being religious or subscribing to any particular religion1 is that you have little to mark. Days and months slide by. Changes proceed largely without us or without our marking them in any way. Secularists don’t have potlucks.

    +
    + + Child eating chicken at potluck lunch photographed by luxagraf + +
    Secular potlucks? Chicken!
    +
    + +

    One of the wonderful things about the internet though is that it makes communities possible that would otherwise not be possible. No church to attend every Sunday with the same people? No problem, start a Facebook group2. Profit. Or at least potluck.

    +

    Which is the world’s longest intro to we went to an equinox party and easter egg hunt with a bunch of fellow secularists. And it was great. There was even old school climbing equipment of the sort children could take real risks on. I’d like to attribute that to the lack of religion present, but that would be stretching it. I think it was just some playground equipment that time forgot.

    +
    + + girl climbing up a steep ramp photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + two girls climbing steep ramp photographed by luxagraf + +
    If your twin sister climbs something, there’s no way you aren’t going to do the same.
    +
    + +

    There was an egg hunt as well, though my children are a bit young to get too into it. They are far more enthralled by the own anticipation of a thing than any thing itself. Actually maybe that’s not something you grow out of, I think I’m the same way. The potluck was good. It had chicken. It marked a thing, a change, or the symbol of a change, that the weather sometimes aligns with, sometimes does not. But it lacked a certain gravitas.

    +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    A couple of sticks, some water, hours gone.
    +
    + +

    Not that spring has much gravitas. But there is a certain violence to change, even seasonal change, that seems like it’s worth a pause, however brief, to reflect. The snow melts, the rain falls, it all goes somewhere. Water cuts through red Georgia mud. Trees are washed from banks. Rocks tumble down to sand, slow canyons carved a bit more every year as the silt and sand rolls down from the Appalachia to the sea. The mountains themselves are changing, getting smaller, their sides steeper. All this change destroys what came before.

    +

    We like to paint spring as something that emerges out of winter, something that grows up from some blankness, and it does from one perspective, but we overlook that it destroys what came before. There is no change without destruction and decay. It’s possible to recast that destruction in pretty words, but it is always destruction, especially from the point of view of what came before. It would be interesting to hear what the caterpillar thinks of the butterfly.

    +

    I’m never going to get the collective solemnity of ceremony without religion though. I know that. That sort of gravity comes from larger groups of like minded people than I will ever find, even on Facebook. For now I’ll settle for potlucks.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      The sun god religions obsess over rules, power and control when we all know potlucks are what matters. ↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      It’d be a whole lot cooler if Facebook wasn’t the mediator of anyone’s community, but for now that’s where the people are so that’s where the communities are. Just remember that the people behind Facebook are true Burroughsian shits and act accordingly. ↩

      +
      3. +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
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    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/03/another-spring.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/03/another-spring.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..28531de --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/03/another-spring.txt @@ -0,0 +1,50 @@ +Another Spring +============== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 20 March 2016 + +This becomes a day like any other that is somehow different. Then another and another. Little things. The air feels brighter. The river is lower. Less practical footwear appears on the feet around you. + +The mornings are crisp and the pollen hasn't started yet. The trees still bare though the smaller shrubs turn purple and white. Everything feels fragile but possible again. + + + +It might not last. It's possible another snow storm is yet to come, but you have to cast your lot with some version of the future. + +And then the pollen does start. The world coalesces out of its dream state into great lime green clouds of oak and pecan pollen. A world of runny eyes and burning lungs. It's awful for a week to ten days. Then the catkins fall in great heaps that mat in the corners of the deck, choke the gutters and require a rake to get out of the yard. + +Then the clouds of pollen disappear and you know summer heat is only a week or two away. This is how it goes around here, year after year. It typically starts a bit before calendar spring. I'm not good with dates though. I'm not good with time actually. Unless I have a deadline. + +Human are the only ones with deadlines. Spring comes when it comes. + +There is the spring equinox. The plane of Earth's equator passes through the center of the Sun with admirable regularity. It might not mark spring precisely, but from here on out there's more light in the day than darkness. + +If you whip out your stopwatch you'll notice that the length of day and night aren't *exactly* the same, but then if you're the sort to whip out a stopwatch for holidays probably no one is going to invite your to their equinox party anyway. It's close enough. It's something to mark, somehow. + +One of the unfortunate side effects of not being religious or subscribing to any particular religion[^1] is that you have little to mark. Days and months slide by. Changes proceed largely without us or without our marking them in any way. Secularists don't have potlucks. + + + +One of the wonderful things about the internet though is that it makes communities possible that would otherwise not be possible. No church to attend every Sunday with the same people? No problem, start a Facebook group[^2]. Profit. Or at least potluck. + +Which is the world's longest intro to we went to an equinox party and easter egg hunt with a bunch of fellow secularists. And it was great. There was even old school climbing equipment of the sort children could take real risks on. I'd like to attribute that to the lack of religion present, but that would be stretching it. I think it was just some playground equipment that time forgot. + + + + + +There was an egg hunt as well, though my children are a bit young to get too into it. They are far more enthralled by the own anticipation of a thing than any thing itself. Actually maybe that's not something you grow out of, I think I'm the same way. The potluck was good. It had chicken. It marked a thing, a change, or the symbol of a change, that the weather sometimes aligns with, sometimes does not. But it lacked a certain gravitas. + + + +Not that spring has much gravitas. But there is a certain violence to change, even seasonal change, that seems like it's worth a pause, however brief, to reflect. The snow melts, the rain falls, it all goes somewhere. Water cuts through red Georgia mud. Trees are washed from banks. Rocks tumble down to sand, slow canyons carved a bit more every year as the silt and sand rolls down from the Appalachia to the sea. The mountains themselves are changing, getting smaller, their sides steeper. All this change destroys what came before. + +We like to paint spring as something that emerges out of winter, something that grows up from some blankness, and it does from one perspective, but we overlook that it destroys what came before. There is no change without destruction and decay. It's possible to recast that destruction in pretty words, but it is always destruction, especially from the point of view of what came before. It would be interesting to hear what the caterpillar thinks of the butterfly. + +I'm never going to get the collective solemnity of ceremony without religion though. I know that. That sort of gravity comes from larger groups of like minded people than I will ever find, even on Facebook. For now I'll settle for potlucks. + +[^1]: The sun god religions obsess over rules, power and control when we all know potlucks are what matters. + +[^2]: It'd be a whole lot cooler if Facebook wasn't the mediator of anyone's community, but for now that's where the people are so that's where the communities are. Just remember that the [people behind Facebook](http://www.theregister.co.uk/2010/05/14/facebook_trust_dumb/) are true [Burroughsian shits](http://deoxy.org/wiki/The_Johnson_Family) and act accordingly. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/03/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/03/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..476a07d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/03/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,107 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: March 2016

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/03/up-in-the-air.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/03/up-in-the-air.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9224060 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/03/up-in-the-air.amp @@ -0,0 +1,235 @@ + + + + + + +Up in the Air + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Up in the Air

    + + + +
    +
    +

    I tore the rear air conditioning unit off the back of the bus today. It joins the front unit in the growing pile of bus trash at the side of our house.

    +

    +

    Afterward I stood back and looked at the Travco. All the clean lines and curves joined together again, no more air conditioning warts to interrupt the sliding smooth and unbroken swoop of white and blue. The big blue bus looked sleek and whole again.

    +

    I'll admit it gave me no small measure of satisfaction, thinking that perhaps, amidst the exponentially increasing insanity, I'd made some tiny thing right in the world. It was that same sort joy that comes from eating really dark chocolate. The aesthetic perfection of hundred percent dark chocolate.

    +

    I didn't really get a chance to savor this feeling because the universe hates smugness and soon after I had another thought, hmm, maybe I should check and see if it's going to rain any time soon... Oh, well, yes it is. For three days straight. Starting tomorrow. And I just opened a fourteen inch square hole in the roof of the bus. Genius.

    +
    + +
    The abyss stares back. Wait, did you say rain?
    +
    +

    I got a trash bag, some painter's tape, some duct tape, a dictionary of German swear words, and got to work.

    +

    I had some time up there on the roof of the bus to reflect on what I had done. More or less an incredibly impractical thing. In the service of what I think is my offbeat, but at times deeply felt sense of aesthetics, I had ripped out two at least partly functioning air conditioners.

    +

    Actually I should probably look up aesthetics in the dictionary and make sure that's what I'm acting in the service of. Or I should read Kant. But then it all gets very technical and is predicated on the belief that there is an absolute sense of "good" and "bad" to beauty and I don't know if it matters that much. Maybe dark chocolate metaphors are good enough. If the dark chocolate is good enough. Screw Kant.

    +

    Somewhere in a tangle of duct tape and torn plastic trash bags, I got to wondering what Kant would have made of a 1969 Travco. The engine would be new and presumably mind blowing, but Kant was probably familiar with Gypsies at least. The mobile home concept would be familiar. Probably frowned on, but familiar. But what would he make of tearing out an object of convenience and comfort because I think aesthetic integrity and beauty trump personal comfort?

    +

    I decided there was a high probability he would think I was an idiot to forego the comfort of air conditioning, which, from his point of view, would be like magic. The problem is I've never been able to get through more than a few pages of Critique of Judgment without being overcome with a desire to reach back through time and give the man a hug1 and say, relax, it's all going to be okay.

    +

    Aesthetics have always seemed pretty simple to me. There is stuff in the world that makes you feel delight. So when you discover this beauty and delight in the world around you, you embrace it and do what you can in service of it2. Like removing ugly air conditioners.

    +

    The designers of the Travco, to my mind, felt the same way, though they were doubtless bound by certain economic and marketplace constraints I don't have. Hence, warts on the roof if you must. But no one who's of a purely practical bent would ever have designed the large front sliding windows the way they are designed. They're wildly impractical, worse, they leak. But there they are. Pure aesthetics. They look like the person who designed them had discovered delight in their beauty. Little water coming in? Get a towel.

    +

    +

    The marketplace does not value aesthetics though. The wonderful sweeping curves of the Travco's windows leaked badly enough that at some point (early '70s) the idea was abandoned altogether.

    +

    Aesthetics are a learning experience, a feedback loop of sorts, though the experience is better when it creates change in other direction -- adding in wildly impractical, but aesthetically delightful, sliding windows as it were.

    +

    Consider dark chocolate. I'd never really had any until I started dating my wife. I thought chocolate was something that skins a cheap candy bar full of nougat and indecipherable ingredients. The first time my wife gave me a bit of real chocolate was revelatory. The possibilities of life expanded, I had discovered more joy and beauty. Aesthetic progress you might say.

    +

    Aesthetics are a life long process, always in flux, that's part of what drives us all to want to know what's around the next corner, over the next hill. As naturalist and herbalist Juliette de Bairacli Levy writes, "I believe that this endless search for beauty in surroundings, in people and one's personal life, is the headstone of travel."

    +

    My own aesthetics are like yours I imagine, complicated and often contradictory, nothing so firmly delineated as to please Kant. But one thing I have figured out is that comfort is transitory and moreover, relative. Aesthetics are neither3.

    +

    Which is to say, removing the air conditioner might mean that I end up hot, sweating and unable to sleep, but this too, as they say, shall pass. I won't always be hot sweaty and unable to sleep. I will always have to look at the air conditioning wart that used to be on top of the bus. Comfort must be chased; beauty exists.

    +

    This is what I kept telling myself the next morning as I mopped up the floor where all the water had come pouring in after my duct tape and trash bag covering collapsed under the weight of accumulated rain water. Comfort is relative. Beauty just is.

    +

    For those of us from the relative north, one of the stranger sights in the tropics is the way everyone grabs a jacket the minute the temperature drops below 80 degrees. Even though I have been on the other side of it; living through a succession of New England winters with less and less pain each time. Still, I'll never forget the first night I spent in Goa. The sun went down, the temperature dropped to about 80 and the jackets came out. One person's balmy evening is another person's winter.

    +

    By the time I got to Seam Reap several months later I thought I had adjusted a bit. I had not. It was hot, hotter than anything I have experienced before or since. Hotter than Death Valley. I was traveling with Matt and Debi at the time and somehow we convinced ourselves that we didn't need air conditioning. To be honest I think it was Matt that convinced Debi and I. But he was right.

    +

    During the day we spent our time outside exploring Angkor Wat in the heat of the day, when the rest of the tourists were passing the time in air conditioned cafés). We went out in the heat of the day precisely because it was hot, because hardly any other tourists did. We had Angkor Wat to ourselves.

    +
    + +
    Angkor Wat without the people.
    +
    +

    We could have returned home to a nice air conditioned room. But if you do that you never adapt. Our bodies are fantastically adaptable machines over the long run. You get used to the heat. This never happens if you retreat to air conditioning at every opportunity.

    +

    At night we would crank the ceiling fan to 11 and then, one after the other, take the coldest shower we could get, which was just below scalding because the water tank was in the sun all day, and then dive in our respective beds in hopes that we'd would fall asleep before the real sweating started.

    +

    What does this slightly masochistic experiment have to do with aesthetics? Nothing directly, but I came away with from that experience knowing that comfort is relative, both psychologically and physiologically. Seam Reap set my relative quite a few notches above where it had been previously and ever since then I have never really been hot. Sure, it gets moderately unpleasant to be out working in the heat of the day in the Georgia summer, but every time I catch myself about to complain I think, well, at least it's not as hot as Seam Reap.

    +

    If you're going to be spending a lot of time in the heat it makes more sense to push through a bit of discomfort until you start to adapt to it than it does to hide out in air conditioning all the time. Eventually, after a few years I suspect, you'll be pulling out the jacket when the thermometer dips below 80.

    +

    Adaptation may well be our greatest talent as a species. Air conditioning undercuts that.

    +

    So in the end it makes more sense to tear out aesthetically unpleasant air conditioning units than it does to keep them. Comfort is relative and transitory, aesthetics are not.

    +

    That said, up until now I've been making it sound like a binary choice -- air conditioning wart atop the bus or nothing. I am not the only one living in the Travco. And the one thing I put higher than aesthetics is never impose your will on someone else. Plus, I do like to have my dark chocolate and eat it too.

    +

    I would never subject my kids to Seam Reap without air conditioning. Not at their age anyway. Children are physiologically different, their bodies aren't as good at cooling themselves as adults are.

    +

    That's why I took the now useless 110V wire from the roof air conditioner, extended it with some new wire and rerouted it behind the closet and down to where the refrigerator used to be, where there is now plenty of room for a window air unit, which will serve as our new air conditioner and heater.

    +

    I can hear Kant breathing a sigh of relief. The magic is there if we need it. The beauty is there as well. Granted, I ripped out the generator, which means we'll never be able to run the air for long, but we should be able to run it enough to cool things off in the evening before bed (and we can run it as much as we like if there's shore power around).

    +

    If it does get so hot that no one in my family is happy, or god forbid, our dark chocolate starts to melt, we'll do what people with movable homes have done for millennia -- go somewhere else.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      And Schopenhauer, that man really needed a hug. Actually most white male philosophers in European history seem like they would have benefited from more hugs. ↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      If you don't embrace your own aesthetics, capitalism is always there to provide simpler, numeric terms by which to define value. Choose wisely. ↩

      +
      3. +
    3. +

      There is of course fleeting beauty, e.g. sunsets. The shortness of some beautiful natural phenomena do not, however, affect our judgment of them as beautiful. It just means we only have a limited amount of time to enjoy them. ↩

      +
      4. +
    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/03/up-in-the-air.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/03/up-in-the-air.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8553e83 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/03/up-in-the-air.html @@ -0,0 +1,450 @@ + + + + + Up In The Air - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Up in the Air

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    I tore the rear air conditioning unit off the back of the bus today. It joins the front unit in the growing pile of bus trash at the side of our house.

    +

    The big Blue bus sans air conditioner roof wart

    +

    Afterward I stood back and looked at the Travco. All the clean lines and curves joined together again, no more air conditioning warts to interrupt the sliding smooth and unbroken swoop of white and blue. The big blue bus looked sleek and whole again.

    +

    I’ll admit it gave me no small measure of satisfaction, thinking that perhaps, amidst the exponentially increasing insanity, I’d made some tiny thing right in the world. It was that same sort joy that comes from eating really dark chocolate. The aesthetic perfection of hundred percent dark chocolate.

    +

    I didn’t really get a chance to savor this feeling because the universe hates smugness and soon after I had another thought, hmm, maybe I should check and see if it’s going to rain any time soon… Oh, well, yes it is. For three days straight. Starting tomorrow. And I just opened a fourteen inch square hole in the roof of the bus. Genius.

    +
    + +
    The abyss stares back. Wait, did you say rain?
    +
    + +

    I got a trash bag, some painter’s tape, some duct tape, a dictionary of German swear words, and got to work.

    +

    I had some time up there on the roof of the bus to reflect on what I had done. More or less an incredibly impractical thing. In the service of what I think is my offbeat, but at times deeply felt sense of aesthetics, I had ripped out two at least partly functioning air conditioners.

    +

    Actually I should probably look up aesthetics in the dictionary and make sure that’s what I’m acting in the service of. Or I should read Kant. But then it all gets very technical and is predicated on the belief that there is an absolute sense of “good” and “bad” to beauty and I don’t know if it matters that much. Maybe dark chocolate metaphors are good enough. If the dark chocolate is good enough. Screw Kant.

    +

    Somewhere in a tangle of duct tape and torn plastic trash bags, I got to wondering what Kant would have made of a 1969 Travco. The engine would be new and presumably mind blowing, but Kant was probably familiar with Gypsies at least. The mobile home concept would be familiar. Probably frowned on, but familiar. But what would he make of tearing out an object of convenience and comfort because I think aesthetic integrity and beauty trump personal comfort?

    +

    I decided there was a high probability he would think I was an idiot to forego the comfort of air conditioning, which, from his point of view, would be like magic. The problem is I’ve never been able to get through more than a few pages of Critique of Judgment without being overcome with a desire to reach back through time and give the man a hug1 and say, relax, it’s all going to be okay.

    +

    Aesthetics have always seemed pretty simple to me. There is stuff in the world that makes you feel delight. So when you discover this beauty and delight in the world around you, you embrace it and do what you can in service of it2. Like removing ugly air conditioners.

    +

    The designers of the Travco, to my mind, felt the same way, though they were doubtless bound by certain economic and marketplace constraints I don’t have. Hence, warts on the roof if you must. But no one who’s of a purely practical bent would ever have designed the large front sliding windows the way they are designed. They’re wildly impractical, worse, they leak. But there they are. Pure aesthetics. They look like the person who designed them had discovered delight in their beauty. Little water coming in? Get a towel.

    +

    1969 Dodge Travco main window

    +

    The marketplace does not value aesthetics though. The wonderful sweeping curves of the Travco’s windows leaked badly enough that at some point (early ‘70s) the idea was abandoned altogether.

    +

    Aesthetics are a learning experience, a feedback loop of sorts, though the experience is better when it creates change in other direction — adding in wildly impractical, but aesthetically delightful, sliding windows as it were.

    +

    Consider dark chocolate. I’d never really had any until I started dating my wife. I thought chocolate was something that skins a cheap candy bar full of nougat and indecipherable ingredients. The first time my wife gave me a bit of real chocolate was revelatory. The possibilities of life expanded, I had discovered more joy and beauty. Aesthetic progress you might say.

    +

    Aesthetics are a life long process, always in flux, that’s part of what drives us all to want to know what’s around the next corner, over the next hill. As naturalist and herbalist Juliette de Bairacli Levy writes, “I believe that this endless search for beauty in surroundings, in people and one’s personal life, is the headstone of travel.”

    +

    My own aesthetics are like yours I imagine, complicated and often contradictory, nothing so firmly delineated as to please Kant. But one thing I have figured out is that comfort is transitory and moreover, relative. Aesthetics are neither3.

    +

    Which is to say, removing the air conditioner might mean that I end up hot, sweating and unable to sleep, but this too, as they say, shall pass. I won’t always be hot sweaty and unable to sleep. I will always have to look at the air conditioning wart that used to be on top of the bus. Comfort must be chased; beauty exists.

    +

    This is what I kept telling myself the next morning as I mopped up the floor where all the water had come pouring in after my duct tape and trash bag covering collapsed under the weight of accumulated rain water. Comfort is relative. Beauty just is.

    +

    For those of us from the relative north, one of the stranger sights in the tropics is the way everyone grabs a jacket the minute the temperature drops below 80 degrees. Even though I have been on the other side of it; living through a succession of New England winters with less and less pain each time. Still, I’ll never forget the first night I spent in Goa. The sun went down, the temperature dropped to about 80 and the jackets came out. One person’s balmy evening is another person’s winter.

    +

    By the time I got to Seam Reap several months later I thought I had adjusted a bit. I had not. It was hot, hotter than anything I have experienced before or since. Hotter than Death Valley. I was traveling with Matt and Debi at the time and somehow we convinced ourselves that we didn’t need air conditioning. To be honest I think it was Matt that convinced Debi and I. But he was right.

    +

    During the day we spent our time outside exploring Angkor Wat in the heat of the day, when the rest of the tourists were passing the time in air conditioned cafés). We went out in the heat of the day precisely because it was hot, because hardly any other tourists did. We had Angkor Wat to ourselves.

    +
    +Angkor Wat, Cambodia without the people +
    Angkor Wat without the people.
    +
    + +

    We could have returned home to a nice air conditioned room. But if you do that you never adapt. Our bodies are fantastically adaptable machines over the long run. You get used to the heat. This never happens if you retreat to air conditioning at every opportunity.

    +

    At night we would crank the ceiling fan to 11 and then, one after the other, take the coldest shower we could get, which was just below scalding because the water tank was in the sun all day, and then dive in our respective beds in hopes that we’d would fall asleep before the real sweating started.

    +

    What does this slightly masochistic experiment have to do with aesthetics? Nothing directly, but I came away with from that experience knowing that comfort is relative, both psychologically and physiologically. Seam Reap set my relative quite a few notches above where it had been previously and ever since then I have never really been hot. Sure, it gets moderately unpleasant to be out working in the heat of the day in the Georgia summer, but every time I catch myself about to complain I think, well, at least it’s not as hot as Seam Reap.

    +

    If you’re going to be spending a lot of time in the heat it makes more sense to push through a bit of discomfort until you start to adapt to it than it does to hide out in air conditioning all the time. Eventually, after a few years I suspect, you’ll be pulling out the jacket when the thermometer dips below 80.

    +

    Adaptation may well be our greatest talent as a species. Air conditioning undercuts that.

    +

    So in the end it makes more sense to tear out aesthetically unpleasant air conditioning units than it does to keep them. Comfort is relative and transitory, aesthetics are not.

    +

    That said, up until now I’ve been making it sound like a binary choice — air conditioning wart atop the bus or nothing. I am not the only one living in the Travco. And the one thing I put higher than aesthetics is never impose your will on someone else. Plus, I do like to have my dark chocolate and eat it too.

    +

    I would never subject my kids to Seam Reap without air conditioning. Not at their age anyway. Children are physiologically different, their bodies aren’t as good at cooling themselves as adults are.

    +

    That’s why I took the now useless 110V wire from the roof air conditioner, extended it with some new wire and rerouted it behind the closet and down to where the refrigerator used to be, where there is now plenty of room for a window air unit, which will serve as our new air conditioner and heater.

    +

    I can hear Kant breathing a sigh of relief. The magic is there if we need it. The beauty is there as well. Granted, I ripped out the generator, which means we’ll never be able to run the air for long, but we should be able to run it enough to cool things off in the evening before bed (and we can run it as much as we like if there’s shore power around).

    +

    If it does get so hot that no one in my family is happy, or god forbid, our dark chocolate starts to melt, we’ll do what people with movable homes have done for millennia — go somewhere else.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      And Schopenhauer, that man really needed a hug. Actually most white male philosophers in European history seem like they would have benefited from more hugs. ↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      If you don’t embrace your own aesthetics, capitalism is always there to provide simpler, numeric terms by which to define value. Choose wisely. ↩

      +
      3. +
    3. +

      There is of course fleeting beauty, e.g. sunsets. The shortness of some beautiful natural phenomena do not, however, affect our judgment of them as beautiful. It just means we only have a limited amount of time to enjoy them. ↩

      +
      4. +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/03/up-in-the-air.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/03/up-in-the-air.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..552d440 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/03/up-in-the-air.txt @@ -0,0 +1,102 @@ +Up in the Air +============= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Tuesday, 08 March 2016 + +I tore the rear air conditioning unit off the back of the bus today. It [joins the front unit](/jrnl/2015/09/progress) in the growing pile of bus trash at the side of our house. + +The big Blue bus sans air conditioner roof wart + +Afterward I stood back and looked at the Travco. All the clean lines and curves joined together again, no more air conditioning warts to interrupt the sliding smooth and unbroken swoop of white and blue. The big blue bus looked sleek and whole again. + +I'll admit it gave me no small measure of satisfaction, thinking that perhaps, amidst the exponentially increasing insanity, I'd made some tiny thing right in the world. It was that same sort joy that comes from eating really dark chocolate. The aesthetic perfection of hundred percent dark chocolate. + +I didn't really get a chance to savor this feeling because the universe hates smugness and soon after I had another thought, hmm, maybe I should check and see if it's going to rain any time soon... Oh, well, yes it is. For three days straight. Starting tomorrow. And I just opened a fourteen inch square hole in the roof of the bus. Genius. + +
    + +
    The abyss stares back. Wait, did you say rain?
    +
    + +I got a trash bag, some painter's tape, some duct tape, a dictionary of German swear words, and got to work. + +I had some time up there on the roof of the bus to reflect on what I had done. More or less an incredibly impractical thing. In the service of what I think is my offbeat, but at times deeply felt sense of aesthetics, I had ripped out two at least partly functioning air conditioners. + +Actually I should probably look up aesthetics in the dictionary and make sure that's what I'm acting in the service of. Or I should read Kant. But then it all gets very technical and is predicated on the belief that there is an absolute sense of "good" and "bad" to beauty and I don't know if it matters that much. Maybe dark chocolate metaphors are good enough. If the dark chocolate is good enough. Screw Kant. + +Somewhere in a tangle of duct tape and torn plastic trash bags, I got to wondering what Kant would have made of a 1969 Travco. The engine would be new and presumably mind blowing, but Kant was probably familiar with Gypsies at least. The mobile home concept would be familiar. Probably frowned on, but familiar. But what would he make of tearing out an object of convenience and comfort because I think aesthetic integrity and beauty trump personal comfort? + +I decided there was a high probability he would think I was an idiot to forego the comfort of air conditioning, which, from his point of view, would be like magic. The problem is I've never been able to get through more than a few pages of Critique of Judgment without being overcome with a desire to reach back through time and give the man a hug[^1] and say, relax, it's all going to be okay. + +Aesthetics have always seemed pretty simple to me. There is stuff in the world that makes you feel delight. So when you discover this beauty and delight in the world around you, you embrace it and do what you can in service of it[^2]. Like removing ugly air conditioners. + +The designers of the Travco, to my mind, felt the same way, though they were doubtless bound by certain economic and marketplace constraints I don't have. Hence, warts on the roof if you must. But no one who's of a purely practical bent would ever have designed the large front sliding windows the way they are designed. They're wildly impractical, worse, they leak. But there they are. Pure aesthetics. They look like the person who designed them had discovered delight in their beauty. Little water coming in? Get a towel. + +1969 Dodge Travco main window + +The marketplace does not value aesthetics though. The wonderful sweeping curves of the Travco's windows leaked badly enough that at some point (early '70s) the idea was abandoned altogether. + +Aesthetics are a learning experience, a feedback loop of sorts, though the experience is better when it creates change in other direction -- adding *in* wildly impractical, but aesthetically delightful, sliding windows as it were. + +Consider dark chocolate. I'd never really had any until I started dating my wife. I thought chocolate was something that skins a cheap candy bar full of nougat and indecipherable ingredients. The first time my wife gave me a bit of real chocolate was revelatory. The possibilities of life expanded, I had discovered more joy and beauty. Aesthetic progress you might say. + +Aesthetics are a life long process, always in flux, that's part of what drives us all to want to know what's around the next corner, over the next hill. As naturalist and herbalist Juliette de Bairacli Levy writes, "I believe that this endless search for beauty in surroundings, in people and one's personal life, is the headstone of travel." + +My own aesthetics are like yours I imagine, complicated and often contradictory, nothing so firmly delineated as to please Kant. But one thing I have figured out is that comfort is transitory and moreover, relative. Aesthetics are neither[^3]. + +Which is to say, removing the air conditioner might mean that I end up hot, sweating and unable to sleep, but this too, as they say, shall pass. I won't *always* be hot sweaty and unable to sleep. I will always have to look at the air conditioning wart that used to be on top of the bus. Comfort must be chased; beauty exists. + +This is what I kept telling myself the next morning as I mopped up the floor where all the water had come pouring in after my duct tape and trash bag covering collapsed under the weight of accumulated rain water. Comfort is relative. Beauty just is. + +For those of us from the relative north, one of the stranger sights in the tropics is the way everyone grabs a jacket the minute the temperature drops below 80 degrees. Even though I have been on the other side of it; living through a succession of New England winters with less and less pain each time. Still, I'll never forget the first night I spent in Goa. The sun went down, the temperature dropped to about 80 and the jackets came out. One person's balmy evening is another person's winter. + +By the time I got to [Seam Reap](/jrnl/2006/03/angkor-wat) several months later I thought I had adjusted a bit. I had not. It was hot, hotter than anything I have experienced before or since. Hotter than [Death Valley](/jrnl/2010/04/death-valley). I was traveling with Matt and Debi at the time and somehow we convinced ourselves that we didn't need air conditioning. To be honest I think it was Matt that convinced Debi and I. But he was right. + +During the day we spent our time outside exploring Angkor Wat in the heat of the day, when the rest of the tourists were passing the time in air conditioned cafés). We went out in the heat of the day precisely because it was hot, because hardly any other tourists did. We had Angkor Wat to ourselves. + +
    +Angkor Wat, Cambodia without the people +
    Angkor Wat without the people.
    +
    + +We could have returned home to a nice air conditioned room. But if you do that you never adapt. Our bodies are fantastically adaptable machines over the long run. You get used to the heat. This never happens if you retreat to air conditioning at every opportunity. + +At night we would crank the ceiling fan to 11 and then, one after the other, take the coldest shower we could get, which was just below scalding because the water tank was in the sun all day, and then dive in our respective beds in hopes that we'd would fall asleep before the real sweating started. + +What does this slightly masochistic experiment have to do with aesthetics? Nothing directly, but I came away with from that experience knowing that comfort is relative, both psychologically and physiologically. Seam Reap set my relative quite a few notches above where it had been previously and ever since then I have never really been hot. Sure, it gets moderately unpleasant to be out working in the heat of the day in the Georgia summer, but every time I catch myself about to complain I think, well, at least it's not as hot as Seam Reap. + +If you're going to be spending a lot of time in the heat it makes more sense to push through a bit of discomfort until you start to adapt to it than it does to hide out in air conditioning all the time. Eventually, after a few years I suspect, you'll be pulling out the jacket when the thermometer dips below 80. + +Adaptation may well be our greatest talent as a species. Air conditioning undercuts that. + +So in the end it makes more sense to tear out aesthetically unpleasant air conditioning units than it does to keep them. Comfort is relative and transitory, aesthetics are not. + +That said, up until now I've been making it sound like a binary choice -- air conditioning wart atop the bus or nothing. I am not the only one living in the Travco. And the one thing I put higher than aesthetics is never impose your will on someone else. Plus, I do like to have my dark chocolate and eat it too. + + +I would never subject my kids to Seam Reap without air conditioning. Not at their age anyway. Children are physiologically different, their bodies aren't as good at cooling themselves as adults are. + +That's why I took the now useless 110V wire from the roof air conditioner, extended it with some new wire and rerouted it behind the closet and down to where the refrigerator used to be, where there is now plenty of room for a window air unit, which will serve as our new air conditioner and heater. + +I can hear Kant breathing a sigh of relief. The magic is there if we need it. The beauty is there as well. Granted, I ripped out the generator, which means we'll never be able to run the air for long, but we should be able to run it enough to cool things off in the evening before bed (and we can run it as much as we like if there's shore power around). + +If it does get so hot that no one in my family is happy, or god forbid, our dark chocolate starts to melt, we'll do what people with movable homes have done for millennia -- go somewhere else. + +[^1]: And Schopenhauer, that man really needed a hug. Actually most white male philosophers in European history seem like they would have benefited from more hugs. +[^2]: If you don't embrace your own aesthetics, capitalism is always there to provide simpler, numeric terms by which to define value. Choose wisely. +[^3]: There is of course fleeting beauty, e.g. sunsets. The shortness of some beautiful natural phenomena do not, however, affect our judgment of them as beautiful. It just means we only have a limited amount of time to enjoy them. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/05/back-from-somewhere.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/05/back-from-somewhere.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8bc7f23 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/05/back-from-somewhere.amp @@ -0,0 +1,211 @@ + + + + + + +Back From Somewhere + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Back From Somewhere

    + + + +
    +
    +

    My kids love to do new things. At least they think they do. They're really good at getting excited about things. Like most kids (I imagine), they get excited about things even when I know they have only a dim inkling of what those things might actually entail. The idea, the anticipation, is often more exciting in fact than the actual thing.

    +

    +

    I went to get some coffee the other morning and noticed that the Jittery Joe's roaster was hosting a skate contest the following Saturday. Skating and surfing more or less defined my existence (along with punk rock) from junior high through, well, now.

    +

    I try not to steer my kids in any particular direction. I try to expose them to as many different things as possible and see where they're drawn. But secretly I really hope they end up liking a few of the things I did when I was a kid, like skate boarding. So I mentioned the skate contest the night before and showed them a bit of the old Bones Brigade video. They were entertained for a few minutes and then they wanted to move on to something else.

    +

    I figured the actual skate contest would be the same way: take it in for an hour or so and then slowly interest would wane and we'd all head home. That's about how it generally goes when we take them to any sort of organized event.

    +

    This time, however, I was wrong. They could not get enough of the skating. Neither the intense afternoon sun beating down on the concrete slab of parking lot nor the humidity left over from morning rains deterred them. We were there all afternoon, over four hours of skating, pulled pork and the occasional train rolling by. They never stopped loving it.

    +
    + +
    Pulled pork sandwiches never hurt.
    +
    +

    And neither did I. I haven't skated in years. Over a decade. And even before that most I did was use my old board to go get cigarettes from the gas station down the street. But skating culture, along with surfing culture and punk culture are things that were a huge part of me and that has never never gone away, even if I mostly watch from afar these days.

    +

    I still feel more at home among skaters, surfers and punks than anywhere else.

    +

    +

    Since having kids though I've accidentally drifted away from that culture. There are practical considerations. It's hard to get out to shows, the beach is a really long way away and I no longer have a skateboard. Instead I find myself at the sort of "kid friendly" affairs I swore I would never go to. And you know what, I was right, those things suck. And they aren't very kid friendly either. But we're remarkably adaptable creatures. Do something enough and it starts to feel normal, no matter how uncomfortable it might be.

    +

    I spent so much time not fitting in at kids birthday parties and "kid friendly" events around town I forgot that there was actually people with whom I did fit in. I'd forgotten that I had a people.

    +

    The Shredder Joes contest was a nice reminder that there are still sane, friendly, open people out there in the world among whom I feel at home.

    +

    On the drive home Corrinne turned to me and said "I know it's been 18 years, but I felt more at home there than I do at any of these hipster family bullshit events we go to." I'd been thinking a similar thing, but I'd been wondering why.

    +

    Why did the kids want to spend four hours watching skaters and can't be bothered with a petting zoo for more than five minutes?

    +

    I have a few theories, but the one that's most appealing is pretty simple: because the world of skating doesn't have rules. There are the basics rules of taking turns and accommodating the people around you, but for the most part you are expected to do whatever you want to do. The petting zoos and the kid friendly events are full of waiting in line and doing as you're told.

    +

    Another part of it is the welcoming nature of people in skate/surf/punk scene. That's not to say there aren't assholes in any group of people. There absolutely are, especially surfers who can be real territorial, but exceptions aside, generally, if you have the humility to start at the bottom, you'll be accepted eventually. It's even easier if you're a kid, I've seen some of the scariest looking heavily tattooed Hawaiian surfers move aside with a smile for some kid just learning1. The thing about learning a skill like surfing or skating is that you never forget that it is learned, and that tends to create sympathy for those who are just starting out.

    +

    +

    Another thing that I think makes the skate/surf/punk scene different is that it's built around practice and failure. Watching skating is watching failure after failure until that time when you stick it and suddenly all that failure is gone. People comfortable with failure typically have less to prove. It was always my experience that skaters, surfers and punks were really only trying to prove something when they're skating, surfing or playing. Hipster parent events are one big gathering of uptight people with something to prove and nowhere to prove it. The difference between the two is palpable.

    +

    It could also be that those scenes are full of people who, by necessity, have mastered their fears. To a degree anyway. You can only get so far in skating if you're afraid of getting hurt. I know this because I was always too afraid of getting hurt to be any good2. Anyone willing to drop in on a backyard ramp or empty pool has necessarily mastered at least some of their fear. Fear closes you up, it feeds on itself.

    +

    Whatever it is that makes these things different my kids seem to pick up on it.

    +

    The skate show was also the single most diverse event I've ever been to in Athens. With one exception, there was not a single woman skating. That was disappointing, but when we got home I pulled up some videos of Vanessa Torres, Elissa Steamer and Peggy Oki, along with some great home videos of girls skating on YouTube to balance things out.

    +

    The best part of the day for me though was on the way home when Olivia asked if she could have a skateboard for her birthday. Absolutely.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      Whereas, while still friendly, they did not hesitate to cut me or my friend Andy out of any wave they wanted. ↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      Put me in the water and my fear disappears, but concrete? That shit hurts. And I could never get past that enough to get any better. ↩

      +
      3. +
    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/05/back-from-somewhere.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/05/back-from-somewhere.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3bcdab4 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/05/back-from-somewhere.html @@ -0,0 +1,434 @@ + + + + + Back From Somewhere - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Back From Somewhere

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    My kids love to do new things. At least they think they do. They’re really good at getting excited about things. Like most kids (I imagine), they get excited about things even when I know they have only a dim inkling of what those things might actually entail. The idea, the anticipation, is often more exciting in fact than the actual thing.

    +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I went to get some coffee the other morning and noticed that the Jittery Joe’s roaster was hosting a skate contest the following Saturday. Skating and surfing more or less defined my existence (along with punk rock) from junior high through, well, now.

    +

    I try not to steer my kids in any particular direction. I try to expose them to as many different things as possible and see where they’re drawn. But secretly I really hope they end up liking a few of the things I did when I was a kid, like skate boarding. So I mentioned the skate contest the night before and showed them a bit of the old Bones Brigade video. They were entertained for a few minutes and then they wanted to move on to something else.

    +

    I figured the actual skate contest would be the same way: take it in for an hour or so and then slowly interest would wane and we’d all head home. That’s about how it generally goes when we take them to any sort of organized event.

    +

    This time, however, I was wrong. They could not get enough of the skating. Neither the intense afternoon sun beating down on the concrete slab of parking lot nor the humidity left over from morning rains deterred them. We were there all afternoon, over four hours of skating, pulled pork and the occasional train rolling by. They never stopped loving it.

    +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    Pulled pork sandwiches never hurt.
    +
    + +

    And neither did I. I haven’t skated in years. Over a decade. And even before that most I did was use my old board to go get cigarettes from the gas station down the street. But skating culture, along with surfing culture and punk culture are things that were a huge part of me and that has never never gone away, even if I mostly watch from afar these days.

    +

    I still feel more at home among skaters, surfers and punks than anywhere else.

    +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Since having kids though I’ve accidentally drifted away from that culture. There are practical considerations. It’s hard to get out to shows, the beach is a really long way away and I no longer have a skateboard. Instead I find myself at the sort of “kid friendly” affairs I swore I would never go to. And you know what, I was right, those things suck. And they aren’t very kid friendly either. But we’re remarkably adaptable creatures. Do something enough and it starts to feel normal, no matter how uncomfortable it might be.

    +

    I spent so much time not fitting in at kids birthday parties and “kid friendly” events around town I forgot that there was actually people with whom I did fit in. I’d forgotten that I had a people.

    +

    The Shredder Joes contest was a nice reminder that there are still sane, friendly, open people out there in the world among whom I feel at home.

    +

    On the drive home Corrinne turned to me and said “I know it’s been 18 years, but I felt more at home there than I do at any of these hipster family bullshit events we go to.” I’d been thinking a similar thing, but I’d been wondering why.

    +

    Why did the kids want to spend four hours watching skaters and can’t be bothered with a petting zoo for more than five minutes?

    +

    I have a few theories, but the one that’s most appealing is pretty simple: because the world of skating doesn’t have rules. There are the basics rules of taking turns and accommodating the people around you, but for the most part you are expected to do whatever you want to do. The petting zoos and the kid friendly events are full of waiting in line and doing as you’re told.

    +

    Another part of it is the welcoming nature of people in skate/surf/punk scene. That’s not to say there aren’t assholes in any group of people. There absolutely are, especially surfers who can be real territorial, but exceptions aside, generally, if you have the humility to start at the bottom, you’ll be accepted eventually. It’s even easier if you’re a kid, I’ve seen some of the scariest looking heavily tattooed Hawaiian surfers move aside with a smile for some kid just learning1. The thing about learning a skill like surfing or skating is that you never forget that it is learned, and that tends to create sympathy for those who are just starting out.

    +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Another thing that I think makes the skate/surf/punk scene different is that it’s built around practice and failure. Watching skating is watching failure after failure until that time when you stick it and suddenly all that failure is gone. People comfortable with failure typically have less to prove. It was always my experience that skaters, surfers and punks were really only trying to prove something when they’re skating, surfing or playing. Hipster parent events are one big gathering of uptight people with something to prove and nowhere to prove it. The difference between the two is palpable.

    +

    It could also be that those scenes are full of people who, by necessity, have mastered their fears. To a degree anyway. You can only get so far in skating if you’re afraid of getting hurt. I know this because I was always too afraid of getting hurt to be any good2. Anyone willing to drop in on a backyard ramp or empty pool has necessarily mastered at least some of their fear. Fear closes you up, it feeds on itself.

    +

    Whatever it is that makes these things different my kids seem to pick up on it.

    +

    The skate show was also the single most diverse event I’ve ever been to in Athens. With one exception, there was not a single woman skating. That was disappointing, but when we got home I pulled up some videos of Vanessa Torres, Elissa Steamer and Peggy Oki, along with some great home videos of girls skating on YouTube to balance things out.

    +

    The best part of the day for me though was on the way home when Olivia asked if she could have a skateboard for her birthday. Absolutely.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      Whereas, while still friendly, they did not hesitate to cut me or my friend Andy out of any wave they wanted. ↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      Put me in the water and my fear disappears, but concrete? That shit hurts. And I could never get past that enough to get any better. ↩

      +
      3. +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/05/back-from-somewhere.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/05/back-from-somewhere.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..52f944c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/05/back-from-somewhere.txt @@ -0,0 +1,56 @@ +Back From Somewhere +=================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 22 May 2016 + +My kids love to do new things. At least they think they do. They're really good at getting excited about things. Like most kids (I imagine), they get excited about things even when I know they have only a dim inkling of what those things might actually entail. The idea, the anticipation, is often more exciting in fact than the actual thing. + + + +I went to get some coffee the other morning and noticed that the Jittery Joe's roaster was hosting a [skate contest](https://www.facebook.com/events/1126780367373997/) the following Saturday. Skating and surfing more or less defined my existence (along with punk rock) from junior high through, well, now. + +I try not to steer my kids in any particular direction. I try to expose them to as many different things as possible and see where they're drawn. But secretly I really hope they end up liking a few of the things I did when I was a kid, like skate boarding. So I mentioned the skate contest the night before and showed them a bit of the old Bones Brigade video. They were entertained for a few minutes and then they wanted to move on to something else. + +I figured the actual skate contest would be the same way: take it in for an hour or so and then slowly interest would wane and we'd all head home. That's about how it generally goes when we take them to any sort of organized event. + +This time, however, I was wrong. They could not get enough of the skating. Neither the intense afternoon sun beating down on the concrete slab of parking lot nor the humidity left over from morning rains deterred them. We were there all afternoon, over four hours of skating, pulled pork and the occasional train rolling by. They never stopped loving it. + + + +And neither did I. I haven't skated in years. Over a decade. And even before that most I did was use my old board to go get cigarettes from the gas station down the street. But skating culture, along with surfing culture and punk culture are things that were a huge part of me and that has never never gone away, even if I mostly watch from afar these days. + +I still feel more at home among skaters, surfers and punks than anywhere else. + + + +Since having kids though I've accidentally drifted away from that culture. There are practical considerations. It's hard to get out to shows, the beach is a really long way away and I no longer have a skateboard. Instead I find myself at the sort of "kid friendly" affairs I swore I would never go to. And you know what, I was right, those things suck. And they aren't very kid friendly either. But we're remarkably adaptable creatures. Do something enough and it starts to feel normal, no matter how uncomfortable it might be. + +I spent so much time not fitting in at kids birthday parties and "kid friendly" events around town I forgot that there was actually people with whom I did fit in. I'd forgotten that I had a people. + +The Shredder Joes contest was a nice reminder that there are still sane, friendly, open people out there in the world among whom I feel at home. + +On the drive home Corrinne turned to me and said "I know it's been 18 years, but I felt more at home there than I do at any of these hipster family bullshit events we go to." I'd been thinking a similar thing, but I'd been wondering why. + +Why did the kids want to spend four hours watching skaters and can't be bothered with a petting zoo for more than five minutes? + +I have a few theories, but the one that's most appealing is pretty simple: because the world of skating doesn't have rules. There are the basics rules of taking turns and accommodating the people around you, but for the most part you are expected to do whatever you want to do. The petting zoos and the kid friendly events are full of waiting in line and doing as you're told. + +Another part of it is the welcoming nature of people in skate/surf/punk scene. That's not to say there aren't assholes in any group of people. There absolutely are, especially surfers who can be real territorial, but [exceptions aside](http://www.latimes.com/local/california/la-me-surfer-gang-enforcement-20160211-story.html), generally, if you have the humility to start at the bottom, you'll be accepted eventually. It's even easier if you're a kid, I've seen some of the scariest looking heavily tattooed Hawaiian surfers move aside with a smile for some kid just learning[^1]. The thing about learning a skill like surfing or skating is that you never forget that it is *learned*, and that tends to create sympathy for those who are just starting out. + + + +Another thing that I think makes the skate/surf/punk scene different is that it's built around practice and failure. Watching skating is watching failure after failure until that time when you stick it and suddenly all that failure is gone. People comfortable with failure typically have less to prove. It was always my experience that skaters, surfers and punks were really only trying to prove something when they're skating, surfing or playing. Hipster parent events are one big gathering of uptight people with something to prove and nowhere to prove it. The difference between the two is palpable. + +It could also be that those scenes are full of people who, by necessity, have mastered their fears. To a degree anyway. You can only get so far in skating if you're afraid of getting hurt. I know this because I was always too afraid of getting hurt to be any good[^2]. Anyone willing to drop in on a backyard ramp or empty pool has necessarily mastered at least some of their fear. Fear closes you up, it feeds on itself. + +Whatever it is that makes these things different my kids seem to pick up on it. + +The skate show was also the single most diverse event I've ever been to in Athens. With one exception, there was not a single woman skating. That was disappointing, but when we got home I pulled up some videos of [Vanessa Torres](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aMocKem3N4c), [Elissa Steamer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=91IgE_JXiBs) and [Peggy Oki](http://www.peggyoki.com/about-me/peggy-oki-dogtown-and-z-boys), along with some great home videos of girls skating on YouTube to balance things out. + +The best part of the day for me though was on the way home when Olivia asked if she could have a skateboard for her birthday. Absolutely. + + +[^1]: Whereas, while still friendly, they did not hesitate to cut me or my friend Andy out of any wave they wanted. +[^2]: Put me in the water and my fear disappears, but concrete? That shit hurts. And I could never get past that enough to get any better. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/05/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/05/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f7a4999 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/05/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,107 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: May 2016

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/05/root-down.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/05/root-down.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9a6785d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/05/root-down.amp @@ -0,0 +1,192 @@ + + + + + + +Root Down + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Root Down

    + + + +
    +
    +

    One of the interesting things about moving is the archeology it requires, digging through layers of accumulation to reveal yourself. The longer you've been in one location the more stuff that's accumulated. As far as I can tell there is no real way to combat the detritus of the world seeping into your space, save cutting off all contact with the outside world. I imagine monasteries are generally immaculate; the rest of us get out the pick axes and clear the rubble.

    +

    At first I spent a lot time thinking how hard it is to move, but then I realized it's probably no harder to move out than it was to move in. Moving out just happens to severely compress time. You acquire over the span of 10 years. You un-acquire in a matter of weeks.

    +

    But in between the crap, the dirt as it were, there are the occasional shards of pottery and other things of interest.

    +

    Many moons ago I was down in Laguna Beach, CA at the now long gone Tippecanoe's clothing store when I ran across a relatively innocuous dark olive green shirt. Probably handmade, it looked a bit like an old-style baseball jersey, with an iron-on number three in red on the front pocket. On the back it had a cheery serif script that read "Fuck Our Society", flanked on either side by anarchy A's in padlocks. You bet your ass I bought it.

    +
    + +
    Clearly this was before I started paying attention to fonts.
    +
    +

    I was in a band back then and I played quite a few shows in it. I'm pretty sure my friend Ruben asked me to play with his band on the side just because he wanted the shirt on stage with him.

    +

    This was Orange County CA in the mid to late 1990s, deviations from the norm simply didn't happen. The shirt stood out. I didn't wear it much. Wearing it was a kind of performance. And this site notwithstanding, I don't generally live my life as a public performance. I haven't worn the shirt since I moved back east in 1999.

    +

    Once, on the way to a show, we stopped at Trader Joe's to grab a snack for the road and while we were standing in line I felt a tap on the shoulder. I had been conscious of wearing the shirt since I got out of the car so I turned around expecting some kind of confrontation, but it was a tiny older woman, not much over five feet tall, a grandmotherly figure who I had no doubt was about to express some offense at my shirt. But instead she looked me up and down and then smiled and said, "I like your shirt."

    +

    I felt like that was probably the shirt's high water mark. I don't think I've worn it since. Why do I still have it? Fuck our society's obsession with keeping things. I fired off an email to a friend I knew would want it and it's gone.

    +

    This particular purge is probably the biggest I've ever done, both because we've been in this house the longest and because I've made the most money. Money, no matter how frugal you might be, seems to breed stuff. It's not the purchases or the money that bother me though. Not even the dumb things like the $1300 TV that's now worth essentially nothing. It's the little things I did not stop myself from getting. It's the lack of personal awareness they demonstrate. The old banjo that caught my eye at a junk shop outside of Nashville, the old mailing label and postage box set, the antique cards, the mediocre books that could have been checked out and returned and the coffee mugs. How many coffee mugs do I actually need? How many books am I reading right now?

    +

    All these little things are symptoms of my failure to appreciate things without possessing them.

    +

    I sold what I could on eBay. I took the books to a friend's yard sale and looked at them on the ground there in a cardboard box before I finally realized there was nothing special about them at all.

    +

    The rest of the accumulation I pitched into boxes and dumped at my favorite local charity thrift store.

    +

    Not everything goes though. I'm not a minimalist counting up my possessions. Not yet anyway. The bus may not be huge, but it's downright roomy compared to traveling with only a pack. We also have a storage unit for now. There are things I don't want to throw away, but which also don't belong in the bus. Like old photographs, which are probably the most exciting artifacts to stumble across in a moving dig.

    +

    It worries me sometimes that it's always the same photographs I discover whenever I undertake these excavations. The photographs I have are a reasonable catalogue of my life from roughly when I dropped out of college until about 2001 when I switched to a digital camera. There are no physical artifacts documenting anything in my life for the last 15 years, save a handful of prints from our wedding.

    +

    On the plus side this keeps the entirety of my photo collection to single shoe box. But I wonder. I wonder how much fun it will be to dig through your parent's hard drive in search of your youth. Will the hard drive even spin 50 years from now? Will there be an operating system and image viewers capable of reading all those zeros and ones? Do you have anything that could read the tape archives of 50 years ago?

    +

    I don't normally advocate for buying stuff, but a Fuji Instax printer is on our short list of trip purchases. I want to leave my kids a record of their childhood that exists outside these digital walls.

    +

    That's always the hard part of these excavations, figuring out what actually has personal value and what doesn't. I find I'm often wrong. I thought the banjo and the books had value to me, but they don't. Five years ago I almost threw out the photos. Now they're the only thing I keep around.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/05/root-down.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/05/root-down.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0523b71 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/05/root-down.html @@ -0,0 +1,398 @@ + + + + + Root Down - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Root Down

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    One of the interesting things about moving is the archeology it requires, digging through layers of accumulation to reveal yourself. The longer you’ve been in one location the more stuff that’s accumulated. As far as I can tell there is no real way to combat the detritus of the world seeping into your space, save cutting off all contact with the outside world. I imagine monasteries are generally immaculate; the rest of us get out the pick axes and clear the rubble.

    +

    At first I spent a lot time thinking how hard it is to move, but then I realized it’s probably no harder to move out than it was to move in. Moving out just happens to severely compress time. You acquire over the span of 10 years. You un-acquire in a matter of weeks.

    +

    But in between the crap, the dirt as it were, there are the occasional shards of pottery and other things of interest.

    +

    Many moons ago I was down in Laguna Beach, CA at the now long gone Tippecanoe’s clothing store when I ran across a relatively innocuous dark olive green shirt. Probably handmade, it looked a bit like an old-style baseball jersey, with an iron-on number three in red on the front pocket. On the back it had a cheery serif script that read “Fuck Our Society”, flanked on either side by anarchy A’s in padlocks. You bet your ass I bought it.

    +
    + + Fuck Our Society t-shirt photographed by luxagraf + +
    Clearly this was before I started paying attention to fonts.
    +
    + +

    I was in a band back then and I played quite a few shows in it. I’m pretty sure my friend Ruben asked me to play with his band on the side just because he wanted the shirt on stage with him.

    +

    This was Orange County CA in the mid to late 1990s, deviations from the norm simply didn’t happen. The shirt stood out. I didn’t wear it much. Wearing it was a kind of performance. And this site notwithstanding, I don’t generally live my life as a public performance. I haven’t worn the shirt since I moved back east in 1999.

    +

    Once, on the way to a show, we stopped at Trader Joe’s to grab a snack for the road and while we were standing in line I felt a tap on the shoulder. I had been conscious of wearing the shirt since I got out of the car so I turned around expecting some kind of confrontation, but it was a tiny older woman, not much over five feet tall, a grandmotherly figure who I had no doubt was about to express some offense at my shirt. But instead she looked me up and down and then smiled and said, “I like your shirt.”

    +

    I felt like that was probably the shirt’s high water mark. I don’t think I’ve worn it since. Why do I still have it? Fuck our society’s obsession with keeping things. I fired off an email to a friend I knew would want it and it’s gone.

    +

    This particular purge is probably the biggest I’ve ever done, both because we’ve been in this house the longest and because I’ve made the most money. Money, no matter how frugal you might be, seems to breed stuff. It’s not the purchases or the money that bother me though. Not even the dumb things like the $1300 TV that’s now worth essentially nothing. It’s the little things I did not stop myself from getting. It’s the lack of personal awareness they demonstrate. The old banjo that caught my eye at a junk shop outside of Nashville, the old mailing label and postage box set, the antique cards, the mediocre books that could have been checked out and returned and the coffee mugs. How many coffee mugs do I actually need? How many books am I reading right now?

    +

    All these little things are symptoms of my failure to appreciate things without possessing them.

    +

    I sold what I could on eBay. I took the books to a friend’s yard sale and looked at them on the ground there in a cardboard box before I finally realized there was nothing special about them at all.

    +

    The rest of the accumulation I pitched into boxes and dumped at my favorite local charity thrift store.

    +

    Not everything goes though. I’m not a minimalist counting up my possessions. Not yet anyway. The bus may not be huge, but it’s downright roomy compared to traveling with only a pack. We also have a storage unit for now. There are things I don’t want to throw away, but which also don’t belong in the bus. Like old photographs, which are probably the most exciting artifacts to stumble across in a moving dig.

    +

    It worries me sometimes that it’s always the same photographs I discover whenever I undertake these excavations. The photographs I have are a reasonable catalogue of my life from roughly when I dropped out of college until about 2001 when I switched to a digital camera. There are no physical artifacts documenting anything in my life for the last 15 years, save a handful of prints from our wedding.

    +

    On the plus side this keeps the entirety of my photo collection to single shoe box. But I wonder. I wonder how much fun it will be to dig through your parent’s hard drive in search of your youth. Will the hard drive even spin 50 years from now? Will there be an operating system and image viewers capable of reading all those zeros and ones? Do you have anything that could read the tape archives of 50 years ago?

    +

    I don’t normally advocate for buying stuff, but a Fuji Instax printer is on our short list of trip purchases. I want to leave my kids a record of their childhood that exists outside these digital walls.

    +

    That’s always the hard part of these excavations, figuring out what actually has personal value and what doesn’t. I find I’m often wrong. I thought the banjo and the books had value to me, but they don’t. Five years ago I almost threw out the photos. Now they’re the only thing I keep around.

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/05/root-down.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/05/root-down.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b3bc074 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/05/root-down.txt @@ -0,0 +1,42 @@ +Root Down +========= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 15 May 2016 + +One of the interesting things about moving is the archeology it requires, digging through layers of accumulation to reveal yourself. The longer you've been in one location the more stuff that's accumulated. As far as I can tell there is no real way to combat the detritus of the world seeping into your space, save cutting off all contact with the outside world. I imagine monasteries are generally immaculate; the rest of us get out the pick axes and clear the rubble. + +At first I spent a lot time thinking how hard it is to move, but then I realized it's probably no harder to move out than it was to move in. Moving out just happens to severely compress time. You acquire over the span of 10 years. You un-acquire in a matter of weeks. + +But in between the crap, the dirt as it were, there are the occasional shards of pottery and other things of interest. + +Many moons ago I was down in Laguna Beach, CA at the now long gone Tippecanoe's clothing store when I ran across a relatively innocuous dark olive green shirt. Probably handmade, it looked a bit like an old-style baseball jersey, with an iron-on number three in red on the front pocket. On the back it had a cheery serif script that read "Fuck Our Society", flanked on either side by anarchy A's in padlocks. You bet your ass I bought it. + + + +I was in a band back then and I played quite a few shows in it. I'm pretty sure my friend Ruben asked me to play with his band on the side just because he wanted the shirt on stage with him. + +This was Orange County CA in the mid to late 1990s, deviations from the norm simply didn't happen. The shirt stood out. I didn't wear it much. Wearing it was a kind of performance. And this site notwithstanding, I don't generally live my life as a public performance. I haven't worn the shirt since I moved back east in 1999. + +Once, on the way to a show, we stopped at Trader Joe's to grab a snack for the road and while we were standing in line I felt a tap on the shoulder. I had been conscious of wearing the shirt since I got out of the car so I turned around expecting some kind of confrontation, but it was a tiny older woman, not much over five feet tall, a grandmotherly figure who I had no doubt was about to express some offense at my shirt. But instead she looked me up and down and then smiled and said, "I like your shirt." + +I felt like that was probably the shirt's high water mark. I don't think I've worn it since. Why do I still have it? Fuck our society's obsession with keeping things. I fired off an email to a friend I knew would want it and it's gone. + +This particular purge is probably the biggest I've ever done, both because we've been in this house the longest and because I've made the most money. Money, no matter how frugal you might be, seems to breed stuff. It's not the purchases or the money that bother me though. Not even the dumb things like the $1300 TV that's now worth essentially nothing. It's the little things I did not stop myself from getting. It's the lack of personal awareness they demonstrate. The old banjo that caught my eye at a junk shop outside of Nashville, the old mailing label and postage box set, the antique cards, the mediocre books that could have been checked out and returned and the coffee mugs. How many coffee mugs do I actually need? How many books am I reading right now? + +All these little things are symptoms of my failure to appreciate things without possessing them. + +I sold what I could on eBay. I took the books to a friend's yard sale and looked at them on the ground there in a cardboard box before I finally realized there was nothing special about them at all. + +The rest of the accumulation I pitched into boxes and dumped at my favorite local charity thrift store. + +Not everything goes though. I'm not a minimalist counting up my possessions. Not yet anyway. The bus may not be huge, but it's downright roomy compared to traveling with only a pack. We also have a storage unit for now. There are things I don't want to throw away, but which also don't belong in the bus. Like old photographs, which are probably the most exciting artifacts to stumble across in a moving dig. + +It worries me sometimes that it's always the same photographs I discover whenever I undertake these excavations. The photographs I have are a reasonable catalogue of my life from roughly when I dropped out of college until about 2001 when I switched to a digital camera. There are no physical artifacts documenting anything in my life for the last 15 years, save a handful of prints from our wedding. + +On the plus side this keeps the entirety of my photo collection to single shoe box. But I wonder. I wonder how much fun it will be to dig through your parent's hard drive in search of your youth. Will the hard drive even spin 50 years from now? Will there be an operating system and image viewers capable of reading all those zeros and ones? Do you have anything that could read the tape archives of 50 years ago? + +I don't normally advocate for buying stuff, but a [Fuji Instax printer](http://instax.com/products/printer/) is on our short list of trip purchases. I want to leave my kids a record of their childhood that exists outside these digital walls. + +That's always the hard part of these excavations, figuring out what actually has personal value and what doesn't. I find I'm often wrong. I thought the banjo and the books had value to me, but they don't. Five years ago I almost threw out the photos. Now they're the only thing I keep around. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/06/engine.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/06/engine.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3467d91 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/06/engine.amp @@ -0,0 +1,190 @@ + + + + + + +Engine + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Engine

    + + + +
    +
    +

    Everywhere I go I see it.

    +

    +

    I'd like to make a movie of it. Start with a cutaway diagram of the Travco that slowly rotates in my head as it zooms into the gas tank in the rear and then follows the gas down the line toward the front to the right of the engine, drawn up into the fuel pump, pushed out and up, under the alternator to the top of the engine, through the fuel filter and into the carburetor where it mixes with air and dives down until it ignites with a spark.

    +

    This little movie runs on a loop in my head. It invades everything I do. I see it sitting at stoplights, a similar path of electricity out of the breaker, up the light pole and to the switch which sends it to the top lens, which happens to be red.

    +

    I see it doing the dishes. The water leaving the tower, flowing down increasingly narrower pipes, off the main street line and into my hot water tank where it sits until a flick of the faucet calls it up through more pipes and out onto my hands.

    +

    Everything flows like this. Every system around us, when it works, does something similar.

    +

    Right now the Travco does not work. I can see it in my head and yet I cannot make it work. It has to be the fuel pump. I have spark, I have compression, the missing ingredient in the basic trifecta of the internal combustion engines is fuel.

    +

    But seeing it and understanding it are different than actually solving the problem, making it work. This is basic difference between architects and builders. Builders have to solve problems in the real world that architects will never encounter.

    +
    + +
    I'm never short of help.
    +
    +

    Days pass. I continue to fail with the bus. The real world of by time constraints, pay checks that don't arrive, other commitments, weather. I work on other things. Hang wall panels, sand and apply finish. I do things I know I know how to do. More days pass. Still the bus doesn't start. I get sullen. My wife thinks I'm mad all the time. I'm not. I'm thinking about the engine, I can't get it out of my head. It reminds me of the first time I tried to write some code. It was fun, but it also was not.

    +

    Problem solving seems fun after the problem is solved. During the actual solving it's less fun. Food, sleep, these things seem unimportant when I have a problem that needs solving stuck in my head. I tend to get obsessed about things. Even when I don't want to. It's one of the reasons I don't do much programming anymore. I never let things go until I solve the problem to my satisfaction. Of course breaking a web server doesn't cost much relative to damaging an engine, so with the bus the stakes are much higher, the sullen thinking phase I pass through is correspondingly more sullen and requires more concentration.

    +

    I consult my friend Jimmy, double check with him that my plan is sane. He says it is and assures me that there's little chance I'll screw anything up. So I crawl back under the bus for another soaking of gasoline and, after much swearing and muscle cramping, somehow manage to get the new fuel pump properly seated under the eccentric on the camshaft and anchored into place. Then I replace all the fuel lines and filter for good measure. Everything from the fuel pump to the carburetor is now my doing.

    +

    I step back and get the gasoline soaked clothes off and take a shower. I want these ten minutes of thinking I fixed it to last, which turn out to be a good thing because when I get back in the bus and fire it up and... it still won't start. Damnit.

    +

    The is the most demoralizing thing I know of for anyone trying to DIY something. That moment when it should work, but it doesn't. Damnit. I go back to the internet and do some more searching. I message Jimmy again. On a whim I decided maybe I didn't crank it enough to get all the air out of the new lines. So I go back and instead of starter fluid in the carb I go straight gasoline, which, predictably, starts the engine. And then it dies when that gas is consumed. Goddammit.

    +

    I decide try one last time, with enough gasoline to possibly set the whole engine on fire. But that doesn't happen. Instead it starts and then it keeps running. This is when it would nice if life had a sound effects choir to ring out something triumphant. But there's nothing. Just me, sitting in the driver's seat enjoying the smell of gasoline and the roar of an engine that has neither exhaust manifolds nor muffler. And it's a damn fine roar. For now.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/06/engine.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/06/engine.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8036cec --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/06/engine.html @@ -0,0 +1,461 @@ + + + + + Engine - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Engine

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Everywhere I go I see it.

    +
    + + 1969 Dodge Travco engine, 318LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I’d like to make a movie of it. Start with a cutaway diagram of the Travco that slowly rotates in my head as it zooms into the gas tank in the rear and then follows the gas down the line toward the front to the right of the engine, drawn up into the fuel pump, pushed out and up, under the alternator to the top of the engine, through the fuel filter and into the carburetor where it mixes with air and dives down until it ignites with a spark.

    +

    This little movie runs on a loop in my head. It invades everything I do. I see it sitting at stoplights, a similar path of electricity out of the breaker, up the light pole and to the switch which sends it to the top lens, which happens to be red.

    +

    I see it doing the dishes. The water leaving the tower, flowing down increasingly narrower pipes, off the main street line and into my hot water tank where it sits until a flick of the faucet calls it up through more pipes and out onto my hands.

    +

    Everything flows like this. Every system around us, when it works, does something similar.

    +

    Right now the Travco does not work. I can see it in my head and yet I cannot make it work. It has to be the fuel pump. I have spark, I have compression, the missing ingredient in the basic trifecta of the internal combustion engines is fuel.

    +

    But seeing it and understanding it are different than actually solving the problem, making it work. This is basic difference between architects and builders. Builders have to solve problems in the real world that architects will never encounter.

    +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    I’m never short of help.
    +
    + +

    Days pass. I continue to fail with the bus. The real world of by time constraints, pay checks that don’t arrive, other commitments, weather. I work on other things. Hang wall panels, sand and apply finish. I do things I know I know how to do. More days pass. Still the bus doesn’t start. I get sullen. My wife thinks I’m mad all the time. I’m not. I’m thinking about the engine, I can’t get it out of my head. It reminds me of the first time I tried to write some code. It was fun, but it also was not.

    +

    Problem solving seems fun after the problem is solved. During the actual solving it’s less fun. Food, sleep, these things seem unimportant when I have a problem that needs solving stuck in my head. I tend to get obsessed about things. Even when I don’t want to. It’s one of the reasons I don’t do much programming anymore. I never let things go until I solve the problem to my satisfaction. Of course breaking a web server doesn’t cost much relative to damaging an engine, so with the bus the stakes are much higher, the sullen thinking phase I pass through is correspondingly more sullen and requires more concentration.

    +

    I consult my friend Jimmy, double check with him that my plan is sane. He says it is and assures me that there’s little chance I’ll screw anything up. So I crawl back under the bus for another soaking of gasoline and, after much swearing and muscle cramping, somehow manage to get the new fuel pump properly seated under the eccentric on the camshaft and anchored into place. Then I replace all the fuel lines and filter for good measure. Everything from the fuel pump to the carburetor is now my doing.

    +

    I step back and get the gasoline soaked clothes off and take a shower. I want these ten minutes of thinking I fixed it to last, which turn out to be a good thing because when I get back in the bus and fire it up and… it still won’t start. Damnit.

    +

    The is the most demoralizing thing I know of for anyone trying to DIY something. That moment when it should work, but it doesn’t. Damnit. I go back to the internet and do some more searching. I message Jimmy again. On a whim I decided maybe I didn’t crank it enough to get all the air out of the new lines. So I go back and instead of starter fluid in the carb I go straight gasoline, which, predictably, starts the engine. And then it dies when that gas is consumed. Goddammit.

    +

    I decide try one last time, with enough gasoline to possibly set the whole engine on fire. But that doesn’t happen. Instead it starts and then it keeps running. This is when it would nice if life had a sound effects choir to ring out something triumphant. But there’s nothing. Just me, sitting in the driver’s seat enjoying the smell of gasoline and the roar of an engine that has neither exhaust manifolds nor muffler. And it’s a damn fine roar. For now.

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +

    2 Comments

    + + + + + + +
    + +
    + +
    + marilyn + June 10, 2016 at 11:41 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    “The is the most demoralizing thing I know of for anyone trying to DIY something. That moment when it should work, but it doesn’t.”

    +

    Yes. For code too, for sure. Somehow the harder this moment is, the more thrilling the roar in the end, though.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + July 12, 2016 at 9:28 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    True. If you don’t suffer it isn’t really fun. An old post on moxie.org says, “The best moments of my life, I never want to live again.” There’s quite a few layers to that, but I think that frustration before success is definitely part of it.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/06/engine.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/06/engine.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6703f87 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/06/engine.txt @@ -0,0 +1,36 @@ +Engine +====== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 05 June 2016 + +Everywhere I go I see it. + + + +I'd like to make a movie of it. Start with a cutaway diagram of the Travco that slowly rotates in my head as it zooms into the gas tank in the rear and then follows the gas down the line toward the front to the right of the engine, drawn up into the fuel pump, pushed out and up, under the alternator to the top of the engine, through the fuel filter and into the carburetor where it mixes with air and dives down until it ignites with a spark. + +This little movie runs on a loop in my head. It invades everything I do. I see it sitting at stoplights, a similar path of electricity out of the breaker, up the light pole and to the switch which sends it to the top lens, which happens to be red. + +I see it doing the dishes. The water leaving the tower, flowing down increasingly narrower pipes, off the main street line and into my hot water tank where it sits until a flick of the faucet calls it up through more pipes and out onto my hands. + +Everything flows like this. Every system around us, when it works, does something similar. + +Right now the Travco does not work. I can see it in my head and yet I cannot make it work. It has to be the fuel pump. I have spark, I have compression, the missing ingredient in the basic trifecta of the internal combustion engines is fuel. + +But seeing it and understanding it are different than actually solving the problem, making it work. This is basic difference between architects and builders. Builders have to solve problems in the real world that architects will never encounter. + + + +Days pass. I continue to fail with the bus. The real world of by time constraints, pay checks that don't arrive, other commitments, weather. I work on other things. Hang wall panels, sand and apply finish. I do things I know I know how to do. More days pass. Still the bus doesn't start. I get sullen. My wife thinks I'm mad all the time. I'm not. I'm thinking about the engine, I can't get it out of my head. It reminds me of the first time I tried to write some code. It was fun, but it also was not. + +Problem solving seems fun after the problem is solved. During the actual solving it's less fun. Food, sleep, these things seem unimportant when I have a problem that needs solving stuck in my head. I tend to get obsessed about things. Even when I don't want to. It's one of the reasons I don't do much programming anymore. I never let things go until I solve the problem to my satisfaction. Of course breaking a web server doesn't cost much relative to damaging an engine, so with the bus the stakes are much higher, the sullen thinking phase I pass through is correspondingly more sullen and requires more concentration. + +I consult my friend Jimmy, double check with him that my plan is sane. He says it is and assures me that there's little chance I'll screw anything up. So I crawl back under the bus for another soaking of gasoline and, after much swearing and muscle cramping, somehow manage to get the new fuel pump properly seated under the eccentric on the camshaft and anchored into place. Then I replace all the fuel lines and filter for good measure. Everything from the fuel pump to the carburetor is now my doing. + +I step back and get the gasoline soaked clothes off and take a shower. I want these ten minutes of thinking I fixed it to last, which turn out to be a good thing because when I get back in the bus and fire it up and... it still won't start. Damnit. + +The is the most demoralizing thing I know of for anyone trying to DIY something. That moment when it should work, but it doesn't. Damnit. I go back to the internet and do some more searching. I message Jimmy again. On a whim I decided maybe I didn't crank it enough to get all the air out of the new lines. So I go back and instead of starter fluid in the carb I go straight gasoline, which, predictably, starts the engine. And then it dies when that gas is consumed. Goddammit. + +I decide try one last time, with enough gasoline to possibly set the whole engine on fire. But that doesn't happen. Instead it starts and then it keeps running. This is when it would nice if life had a sound effects choir to ring out something triumphant. But there's nothing. Just me, sitting in the driver's seat enjoying the smell of gasoline and the roar of an engine that has neither exhaust manifolds nor muffler. And it's a damn fine roar. For now. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/06/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/06/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8673692 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/06/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,104 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: June 2016

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/07/change-ideas-the-worst.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/07/change-ideas-the-worst.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..adc1b0d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/07/change-ideas-the-worst.amp @@ -0,0 +1,200 @@ + + + + + + +Change of Ideas (The Worst) + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Change of Ideas (The Worst)

    + + + +
    +
    +

    We've postponed our departure three times now. Our original plan was to leave town in March. Then when March sailed right by and the bus wasn't done yet, and the house was in no condition to sell. So we moved things back to June. Then June came and went. It's about to be September, which puts us probably into October. I'm tempted to say that this time I'm reasonably confident we'll do it, but I've said that before. + b

    +
    + +
    The open road is calling...
    +
    +

    Some of the delays are a result of things beyond my control, notably clients that didn't pay on time (a perpetual problem for anyone who works for themselves), which meant I couldn't buy things I needed to restore the bus. But there were plenty of things that were in my control.

    +

    I have a very particular vision of how the bus is going to look. I want it to be perfect. I want it to be The Best. But that old saying that "perfect is the enemy of good enough" turns out to be very true. I started out needing to have everything perfect, but that's cost us at least a month of time on the road.

    +

    I'm about done with perfect. I just want to go.

    +

    I've been thinking about an old post on Moxie Marlinspike's blog about something he calls "The Worst." To understand the rest of what I'm going to say you need to follow that link and read it, but here's a brief quote to illustrate the difference between The Best and The Worst:

    +
    +

    The basic premise of the worst is that both ideas and material possessions should be tools that serve us, rather than things we live in service to. When that relationship with material possessions is inverted, such that we end up living in service to them, the result is consumerism. When that relationship with ideas is inverted, the result is ideology or religion.

    +
    +

    I'm not cutting corners on the bus. I still plan to adhere to my original vision. To me The Worst doesn't mean half-ass, it means being okay with incomplete, it means figuring it out as you go, perfecting things based on actual experience. I've started to incorporate that idea of having the bus be in service to us rather than me in service to it more. We're ready to go and the bus isn't done. And that's okay. We'll figure out the rest as we go. That's part of the adventure.

    +

    Currently there's no floor, no water tank, no propane, no solar power, and all the seats still need to be recovered. Of those though only two will likely get done before we leave. We'll recover the seats and we'll put in a floor. Everything else can be done as we go.

    +

    Everything has costs. In this case it's money and time. If you have to have a water tank before you leave it's going to cost you money, which in turn is going to cost you time. Or you could grab a huge water jug for $5 from Home Depot and make do until you can get a proper water tank. In some cases not only does embracing "good enough for now" get you on the road faster, it can also save you money.

    +

    A lot of the expense of a water tank is the shipping. The tank we want is only about $400, but it costs another $250 to ship it to us. If you're willing to hit the road without a water tank you can drive to the water tank production facility and pick it up yourself. This is also true of awnings, windows and paint jobs, all of which we long ago decided we'd do as we go.

    +

    Because if you have to have everything perfect you're never going to go.

    +

    And deep down I suspect that my need for perfect is a kind of excuse to not go. A way of avoiding all the fear that comes with leaving. Fear that if it's not perfect it won't work. Fear that something will go wrong. Whatever. Something will go wrong anyway. And you know what? A lot of times it's the things that go wrong that turn out to be the most fun. Maybe not at the time, but later.

    +

    It's impossible to overcome that fear of discomfort. It's natural. You can't "get past it"; you have to learn to live with it.

    +

    It helps that, at this point in the evolution of our culture, I think those of us in the privileged position of being able to do this in the first place could all use a bit of discomfort. Countless people all over the world are living in situations that make our worst moments seem like the petty, insignificant discomforts they are. It helps to put things in perspective, and no matter how you frame it, we're incredibly lucky to be in the position we're in. We didn't even earn most of the privilege we enjoy in this country. Our comfort and possibilities are largely accidents of birth.

    +

    Even in comparison to our very recent ancestors we have it easy. My great grandmother raised eight children alone in a one bedroom 800 square foot house with no air conditioning in Tucson AZ. My wife's mother picked cotton from the time she was a little girl.

    +

    We are soft. We don't even know what discomfort is, let alone the host of horrors visited upon innocent people all over the world every day.

    +

    We are incredibly thankful to be able to embrace whatever discomfort we might encounter. To chose to be uncomfortable is a luxury, perhaps the greatest luxury. I'm pretty sure my great grandmother would have taken a 4000 ft home with central air if someone had given it to her, and I suspect my mother-in-law would just as soon have not spent her childhood picking cotton. They weren't choosing discomfort, it was just life. I'm less sure that either would have exchanged the experience though.

    +

    There's a line in that piece I linked to earlier, "the best moments of my life, I never want to live again." I have feeling my great grandmother would agree. It goes on say:

    +
    +

    The best means waiting, planning, researching, and saving until one can acquire the perfect equipment for a given task. Partisans of the best will probably never end up accidentally riding a freight train 1000 miles in the wrong direction, or making a new life-long friend while panhandling after losing everything in Transnistria, or surreptitiously living under a desk in an office long after their internship has run out — simply because optimizing for the best probably does not leave enough room for those mistakes. Even if the most stalwart advocates of the worst would never actually recommend choosing to put oneself in those situations intentionally, they probably wouldn't give them up either.

    +
    +

    If you have the luxury of being able to embrace discomfort, take it. Forget perfect and just go, even if "go" is purely metaphorical. You'll figure it out along the way.

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/07/change-ideas-the-worst.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/07/change-ideas-the-worst.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..53cc630 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/07/change-ideas-the-worst.html @@ -0,0 +1,410 @@ + + + + + Change Of Ideas (The Worst) - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Change of Ideas (The Worst)

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    We’ve postponed our departure three times now. Our original plan was to leave town in March. Then when March sailed right by and the bus wasn’t done yet, and the house was in no condition to sell. So we moved things back to June. Then June came and went. It’s about to be September, which puts us probably into October. I’m tempted to say that this time I’m reasonably confident we’ll do it, but I’ve said that before.

    +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    The open road is calling…
    +
    + +

    Some of the delays are a result of things beyond my control, notably clients that didn’t pay on time (a perpetual problem for anyone who works for themselves), which meant I couldn’t buy things I needed to restore the bus. But there were plenty of things that were in my control.

    +

    I have a very particular vision of how the bus is going to look. I want it to be perfect. I want it to be The Best. But that old saying that “perfect is the enemy of good enough” turns out to be very true. I started out needing to have everything perfect, but that’s cost us at least a month of time on the road.

    +

    I’m about done with perfect. I just want to go.

    +

    I’ve been thinking about an old post on Moxie Marlinspike’s blog about something he calls “The Worst.” To understand the rest of what I’m going to say you need to follow that link and read it, but here’s a brief quote to illustrate the difference between The Best and The Worst:

    +
    +

    The basic premise of the worst is that both ideas and material possessions should be tools that serve us, rather than things we live in service to. When that relationship with material possessions is inverted, such that we end up living in service to them, the result is consumerism. When that relationship with ideas is inverted, the result is ideology or religion.

    +
    +

    I’m not cutting corners on the bus. I still plan to adhere to my original vision. To me The Worst doesn’t mean half-ass, it means being okay with incomplete, it means figuring it out as you go, perfecting things based on actual experience. I’ve started to incorporate that idea of having the bus be in service to us rather than me in service to it more. We’re ready to go and the bus isn’t done. And that’s okay. We’ll figure out the rest as we go. That’s part of the adventure.

    +

    Currently there’s no floor, no water tank, no propane, no solar power, and all the seats still need to be recovered. Of those though only two will likely get done before we leave. We’ll recover the seats and we’ll put in a floor. Everything else can be done as we go.

    +

    Everything has costs. In this case it’s money and time. If you have to have a water tank before you leave it’s going to cost you money, which in turn is going to cost you time. Or you could grab a huge water jug for $5 from Home Depot and make do until you can get a proper water tank. In some cases not only does embracing “good enough for now” get you on the road faster, it can also save you money.

    +

    A lot of the expense of a water tank is the shipping. The tank we want is only about $400, but it costs another $250 to ship it to us. If you’re willing to hit the road without a water tank you can drive to the water tank production facility and pick it up yourself. This is also true of awnings, windows and paint jobs, all of which we long ago decided we’d do as we go.

    +

    Because if you have to have everything perfect you’re never going to go.

    +

    And deep down I suspect that my need for perfect is a kind of excuse to not go. A way of avoiding all the fear that comes with leaving. Fear that if it’s not perfect it won’t work. Fear that something will go wrong. Whatever. Something will go wrong anyway. And you know what? A lot of times it’s the things that go wrong that turn out to be the most fun. Maybe not at the time, but later.

    +

    It’s impossible to overcome that fear of discomfort. It’s natural. You can’t “get past it”; you have to learn to live with it.

    +

    It helps that, at this point in the evolution of our culture, I think those of us in the privileged position of being able to do this in the first place could all use a bit of discomfort. Countless people all over the world are living in situations that make our worst moments seem like the petty, insignificant discomforts they are. It helps to put things in perspective, and no matter how you frame it, we’re incredibly lucky to be in the position we’re in. We didn’t even earn most of the privilege we enjoy in this country. Our comfort and possibilities are largely accidents of birth.

    +

    Even in comparison to our very recent ancestors we have it easy. My great grandmother raised eight children alone in a one bedroom 800 square foot house with no air conditioning in Tucson AZ. My wife’s mother picked cotton from the time she was a little girl.

    +

    We are soft. We don’t even know what discomfort is, let alone the host of horrors visited upon innocent people all over the world every day.

    +

    We are incredibly thankful to be able to embrace whatever discomfort we might encounter. To chose to be uncomfortable is a luxury, perhaps the greatest luxury. I’m pretty sure my great grandmother would have taken a 4000 ft home with central air if someone had given it to her, and I suspect my mother-in-law would just as soon have not spent her childhood picking cotton. They weren’t choosing discomfort, it was just life. I’m less sure that either would have exchanged the experience though.

    +

    There’s a line in that piece I linked to earlier, “the best moments of my life, I never want to live again.” I have feeling my great grandmother would agree. It goes on say:

    +
    +

    The best means waiting, planning, researching, and saving until one can acquire the perfect equipment for a given task. Partisans of the best will probably never end up accidentally riding a freight train 1000 miles in the wrong direction, or making a new life-long friend while panhandling after losing everything in Transnistria, or surreptitiously living under a desk in an office long after their internship has run out — simply because optimizing for the best probably does not leave enough room for those mistakes. Even if the most stalwart advocates of the worst would never actually recommend choosing to put oneself in those situations intentionally, they probably wouldn’t give them up either.

    +
    +

    If you have the luxury of being able to embrace discomfort, take it. Forget perfect and just go, even if “go” is purely metaphorical. You’ll figure it out along the way.

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/07/change-ideas-the-worst.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/07/change-ideas-the-worst.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bd1c1ce --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/07/change-ideas-the-worst.txt @@ -0,0 +1,48 @@ +Change of Ideas (The Worst) +=========================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 14 July 2016 + +We've postponed our departure three times now. Our original plan was to leave town in March. Then when March sailed right by and the bus wasn't done yet, and the house was in no condition to sell. So we moved things back to June. Then June came and went. It's about to be September, which puts us probably into October. I'm tempted to say that this time I'm reasonably confident we'll do it, but I've said that before. + + + +Some of the delays are a result of things beyond my control, notably clients that didn't pay on time (a perpetual problem for anyone who works for themselves), which meant I couldn't buy things I needed to restore the bus. But there were plenty of things that were in my control. + +I have a very particular vision of how the bus is going to look. I want it to be perfect. I want it to be The Best. But that old saying that "perfect is the enemy of good enough" turns out to be very true. I started out needing to have everything perfect, but that's cost us at least a month of time on the road. + +I'm about done with perfect. I just want to go. + +I've been thinking about an old post on Moxie Marlinspike's blog about something he calls "[The Worst](https://moxie.org/blog/the-worst/)." To understand the rest of what I'm going to say you need to follow that link and read it, but here's a brief quote to illustrate the difference between The Best and The Worst: + +>The basic premise of the worst is that both ideas and material possessions should be tools that serve us, rather than things we live in service to. When that relationship with material possessions is inverted, such that we end up living in service to them, the result is consumerism. When that relationship with ideas is inverted, the result is ideology or religion. + +I'm not cutting corners on the bus. I still plan to adhere to my original vision. To me The Worst doesn't mean half-ass, it means being okay with incomplete, it means figuring it out as you go, perfecting things based on actual experience. I've started to incorporate that idea of having the bus be in service to us rather than me in service to it more. We're ready to go and the bus isn't done. And that's okay. We'll figure out the rest as we go. That's part of the adventure. + +Currently there's no floor, no water tank, no propane, no solar power, and all the seats still need to be recovered. Of those though only two will likely get done before we leave. We'll recover the seats and we'll put in a floor. Everything else can be done as we go. + +Everything has costs. In this case it's money and time. If you have to have a water tank before you leave it's going to cost you money, which in turn is going to cost you time. Or you could grab a huge water jug for $5 from Home Depot and make do until you can get a proper water tank. In some cases not only does embracing "good enough for now" get you on the road faster, it can also save you money. + +A lot of the expense of a water tank is the shipping. The tank we want is only about $400, but it costs another $250 to ship it to us. If you're willing to hit the road without a water tank you can drive to the water tank production facility and pick it up yourself. This is also true of awnings, windows and paint jobs, all of which we long ago decided we'd do as we go. + +Because if you have to have everything perfect you're never going to go. + +And deep down I suspect that my need for perfect is a kind of excuse to not go. A way of avoiding all the fear that comes with leaving. Fear that if it's not perfect it won't work. Fear that something will go wrong. Whatever. Something will go wrong anyway. And you know what? A lot of times it's the things that go wrong that turn out to be the most fun. Maybe not at the time, but later. + +It's impossible to overcome that fear of discomfort. It's natural. You can't "get past it"; you have to learn to live with it. + +It helps that, at this point in the evolution of our culture, I think those of us in the privileged position of being able to do this in the first place could all use a bit of discomfort. Countless people all over the world are living in situations that make our worst moments seem like the petty, insignificant discomforts they are. It helps to put things in perspective, and no matter how you frame it, we're incredibly lucky to be in the position we're in. We didn't even earn most of the privilege we enjoy in this country. Our comfort and possibilities are largely accidents of birth. + +Even in comparison to our very recent ancestors we have it easy. My great grandmother raised eight children alone in a one bedroom 800 square foot house with no air conditioning in Tucson AZ. My wife's mother picked cotton from the time she was a little girl. + +We are soft. We don't even know what discomfort is, let alone the host of horrors visited upon innocent people all over the world every day. + +We are incredibly thankful to be able to embrace whatever discomfort we might encounter. To chose to be uncomfortable is a luxury, perhaps the greatest luxury. I'm pretty sure my great grandmother would have taken a 4000 ft home with central air if someone had given it to her, and I suspect my mother-in-law would just as soon have not spent her childhood picking cotton. They weren't choosing discomfort, it was just life. I'm less sure that either would have exchanged the experience though. + +There's a line in that piece I linked to earlier, "the best moments of my life, I never want to live again." I have feeling my great grandmother would agree. It goes on say: + +> The best means waiting, planning, researching, and saving until one can acquire the perfect equipment for a given task. Partisans of the best will probably never end up accidentally riding a freight train 1000 miles in the wrong direction, or making a new life-long friend while panhandling after losing everything in Transnistria, or surreptitiously living under a desk in an office long after their internship has run out — simply because optimizing for the best probably does not leave enough room for those mistakes. Even if the most stalwart advocates of the worst would never actually recommend choosing to put oneself in those situations intentionally, they probably wouldn't give them up either. + +If you have the luxury of being able to embrace discomfort, take it. Forget perfect and just go, even if "go" is purely metaphorical. You'll figure it out along the way. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/07/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/07/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..418bdc1 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/07/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,107 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    Walk Slowly

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    Archive: July 2016

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    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/07/what-are-you-going-to-do.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/07/what-are-you-going-to-do.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ac015ba --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/07/what-are-you-going-to-do.amp @@ -0,0 +1,200 @@ + + + + + + +What Are You Going to Do? + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    What Are You Going to Do?

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    We've started telling people about our plans to live full time in the blue bus.

    +
    + +
    Home sweet home.
    +
    +

    After the eyebrows come down and the puzzled frowns flatten out, the questions come. Most of them revolve around some form of, but, but but... what will you do without a house? What will you do when that thing breaks down? What will you do when...

    +

    Rather than answer everyone individually I thought I'd answer all those questions here, as best I can: I don't know.

    +

    And I'm not particularly worried about it. I don't know what we'll do without a house, because we have a house. It's just somewhat smaller than the average American dwelling and comes with an engine.

    +

    And when it breaks I suspect we'll stop by the side of the road and spend some time sweating, swearing, scratching our heads, failing, asking more experienced people questions, failing some more, sweating some more, and maybe even end up taking a near bath in gasoline. And then we might even have to walk somewhere and find someone smarter and more experienced to help us. Then, eventually, we'll probably get it running again.

    +

    Then again it could totally break down into an unfixable hunk of fiberglass and metal that has to towed to the nearest scrapyard. It could burst into flames at a stoplight. It could drop a transmission trying to downshift its way up a hill. A million things could go wrong.

    +

    But a million things can always go wrong, the only thing you get worrying about them is an anxiety attack. I find it more useful to carry a reasonable amount of tools and deal with things as they come. In my experience so far the future is seldom as grim as our fears1.

    +

    What if though? That's the action-killing nag at the back of all our minds. I have it too. You don't think I worry about these things? I do. I know of a Travco that really did burst into flames at a stoplight. It is what it is though. It's not going to stop me from going on this trip. Because you know what? I know of hundreds of Travcos that haven't burst into flames. That one is scary, but it's only one.

    +

    A whole lot of houses burst into flames too, yet most of us don't sit around worrying about that. Instead we do what practical things we can, unplug appliances when we're not using them, install new breakers, keep an eye on the candles and so on, and get on with our lives. In the end we manage to ignore the fact that seven people a day die in house fires and just live.

    +

    It all comes back to comfort, the ultimate comfort, the little lie we tell ourselves: if I just stay where I am, physically, metaphysically, metaphorically, then I will be safe. It's a nice fiction that helps get all that potential anxiety out of the way, but it's still a fiction.

    +

    My problem with that logic is that clinging to a life of "security" at the expense of living the way you want will fail you twice. Not only are you missing out on the life you want to have, but even the security you think you're getting in exchange for foregoing that life turns out to be an illusion. The extra irony is that there's never been a safer time to be alive, yet we're all worried about the lion that might be lurking in the grass. Old habits die hard.

    +

    Jon Krakauer's Into the Wild quotes a letter Christopher McCandless wrote to a friend in which he says:

    +
    +

    nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a man's living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun.

    +
    +

    Travel is certainly not the only way to have an endlessly changing horizon, at least metaphorically speaking. I'm not suggesting that everyone should sell their house and travel. But I am suggesting that it might be a good time to stop and take a close look at your life and make sure that fear isn't holding you back from what you want. For me deciding to travel is easy, but I still have plenty of useless fear about other stuff. I was terrified to have kids. I probably never would have had them if it weren't for my wife assuring me that we could do it. And we did. And it was the best thing I've ever done. Not a single one of my fears turned out to be accurate.

    +

    Traveling isn't the only way to live, but it is one way. And for us it's one that's the most immediate and exciting right now. We may not have a house, we may not have much stuff, we may break down, we may get stuck, we may be uncomfortable. That's okay. I believe we'll make it. Somewhere anyway.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      There are exceptions. Global warming looks to be every bit as grim as we imagine. War, violence in general, also very grim. ↩

      +
      2. +
    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/07/what-are-you-going-to-do.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/07/what-are-you-going-to-do.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e94fa2d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/07/what-are-you-going-to-do.html @@ -0,0 +1,450 @@ + + + + + What Are You Going To Do? - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    What Are You Going to Do?

    + +
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    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    We’ve started telling people about our plans to live full time in the blue bus.

    +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    Took the bus for a spin today.
    +
    + +

    After the eyebrows come down and the puzzled frowns flatten out, the questions come. Most of them revolve around some form of, but, but but… what will you do without a house? What will you do when that thing breaks down? What will you do when…

    +

    Rather than answer everyone individually I thought I’d answer all those questions here, as best I can: I don’t know.

    +

    And I’m not particularly worried about it. I don’t know what we’ll do without a house, because we have a house. It’s just somewhat smaller than the average American dwelling and comes with an engine.

    +

    And when it breaks I suspect we’ll stop by the side of the road and spend some time sweating, swearing, scratching our heads, failing, asking more experienced people questions, failing some more, sweating some more, and maybe even end up taking a near bath in gasoline. And then we might even have to walk somewhere and find someone smarter and more experienced to help us. Then, eventually, we’ll probably get it running again.

    +

    Then again it could totally break down into an unfixable hunk of fiberglass and metal that has to towed to the nearest scrapyard. It could burst into flames at a stoplight. It could drop a transmission trying to downshift its way up a hill. A million things could go wrong.

    +

    But a million things can always go wrong, the only thing you get worrying about them is an anxiety attack. I find it more useful to carry a reasonable amount of tools and deal with things as they come. In my experience so far the future is seldom as grim as our fears1.

    +

    What if though? That’s the action-killing nag at the back of all our minds. I have it too. You don’t think I worry about these things? I do. I know of a Travco that really did burst into flames at a stoplight. It is what it is though. It’s not going to stop me from going on this trip. Because you know what? I know of hundreds of Travcos that haven’t burst into flames. That one is scary, but it’s only one.

    +

    A whole lot of houses burst into flames too, yet most of us don’t sit around worrying about that. Instead we do what practical things we can, unplug appliances when we’re not using them, install new breakers, keep an eye on the candles and so on, and get on with our lives. In the end we manage to ignore the fact that seven people a day die in house fires and just live.

    +

    It all comes back to comfort, the ultimate comfort, the little lie we tell ourselves: if I just stay where I am, physically, metaphysically, metaphorically, then I will be safe. It’s a nice fiction that helps get all that potential anxiety out of the way, but it’s still a fiction.

    +

    My problem with that logic is that clinging to a life of “security” at the expense of living the way you want will fail you twice. Not only are you missing out on the life you want to have, but even the security you think you’re getting in exchange for foregoing that life turns out to be an illusion. The extra irony is that there’s never been a safer time to be alive, yet we’re all worried about the lion that might be lurking in the grass. Old habits die hard.

    +

    Jon Krakauer’s Into the Wild quotes a letter Christopher McCandless wrote to a friend in which he says:

    +
    +

    nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a man’s living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun.

    +
    +

    Travel is certainly not the only way to have an endlessly changing horizon, at least metaphorically speaking. I’m not suggesting that everyone should sell their house and travel. But I am suggesting that it might be a good time to stop and take a close look at your life and make sure that fear isn’t holding you back from what you want. For me deciding to travel is easy, but I still have plenty of useless fear about other stuff. I was terrified to have kids. I probably never would have had them if it weren’t for my wife assuring me that we could do it. And we did. And it was the best thing I’ve ever done. Not a single one of my fears turned out to be accurate.

    +

    Traveling isn’t the only way to live, but it is one way. And for us it’s one that’s the most immediate and exciting right now. We may not have a house, we may not have much stuff, we may break down, we may get stuck, we may be uncomfortable. That’s okay. I believe we’ll make it. Somewhere anyway.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      There are exceptions. Global warming looks to be every bit as grim as we imagine. War, violence in general, also very grim. ↩

      +
      2. +
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    + + + + + + +

    1 Comment

    + + + + + + +
    + +
    + +
    + Denise Meyers + July 29, 2016 at 4:22 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    As the previous owner of this Travco, it fills me with such joy to know that you are fulfilling a lifelong dream, that you know there is no percentage at all in playing it safe because life is short, and that there is no room for fear in a life well spent. I love that you are teaching your children to be fearless by example and I can’t WAIT to see where your journey takes you. And the Travco!

    + +
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/07/what-are-you-going-to-do.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/07/what-are-you-going-to-do.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8d67130 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/07/what-are-you-going-to-do.txt @@ -0,0 +1,40 @@ +What Are You Going to Do? +========================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Tuesday, 12 July 2016 + +We've started telling people about our plans to live full time in the blue bus. + + + +After the eyebrows come down and the puzzled frowns flatten out, the questions come. Most of them revolve around some form of, but, but but... *what will you do without a house? What will you do when that thing breaks down? What will you do when...* + +Rather than answer everyone individually I thought I'd answer all those questions here, as best I can: ***I don't know***. + +And I'm not particularly worried about it. I don't know what we'll do without a house, because we have a house. It's just somewhat smaller than the average American dwelling and comes with an engine. + +And when it breaks I suspect we'll stop by the side of the road and spend some time sweating, swearing, scratching our heads, failing, asking more experienced people questions, failing some more, sweating some more, and maybe even end up taking a near bath in gasoline. And then we might even have to walk somewhere and find someone smarter and more experienced to help us. Then, eventually, we'll probably get it running again. + +Then again it could totally break down into an unfixable hunk of fiberglass and metal that has to towed to the nearest scrapyard. It could burst into flames at a stoplight. It could drop a transmission trying to downshift its way up a hill. A million things could go wrong. + +But a million things can always go wrong, the only thing you get worrying about them is an anxiety attack. I find it more useful to carry a reasonable amount of tools and deal with things as they come. In my experience so far the future is seldom as grim as our fears[^1]. + +What if though? That's the action-killing nag at the back of all our minds. I have it too. You don't think I worry about these things? I do. I know of a Travco that really did burst into flames at a stoplight. It is what it is though. It's not going to stop me from going on this trip. Because you know what? I know of hundreds of Travcos that haven't burst into flames. That one is scary, but it's only one. + +A whole lot of houses burst into flames too, yet most of us don't sit around worrying about that. Instead we do what practical things we can, unplug appliances when we're not using them, install new breakers, keep an eye on the candles and so on, and get on with our lives. In the end we manage to ignore the fact that [seven people a day die in house fires](http://www.nfpa.org/news-and-research/news-and-media/press-room/news-releases/2013/seven-people-die-each-day-in-reported-us-home-fires) and just live. + +It all comes back to comfort, the ultimate comfort, the little lie we tell ourselves: if I just stay where I am, physically, metaphysically, metaphorically, then I will be safe. It's a nice fiction that helps get all that potential anxiety out of the way, but it's still a fiction. + +My problem with that logic is that clinging to a life of "security" at the expense of living the way you want will fail you twice. Not only are you missing out on the life you want to have, but even the security you think you're getting in exchange for foregoing that life turns out to be an illusion. The extra irony is that there's never been a safer time to be alive, yet we're all worried about the lion that might be lurking in the grass. Old habits die hard. + +Jon Krakauer's Into the Wild [quotes](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/511021-nothing-is-more-damaging-to-the-adventurous-spirit-within-a) a letter [Christopher McCandless](http://www.christophermccandless.info/) wrote to a friend in which he says: + +> nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a man's living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun. + +Travel is certainly not the only way to have an endlessly changing horizon, at least metaphorically speaking. I'm not suggesting that everyone should sell their house and travel. But I am suggesting that it might be a good time to stop and take a close look at your life and make sure that fear isn't holding you back from what you want. For me deciding to travel is easy, but I still have plenty of useless fear about other stuff. I was terrified to have kids. I probably never would have had them if it weren't for my wife assuring me that we could do it. And we did. And it was the best thing I've ever done. Not a single one of my fears turned out to be accurate. + +Traveling isn't the only way to live, but it is one way. And for us it's one that's the most immediate and exciting right now. We may not have a house, we may not have much stuff, we may break down, we may get stuck, we may be uncomfortable. That's okay. I believe we'll make it. Somewhere anyway. + +[^1]: There are exceptions. Global warming looks to be every bit as grim as we imagine. War, violence in general, also very grim. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/autumn-bus-update.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/autumn-bus-update.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c10068b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/autumn-bus-update.amp @@ -0,0 +1,213 @@ + + + + + + +Autumn Bus Update + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Autumn Bus Update

    + + + +
    +
    +

    Autumn comes in a series of hints and whispers. Darkness comes steadily earlier. The available time between putting the kids to bed and too-dark-to-work grows ever shorter. The loss of light would be worth it were the heat and humidity dropping a bit, but they haven't yet. For now I get by on the words of friends in more northerly climes, who have already started mentioning a crispness to the air.

    +

    Here the heat remains constant, the humidity never leaves. The bus feels like an oven by mid afternoon.

    +
    + +
    Fresh coat of wax. Compare to when we got it.
    +
    +

    The good news is that the bus also gets closer to done in a series of hints and whispers. Bare walls disappear behind two layers of insulation, then finished birch panels. The ceiling is in and, to judge from bus visitors so far, it's the high water mark of what I've done.

    +
    + +
    The bead board ceiling.
    +
    +

    There are new cabinets as well, partly because additional storage is nice when you're cramming five people into less than 100 square feet of livable space, and partly because neither the ceiling panels nor the wood on the walls is capable of bending to the degree necessary to follow the original curve of the Travco.

    +
    + +
    The new cabinets I built.
    +
    +

    I'm not the only one to hide that curve behind a cabinet. Travcos up until 1968 had a plastic channel to hide it (which did double duty hiding some air conditioning ducting as well) and then in 1969 Travco started adding cabinets as well1. I mimicked the latter as best I could.

    +

    There is still much to do, even if we do plan to leave before it's completely finished. We need a floor and couch at the bare minimum, though I'd like to have the propane and sewage system working as well. Oh and then there's a cab area, which I really haven't touched.

    +

    Did I mention the brakes stopped working a couple weeks back? The Travco's brake fluid reservoir is incredibly inconvenient and difficult to access. There's a hole a few inches back from the accelerator pedal that's just wide enough for a four-year-old's hand. It's way to small for mine. Too small for my channel lock pliers too. I was lazy and posted something in the Travco Facebook group asking if anyone had any tricks for getting the reservoir open and someone responded that I wasn't trying hard enough. I mulled that over for a while. Then the day before I need to move it I felt like I wanted it pretty bad so I got a new pair of needle nose channel locks and sure enough, I hadn't been trying hard enough.

    +

    Sometimes it's good to have internet strangers call you on your bullshit. The reservoir was, predictably, empty. So now we get to bleed the brakes, which is good. I like to know that things like brakes are properly done.

    +

    The far more difficult project that I'd likewise been avoiding for some time was getting the generator out of the back compartment. Unlike the brake fluid reservoir, getting the generator out turned out to be much harder than I anticipated.

    +

    Everyone wants to know why I want to get rid of a perfectly functional Onan2 generator. Here's a link to fellow nomad Randy Vining reading a poem that nicely summarizes why I don't like generators. Suffice to say that most of my worst camping memories involve someone else's generator ruining the otherwise wonderful sounds of nature. In my view the advent of reasonably cheap solar completely eliminates any need for a generator.

    +

    Still, the generator in the bus was perfectly good and I didn't want to just throw it away. There are plenty of people who want one. A few weeks ago I saw someone post in the aforementioned Travco Facebook group looking for a generator for a 1972 Travco. I noticed he was only about five or six hours away in North Carolina so I messaged him and told him he could have the generator if he helped me get it out.

    +

    He agreed and a week later he drove down from NC with a neighbor to help out. After a quick run to get some tools I needed to finally get the last bolt off of the thing, the three of use tried lifting it out and quickly realized that there was no way that way happening. I called around to see if any local mechanics had an engine lift we could use, but no one did. This was somewhat complicated by the fact that the brakes had gone out earlier in the day and I didn't really want to drive further than I absolutely had to. Then I remembered that a local equipment rental place around the corner probably had some kind of lift. It was only three blocks a way and didn't involve any major hills. So I hopped in, fired her up and we took off just as a torrential rainstorm hit.

    +

    Around block two the bus sputtered and died. Out of gas. Blocking a fairly major intersection. I rolled it back as far it would go. The rain was coming down in sheets. I had no choice but to leave it there at the side of the road. I hopped in Nathan's car and he gave me and the meager two gallon gas can a ride to the gas station and back. I stood in the pouring rain with a makeshift funnel fashioned from a plastic water bottle, pouring gasoline in the tank. I was soaked through with water and gasoline long before I finally got it running again. Like my 1969 Ford, 2 gallons of gas is not enough to get the Travco started. Note to self, get two real steel 5 gallon gas cans and mount them on the bumper.

    +

    I finally made it to Barron's rentals and we somehow convinced the otherwise unoccupied warehouse employees to help us lift the generator out with a forklift. I took six of us in all, gently lifting, nudging and balancing the massive generator on a single forklift tine and slowly easing it out. In the end though it worked. We got it out of the bus and into the back of Nathan's Land Cruiser where it disappeared off to a new life in a 1972 Travco somewhere back in North Carolina.

    +

    I cleaned out the 50 odd years worth of motor oil and fluids and cut some leftover marine grade plywood the fit the bottom of the generator compartment so it would be a little less exposed to the elements (the wood covers a few holes and with a coat of sealant should last several decades). With the generator gone and the compartment cleared up there's finally room to start moving some of the kids' toys out of the house, which helps get the house cleaned up and more presentable for sale.

    +

    One things leads to another and it's all accelerating. It takes a long time to line up dominoes, but so far it's working and the few that we've managed to tip over have all fallen in place.

    +

    In the mean time there is much work to be done and miles to go before we sleep.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      Why didn't our have said cabinets originally? No idea. In fact ours is the only Travco that I've seen built this particular way. ↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      The makers of the Onan generator is a company called Cummings. So far as I can tell the name has nothing to do with the minor, but intriguing, biblical character and practitioner of the withdrawal method of birth control (or masturbator depending of which interpretation your favor). ↩

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    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/autumn-bus-update.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/autumn-bus-update.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dc68528 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/autumn-bus-update.html @@ -0,0 +1,483 @@ + + + + + Autumn Bus Update - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Autumn Bus Update

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Autumn comes in a series of hints and whispers. Darkness comes steadily earlier. The available time between putting the kids to bed and too-dark-to-work grows ever shorter. The loss of light would be worth it were the heat and humidity dropping a bit, but they haven’t yet. For now I get by on the words of friends in more northerly climes, who have already started mentioning a crispness to the air.

    +

    Here the heat remains constant, the humidity never leaves. The bus feels like an oven by mid afternoon.

    +
    + + 1969 Dodge Travco photographed by luxagraf + +
    Fresh coat of wax. Compare to when we got it.
    +
    + +

    The good news is that the bus also gets closer to done in a series of hints and whispers. Bare walls disappear behind two layers of insulation, then finished birch panels. The ceiling is in and, to judge from bus visitors so far, it’s the high water mark of what I’ve done.

    +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    The bead board ceiling.
    +
    + +

    There are new cabinets as well, partly because additional storage is nice when you’re cramming five people into less than 100 square feet of livable space, and partly because neither the ceiling panels nor the wood on the walls is capable of bending to the degree necessary to follow the original curve of the Travco.

    +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I’m not the only one to hide that curve behind a cabinet. Travcos up until 1968 had a plastic channel to hide it (which did double duty hiding some air conditioning ducting as well) and then in 1969 Travco started adding cabinets as well1. I mimicked the latter as best I could.

    +

    There is still much to do, even if we do plan to leave before it’s completely finished. We need a floor and couch at the bare minimum, though I’d like to have the propane and sewage system working as well. Oh and then there’s a cab area, which I really haven’t touched.

    +

    Did I mention the brakes stopped working a couple weeks back? The Travco’s brake fluid reservoir is incredibly inconvenient and difficult to access. There’s a hole a few inches back from the accelerator pedal that’s just wide enough for a four-year-old’s hand. It’s way to small for mine. Too small for my channel lock pliers too. I was lazy and posted something in the Travco Facebook group asking if anyone had any tricks for getting the reservoir open and someone responded that I wasn’t trying hard enough. I mulled that over for a while. Then the day before I need to move it I felt like I wanted it pretty bad so I got a new pair of needle nose channel locks and sure enough, I hadn’t been trying hard enough.

    +

    Sometimes it’s good to have internet strangers call you on your bullshit. The reservoir was, predictably, empty. So now we get to bleed the brakes, which is good. I like to know that things like brakes are properly done.

    +

    The far more difficult project that I’d likewise been avoiding for some time was getting the generator out of the back compartment. Unlike the brake fluid reservoir, getting the generator out turned out to be much harder than I anticipated.

    +

    Everyone wants to know why I want to get rid of a perfectly functional Onan2 generator. Here’s a link to fellow nomad Randy Vining reading a poem that nicely summarizes why I don’t like generators. Suffice to say that most of my worst camping memories involve someone else’s generator ruining the otherwise wonderful sounds of nature. In my view the advent of reasonably cheap solar completely eliminates any need for a generator.

    +

    Still, the generator in the bus was perfectly good and I didn’t want to just throw it away. There are plenty of people who want one. A few weeks ago I saw someone post in the aforementioned Travco Facebook group looking for a generator for a 1972 Travco. I noticed he was only about five or six hours away in North Carolina so I messaged him and told him he could have the generator if he helped me get it out.

    +

    He agreed and a week later he drove down from NC with a neighbor to help out. After a quick run to get some tools I needed to finally get the last bolt off of the thing, the three of use tried lifting it out and quickly realized that there was no way that way happening. I called around to see if any local mechanics had an engine lift we could use, but no one did. This was somewhat complicated by the fact that the brakes had gone out earlier in the day and I didn’t really want to drive further than I absolutely had to. Then I remembered that a local equipment rental place around the corner probably had some kind of lift. It was only three blocks a way and didn’t involve any major hills. So I hopped in, fired her up and we took off just as a torrential rainstorm hit.

    +

    Around block two the bus sputtered and died. Out of gas. Blocking a fairly major intersection. I rolled it back as far it would go. The rain was coming down in sheets. I had no choice but to leave it there at the side of the road. I hopped in Nathan’s car and he gave me and the meager two gallon gas can a ride to the gas station and back. I stood in the pouring rain with a makeshift funnel fashioned from a plastic water bottle, pouring gasoline in the tank. I was soaked through with water and gasoline long before I finally got it running again. Like my 1969 Ford, 2 gallons of gas is not enough to get the Travco started. Note to self, get two real steel 5 gallon gas cans and mount them on the bumper.

    +

    I finally made it to Barron’s rentals and we somehow convinced the otherwise unoccupied warehouse employees to help us lift the generator out with a forklift. I took six of us in all, gently lifting, nudging and balancing the massive generator on a single forklift tine and slowly easing it out. In the end though it worked. We got it out of the bus and into the back of Nathan’s Land Cruiser where it disappeared off to a new life in a 1972 Travco somewhere back in North Carolina.

    +

    I cleaned out the 50 odd years worth of motor oil and fluids and cut some leftover marine grade plywood the fit the bottom of the generator compartment so it would be a little less exposed to the elements (the wood covers a few holes and with a coat of sealant should last several decades). With the generator gone and the compartment cleared up there’s finally room to start moving some of the kids’ toys out of the house, which helps get the house cleaned up and more presentable for sale.

    +

    One things leads to another and it’s all accelerating. It takes a long time to line up dominoes, but so far it’s working and the few that we’ve managed to tip over have all fallen in place.

    +

    In the mean time there is much work to be done and miles to go before we sleep.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      Why didn’t our have said cabinets originally? No idea. In fact ours is the only Travco that I’ve seen built this particular way. ↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      The makers of the Onan generator is a company called Cummings. So far as I can tell the name has nothing to do with the minor, but intriguing, biblical character and practitioner of the withdrawal method of birth control (or masturbator depending of which interpretation your favor). ↩

      +
      3. +
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    + + + +
    +
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    + + + + + + +

    2 Comments

    + + + + + + +
    + +
    + +
    + Bennett + September 22, 2016 at 11:44 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Seeing as though our calls are far and few between these days, it’s nice to know that between the humidity and rain there’s always a story to be told. It’s not often I’m on Facebook either so this was a good read.

    +

    Let’s catch up next week!

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott Gilbertson + September 23, 2016 at 6:09 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Thanks man. You’re in that rare category of readers who can call and tell me that your comment didn’t post. :)

    + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/autumn-bus-update.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/autumn-bus-update.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..42f5158 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/autumn-bus-update.txt @@ -0,0 +1,49 @@ +Autumn Bus Update +================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 15 September 2016 + +Autumn comes in a series of hints and whispers. Darkness comes steadily earlier. The available time between putting the kids to bed and too-dark-to-work grows ever shorter. The loss of light would be worth it were the heat and humidity dropping a bit, but they haven't yet. For now I get by on the words of friends in more northerly climes, who have already started mentioning a crispness to the air. + +Here the heat remains constant, the humidity never leaves. The bus feels like an oven by mid afternoon. + + + +The good news is that the bus also gets closer to done in a series of hints and whispers. Bare walls disappear behind two layers of insulation, then finished birch panels. The ceiling is in and, to judge from bus visitors so far, it's the high water mark of what I've done. + + + +There are new cabinets as well, partly because additional storage is nice when you're cramming five people into less than 100 square feet of livable space, and partly because neither the ceiling panels nor the wood on the walls is capable of bending to the degree necessary to follow the original curve of the Travco. + + + +I'm not the only one to hide that curve behind a cabinet. Travcos up until 1968 had a plastic channel to hide it (which did double duty hiding some air conditioning ducting as well) and then in 1969 Travco started adding cabinets as well[^1]. I mimicked the latter as best I could. + +There is still much to do, even if we do plan to [leave before it's completely finished](/jrnl/2016/07/change-ideas-the-worst). We need a floor and couch at the bare minimum, though I'd like to have the propane and sewage system working as well. Oh and then there's a cab area, which I really haven't touched. + +Did I mention the brakes stopped working a couple weeks back? The Travco's brake fluid reservoir is incredibly inconvenient and difficult to access. There's a hole a few inches back from the accelerator pedal that's just wide enough for a four-year-old's hand. It's way to small for mine. Too small for my channel lock pliers too. I was lazy and posted something in the Travco Facebook group asking if anyone had any tricks for getting the reservoir open and someone responded that I wasn't trying hard enough. I mulled that over for a while. Then the day before I need to move it I felt like I wanted it pretty bad so I got a new pair of needle nose channel locks and sure enough, I hadn't been trying hard enough. + +Sometimes it's good to have internet strangers call you on your bullshit. The reservoir was, predictably, empty. So now we get to bleed the brakes, which is good. I like to know that things like brakes are properly done. + +The far more difficult project that I'd likewise been avoiding for some time was getting the generator out of the back compartment. Unlike the brake fluid reservoir, getting the generator out turned out to be much harder than I anticipated. + +Everyone wants to know why I want to get rid of a perfectly functional Onan[^2] generator. Here's a link to fellow nomad Randy Vining [reading a poem](https://vimeo.com/154906462) that nicely summarizes why I don't like generators. Suffice to say that most of my worst camping memories involve someone else's generator ruining the otherwise wonderful sounds of nature. In my view the advent of reasonably cheap solar completely eliminates any need for a generator. + +Still, the generator in the bus was perfectly good and I didn't want to just throw it away. There are plenty of people who want one. A few weeks ago I saw someone post in the aforementioned Travco Facebook group looking for a generator for a 1972 Travco. I noticed he was only about five or six hours away in North Carolina so I messaged him and told him he could have the generator if he helped me get it out. + +He agreed and a week later he drove down from NC with a neighbor to help out. After a quick run to get some tools I needed to finally get the last bolt off of the thing, the three of use tried lifting it out and quickly realized that there was no way that way happening. I called around to see if any local mechanics had an engine lift we could use, but no one did. This was somewhat complicated by the fact that the brakes had gone out earlier in the day and I didn't really want to drive further than I absolutely had to. Then I remembered that a local equipment rental place around the corner probably had some kind of lift. It was only three blocks a way and didn't involve any major hills. So I hopped in, fired her up and we took off just as a torrential rainstorm hit. + +Around block two the bus sputtered and died. Out of gas. Blocking a fairly major intersection. I rolled it back as far it would go. The rain was coming down in sheets. I had no choice but to leave it there at the side of the road. I hopped in Nathan's car and he gave me and the meager two gallon gas can a ride to the gas station and back. I stood in the pouring rain with a makeshift funnel fashioned from a plastic water bottle, pouring gasoline in the tank. I was soaked through with water and gasoline long before I finally got it running again. Like my 1969 Ford, 2 gallons of gas is not enough to get the Travco started. Note to self, get two real steel 5 gallon gas cans and mount them on the bumper. + +I finally made it to Barron's rentals and we somehow convinced the otherwise unoccupied warehouse employees to help us lift the generator out with a forklift. I took six of us in all, gently lifting, nudging and balancing the massive generator on a single forklift tine and slowly easing it out. In the end though it worked. We got it out of the bus and into the back of Nathan's Land Cruiser where it disappeared off to a new life in a 1972 Travco somewhere back in North Carolina. + +I cleaned out the 50 odd years worth of motor oil and fluids and cut some leftover marine grade plywood the fit the bottom of the generator compartment so it would be a little less exposed to the elements (the wood covers a few holes and with a coat of sealant should last several decades). With the generator gone and the compartment cleared up there's finally room to start moving some of the kids' toys out of the house, which helps get the house cleaned up and more presentable for sale. + +One things leads to another and it's all accelerating. It takes a long time to line up dominoes, but so far it's working and the few that we've managed to tip over have all fallen in place. + +In the mean time there is much work to be done and miles to go before we sleep. + +[^1]: Why didn't our have said cabinets originally? No idea. In fact ours is the only Travco that I've seen built this particular way. +[^2]: The makers of the Onan generator is a company called Cummings. So far as I can tell the name has nothing to do with the minor, but intriguing, biblical character and practitioner of the withdrawal method of birth control (or masturbator depending of which interpretation your favor). diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/cloudland-canyon.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/cloudland-canyon.amp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2cb3729 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/cloudland-canyon.amp @@ -0,0 +1,200 @@ + + + + + + +Cloudland Canyon + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Cloudland Canyon

    + + + +
    +
    +

    I have a terrible habit of never going to obvious places that are right around me. For example I lived within 100 miles or so of Death Valley for 26 years and never once went. Then I moved thousands of miles across the country and finally arranged a trip to Death Valley. Same with Catalina Island, which was always a mere 26 miles away. Until it wasn't. And then I went.

    +

    I've been joking for some time that Savannah GA is going to be my new Death Valley, which I suppose would make Cloudland Canyon my new Catalina Island. Except that it appears I'm getting better about these things. Maybe. I wouldn't say I got myself to Cloudland Canyon, but events did conspire such that I ended up in Cloudland Canyon before we left Georgia. Progress.

    +

    +

    No, we didn't take the bus. It was a family reunion for some of Corrinne's family so cabins were rented and we were offered a room in one of them, which is just as well because the campground was a bit dismal -- little more than a gravel parking lot really. The canyon, however, is well worth going for, particularly if you get up before dawn and head down to the Bear Creek overlook to watch the sunrise.

    +

    +

    As is our usual pace we took the back roads, not hurrying, winding through the mountains, stopping for a picnic lunch at another state park that was mostly a shrine to the Army Corp of Engineers. I have mixed feelings about The Corp. They're largely responsible for the mess that is the Mississippi River Valley today and their hubris is possibly unmatched even today. Still. At least they didn't waste their time building gadgets.

    +

    Could they have stopped for a minute to study the ecology of a place before they attempted to "improve" it? Sure, but at least they tried to make the world a better place (even if their vision differs from mine). At least they left behind a place my kids can eat turkey sandwiches and chocolate cookies.

    +

    +

    Oh, and a reservoir. The Corp did love them some dams. But not for lakes mind you. Lakes are frivolous. Reservoirs are eminently practical and serious. Like the Army Corp of Engineers.

    +

    +

    Eventually we made it to Cloudland Canyon. Not without things getting interesting though. To add modicum of adventure the air conditioning broke just after lunch. I turned on the WD50 air con, but because it's never-winter here in Georgia, we were all quite warm by the time we got there. Fortunately the solution was already there waiting for us -- hammocks.

    +

    +

    +

    We didn't hike all the way down into the canyon, but we did manage to go a little ways. Apparently it just wasn't enough for Elliott who decided hiking up out of a canyon wasn't hard enough so he picked up a large rock and carried it all the way up.

    +

    +

    We've taken the girls camping before, but they were too young to remember. And I don't think we ever did the important stuff, like making campfires and roasting marshmellows for s'mores. That oversight has since been corrected.

    +

    +

    +

    +

    Now the question is, will I make it to Savannah before we leave or will I have to wait for a return visit to make it to the coast?

    +
    +
    +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/cloudland-canyon.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/cloudland-canyon.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d3f1f79 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/cloudland-canyon.html @@ -0,0 +1,343 @@ + + + + + Cloudland Canyon - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Cloudland Canyon

    + +
    +
    +

    Cloudland Canyon, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    I have a terrible habit of never going to obvious places that are right around me. For example I lived within 100 miles or so of Death Valley for 26 years and never once went. Then I moved thousands of miles across the country and finally arranged a trip to Death Valley. Same with Catalina Island, which was always a mere 26 miles away. Until it wasn’t. And then I went.

    +

    I’ve been joking for some time that Savannah GA is going to be my new Death Valley, which I suppose would make Cloudland Canyon my new Catalina Island. Except that it appears I’m getting better about these things. Maybe. I wouldn’t say I got myself to Cloudland Canyon, but events did conspire such that I ended up in Cloudland Canyon before we left Georgia. Progress.

    + +

    +

    No, we didn’t take the bus. It was a family reunion for some of Corrinne’s family so cabins were rented and we were offered a room in one of them, which is just as well because the campground was a bit dismal — little more than a gravel parking lot really. The canyon, however, is well worth going for, particularly if you get up before dawn and head down to the Bear Creek overlook to watch the sunrise.

    +

    +

    As is our usual pace we took the back roads, not hurrying, winding through the mountains, stopping for a picnic lunch at another state park that was mostly a shrine to the Army Corp of Engineers. I have mixed feelings about The Corp. They’re largely responsible for the mess that is the Mississippi River Valley today and their hubris is possibly unmatched even today. Still. At least they didn’t waste their time building gadgets.

    +

    Could they have stopped for a minute to study the ecology of a place before they attempted to “improve” it? Sure, but at least they tried to make the world a better place (even if their vision differs from mine). At least they left behind a place my kids can eat turkey sandwiches and chocolate cookies.

    +

    +

    Oh, and a reservoir. The Corp did love them some dams. But not for lakes mind you. Lakes are frivolous. Reservoirs are eminently practical and serious. Like the Army Corp of Engineers.

    +

    +

    Eventually we made it to Cloudland Canyon. Not without things getting interesting though. To add modicum of adventure the air conditioning broke just after lunch. I turned on the WD50 air con, but because it’s never-winter here in Georgia, we were all quite warm by the time we got there. Fortunately the solution was already there waiting for us — hammocks.

    +

    +

    +

    We didn’t hike all the way down into the canyon, but we did manage to go a little ways. Apparently it just wasn’t enough for Elliott who decided hiking up out of a canyon wasn’t hard enough so he picked up a large rock and carried it all the way up.

    +

    +

    We’ve taken the girls camping before, but they were too young to remember. And I don’t think we ever did the important stuff, like making campfires and roasting marshmellows for s’mores. That oversight has since been corrected.

    +

    +

    +

    +

    Now the question is, will I make it to Savannah before we leave or will I have to wait for a return visit to make it to the coast?

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/cloudland-canyon.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/cloudland-canyon.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5a9f2d2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/cloudland-canyon.txt @@ -0,0 +1,45 @@ +Cloudland Canyon +================ + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 19 September 2016 + +

    I have a terrible habit of never going to obvious places that are right around me. For example I lived within 100 miles or so of Death Valley for 26 years and never once went. Then I moved thousands of miles across the country and finally arranged a trip to Death Valley. Same with Catalina Island, which was always a mere 26 miles away. Until it wasn't. And then I went.

    +

    I've been joking for some time that Savannah GA is going to be my new Death Valley, which I suppose would make Cloudland Canyon my new Catalina Island. Except that it appears I'm getting better about these things. Maybe. I wouldn't say I got myself to Cloudland Canyon, but events did conspire such that I ended up in Cloudland Canyon before we left Georgia. Progress.

    + + + +No, we didn't take the bus. It was a family reunion for some of Corrinne's family so cabins were rented and we were offered a room in one of them, which is just as well because the campground was a bit dismal -- little more than a gravel parking lot really. The canyon, however, is well worth going for, particularly if you get up before dawn and head down to the Bear Creek overlook to watch the sunrise. + + + +As is our usual pace we took the back roads, not hurrying, winding through the mountains, stopping for a picnic lunch at another state park that was mostly a shrine to the Army Corp of Engineers. I have mixed feelings about The Corp. They're largely responsible for the mess that is the Mississippi River Valley today and their hubris is possibly unmatched even today. Still. At least they didn't waste their time building gadgets. + +Could they have stopped for a minute to study the ecology of a place before they attempted to "improve" it? Sure, but at least they tried to make the world a better place (even if their vision differs from mine). At least they left behind a place my kids can eat turkey sandwiches and chocolate cookies. + + + +Oh, and a reservoir. The Corp did love them some dams. But not for lakes mind you. Lakes are frivolous. Reservoirs are eminently practical and serious. Like the Army Corp of Engineers. + + + +Eventually we made it to Cloudland Canyon. Not without things getting interesting though. To add modicum of adventure the air conditioning broke just after lunch. I turned on the WD50 air con, but because it's never-winter here in Georgia, we were all quite warm by the time we got there. Fortunately the solution was already there waiting for us -- hammocks. + + + + + +We didn't hike all the way down into the canyon, but we did manage to go a little ways. Apparently it just wasn't enough for Elliott who decided hiking up out of a canyon wasn't hard enough so he picked up a large rock and carried it all the way up. + + + +We've taken the girls camping before, but they were too young to remember. And I don't think we ever did the important stuff, like making campfires and roasting marshmellows for s'mores. That oversight has since been corrected. + + + + + + + +Now the question is, will I make it to Savannah before we leave or will I have to wait for a return visit to make it to the coast? diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/equinox.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/equinox.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7892b91 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/equinox.html @@ -0,0 +1,412 @@ + + + + + Equinox - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Equinox

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + sunlight filtered through trees photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    One of our motivations for living in the bus is to spend more time outside — outside in general, but even moreso, outside in nature. To become more aware of the rhythms and patterns of life that haven’t had human will imposed on them. To be aware of the cycles around us.

    +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Paleontologist Stephen Jay Gould writes about time having two components, time’s arrow and time’s cycle.

    +

    Time’s arrow is linear time, what we would call history, a way of looking at the past as a series of non-repeating events. Time’s cycle on the other hand is circular time, “fundamental states… immanent in time, always present and never changing”, as he puts it in Time’s Arrow, Time’s Cycle

    +

    Time’s arrow is all around us every day, it is the proverbial water to a fish, we exist so immersed in a world that views time as an arrow that we don’t even realize that’s something we think, however, subconsciously.

    +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Time’s cycle though, that doesn’t get much press in our world. If you want the space to exist in time’s cycle for a while you’ll have to carve it yourself. I’m convinced this is why our forefathers recognized and celebrated time’s cycle where they saw it. It’s easy to live in time’s arrow, but it’s only at certain points on the arrow can you see the cycle happening as well. This why there have always been harvest festivals, planting festivals, hunting festivals, lunar festivals, seasonal festivals and so on. Nearly every culture prior to ours had them, and in more of the world than not, they’re still celebrated today.

    +

    I have a thing for solar cycles I guess. I was born a few hours before the winter solstice. My wife and I were married on the summer solstice. My son was born a few hours before the winter solstice. None of that was planned. It’s all synchronicity. Coincidence some would say. That’s the word for the the curious cycle-denying component of our culture. Not only do we ignore the cycle, we seem to want to deny it entirely.

    +

    Alternately, you could contemplate the possibility that synchronicities like that are not coincidence. That they have pattern to them, that the pattern might mean something or have something to say to you, even if it only turns out to be, “hey I exist too”.

    +
    + + pond photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Another pattern I’ve noticed in my existence so far is that whenever there’s a proposed dualism there’s also a third possibility half-hidden in the combination of the two. Time’s looping arrow that repeats though cycles but is a bit different each time.

    +

    There’s an equinox every autumn, but it looks a bit different each time.

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/equinox.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/equinox.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8c25461 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/equinox.txt @@ -0,0 +1,33 @@ +Equinox +======= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 22 September 2016 + + + + +One of our motivations for living in the bus is to spend more time outside -- outside in general, but even moreso, outside in nature. To become more aware of the rhythms and patterns of life that haven't had human will imposed on them. To be aware of the cycles around us. + + + +Paleontologist Stephen Jay Gould writes about time having two components, time's arrow and time's cycle. + +Time's arrow is linear time, what we would call history, a way of looking at the past as a series of non-repeating events. Time's cycle on the other hand is circular time, "fundamental states... immanent in time, always present and never changing", as he puts it in Time's Arrow, Time's Cycle + +Time's arrow is all around us every day, it is the proverbial water to a fish, we exist so immersed in a world that views time as an arrow that we don't even realize that's something we think, however, subconsciously. + + + +Time's cycle though, that doesn't get much press in our world. If you want the space to exist in time's cycle for a while you'll have to carve it yourself. I'm convinced this is why our forefathers recognized and celebrated time's cycle where they saw it. It's easy to live in time's arrow, but it's only at certain points on the arrow can you see the cycle happening as well. This why there have always been harvest festivals, planting festivals, hunting festivals, lunar festivals, seasonal festivals and so on. Nearly every culture prior to ours had them, and in more of the world than not, they're still celebrated today. + +I have a thing for solar cycles I guess. I was born a few hours before the winter solstice. My wife and I were married on the summer solstice. My son was born a few hours before the winter solstice. None of that was planned. It's all synchronicity. Coincidence some would say. That's the word for the the curious cycle-denying component of our culture. Not only do we ignore the cycle, we seem to want to deny it entirely. + +Alternately, you could contemplate the possibility that synchronicities like that are not coincidence. That they have pattern to them, that the pattern might mean something or have something to say to you, even if it only turns out to be, "hey I exist too". + + + +Another pattern I've noticed in my existence so far is that whenever there's a proposed dualism there's also a third possibility half-hidden in the combination of the two. Time's looping arrow that repeats though cycles but is a bit different each time. + +There's an equinox every autumn, but it looks a bit different each time. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ba873eb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/09/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,110 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: September 2016

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/10/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/10/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..28a4141 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/10/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,104 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: October 2016

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/10/useless-stuff.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/10/useless-stuff.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8046ebf --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/10/useless-stuff.html @@ -0,0 +1,434 @@ + + + + + Useless Stuff - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Useless Stuff

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Work on the bus progresses. The cab area (helm? cockpit?) has walls now, which means there’s no more steel ribs, fiberglass or bare wires showing.

    +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    Look Ma, no bare walls.
    +
    + +

    In fact, the only thing left to do is hook up the systems (water, propane), rebuild the bathroom door and lay the floor. Well, and recover the seats, but I won’t be doing that so it doesn’t really count from my point of view.

    +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    Ready to go.
    +
    + +

    Parallel to restoring the bus we’ve also been clearing out our house and getting it ready to sell. Thankfully we’ve taken good care of the house itself, all it really needed was some touch up paint and yard work. Clearing out our stuff though, that’s been very, very challenging.

    +

    Normally when you move you just shove all that stuff you don’t really acknowledge that you’ve been dragging around for years without using into a box and truck it on to the next place you’ll live where you can happily shove it in the back of a new closet.

    +

    When you’re moving into a 1969 Dodge Travco with four other people and less than 100 square feet of usable space that’s not an option.

    +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    Still need to recover the seats, but it’s coming together.
    +
    + +

    In that case you have to actually dig in and deal with all that stuff that’s always been easier not to deal with. You have to do something with it. You have to take a good hard look at it and you have to face the facts on the ground of your life so to speak, rather than the life you wish you had, which, for me anyway, is the source of most of my stuff.

    +

    “Well, I might learn to play the banjo one day.”

    +

    “You’ve had eight years and you haven’t yet.”

    +

    “I did learn how to tune it though. Plus I’ll have more time soon.”

    +

    “Probably not. Plus, you don’t even really like banjo music.”

    +

    “That’s not true. There’s that Grant Lee Buffalo song with the banjo intro. And Don Chambers, he plays banjo a lot. Plus I loved waking up to Adam Musick playing the banjo downstairs back when we lived above Southern Bitch.”

    +

    “So… you have not one, but two banjos and a broken mandolin because they remind you of a few notes of music you like and some experiences you enjoyed seventeen years ago?”

    +

    “Hmm. When you put it like that…”

    +

    “Probably you can hang on to your love of the music and the experiences even without the banjos. You could even write it all down somewhere so that you have a copy of your memories. That way you can keep what you love, get the cruft out of your life and make room for something new.”

    +

    And so it goes for hundreds of objects, almost none of which actually turned out have any real value to me.

    +

    As George Carlin used to say in a bit about stuff, “have you ever noticed that other people’s stuff is shit; and your shit is stuff?” When you strip away the “well I might need/use it someday” logic of accumulating useless stuff, you realize that your life is filled up with shit.

    + + +

    Don’t get me wrong. We do have a storage unit, but we deliberately got the smallest unit available. We have a few family heirlooms to store, some books that might be useful one day and a handful of other stuff (I may not have learned the banjo, but you’ll have a hell of a time prying my guitars from my cold dead fingers), but for the most part the stuff has been shed.

    +

    We have resold and donated 20 years worth of accumulated stuff over the last year or so. We’ve donated so much stuff that I know everyone at the local thrift shop by name, including the former mayor of Athens who started volunteering there the first day I made a major stuff drop off. Even now, months later she gets excited every time I show up with more stuff, which, now that we’re getting near the end, happens at least once a week. Sometimes two or three times a day.

    +

    It’s not like we were hoarders or anything. Neither Corrinne nor I had ever, prior to buying our house, lived in any one location for much more than a year. That kind of constant movement tends to make you stay relatively light on stuff. We did spend seven years at this address though, and we do have three kids, but believe it or not, the kids’ stuff isn’t the bulk of what we’ve gotten rid of. It’s our stuff. And for the life of me I can’t figure out how it all got in my life.

    +

    What I do know is that it has started to feel really good not to have it. Things are really clean. I almost never have to look for anything anymore because there’s a) much less to lose b) much less stuff to hide the thing I’m looking for.

    +

    I know there are whole books written about this subject, one in particular that’s very popular right now, but until you actually start doing it, you really have no idea how transformative it can really be to free yourself of stuff. It can change the entire way you look at the world, but that’s a topic for another day.

    +

    One thing I dislike about all these books and websites about shedding stuff though is that that they treat the process as if you’ll achieve some state of zen when you’re done, which, uh, yeah, not so much. It’s not that dramatic. I guess the zen angle is the best alternative is to admitting you made some mistakes since that’s not a popular idea these days. Saying “no regrets” is so common it’s a cliche. Our culture seems to think history, both personal and cultural, is a process of endless progress — from cave to stuffless zen present — which means regrets and mistakes need to swept under the proverbial rug.

    +

    But looking at your past and saying you have no regrets is crazy. It means you’re either, a) perfect or b) incapable of recognizing (and therefore learning) from your mistakes. Neither of which are good things.

    +

    Admitting mistakes is admitting that not all forward movement in time is in fact progress, some of it might consist of dead ends and blind alleys full of unused banjos and broken mandolins. Some of it might even be regress. Some of our stuff might be shit. Still, getting rid of stuff is nothing so much as not just admitting, but directly confronting, your mistakes. And then dumping it all at the thrift store.

    +

    Which is of course bullshit. All of it, the progress, the lack of mistakes, the stuff. The shit. All of it, bullshit.

    +

    I got regrets; lordy do I have some regrets. Particularly when it comes to stuff I have purchased. I didn’t buy the aforementioned banjos, but I did buy some dumb shit over the years. Books I could have checked out for free, electronic gadgets I never needed and barely used, kitchen crap no one needs. I really should have known better. I do know better. And still I succumbed.

    +

    I make mistakes. I got regrets. I got too much stuff that turned out to be shit. But now it’s all gone. Now I have catharsis and perhaps even a tad of personal insight, though that could just be more bullshit, hard to say for sure.

    +

    At first it didn’t bother me that much to get rid of my mistakes because hey, we have eBay and you can make some decent cash for the strangest stuff. Like old 8 track players. Or sleeping bags you never used. But at some point I stopped being amazed by how much money I was able to get on eBay and started thinking more about how much I had spent on shit in the first place. How much money I had spent on stuff which at the time seemed like a good idea, but turned out to mean next to nothing to me and was probably (deep down) motivated by some weird subconscious set of culturally handed down ideals I’m not about to try and parse out.

    +

    What I do know if that all of it was a waste. It was all a bunch of shit. And I regret it. Not because I want the money back, but because I can never get the life energy that went into getting the money back. I’d like to have that back, or to have at least channeled it into something that would have paid more dividends in the future, which is to say now.

    +

    Which is not to say that I’m not grateful that I can at least get something for it. Thanks eBay. Plenty of stuff though — typically the most expensive, most digital stuff — is pretty much worthless. The $1200 TV from 2009? Sold for $40. IPod I bought for almost $400 just before I went traveling in 2006? Selling for less than the price of shipping it it to the buyer. So yeah, I have regrets. I also have a new appreciation for buying last year’s model used.

    +

    I ended up keeping the iPod. It’s my new talisman to protect me from myself. It also does a fine job of playing music. Oddly enough for an Apple product, it still works after all these years. Even the battery is still good, though I put an extra 12V plug in the cab area of the bus just in case.

    +

    It seems fitting to launch a new trip, just over ten years after the last one, with an artifact or two shared between them. And it sounds just as good as it ever did. Better even since I have some nicer headphones now. And yeah, I’ve played that Grant Lee Buffalo song with the banjo intro a time or two to reminisce. Every time I catch myself thinking, I should really learn to play the banjo….

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/10/useless-stuff.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/10/useless-stuff.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7e84e03 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/10/useless-stuff.txt @@ -0,0 +1,81 @@ +Useless Stuff +============= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 16 October 2016 + +Work on the bus progresses. The cab area (helm? cockpit?) has walls now, which means there's no more steel ribs, fiberglass or bare wires showing. + + + +In fact, the only thing left to do is hook up the systems (water, propane), rebuild the bathroom door and lay the floor. Well, and recover the seats, but I won't be doing that so it doesn't really count from my point of view. + + + +Parallel to restoring the bus we've also been clearing out our house and getting it ready to sell. Thankfully we've taken good care of the house itself, all it really needed was some touch up paint and yard work. Clearing out our stuff though, that's been very, very challenging. + +Normally when you move you just shove all that stuff you don't really acknowledge that you've been dragging around for years without using into a box and truck it on to the next place you'll live where you can happily shove it in the back of a new closet. + +When you're moving into a 1969 Dodge Travco with four other people and less than 100 square feet of usable space that's not an option. + + + +In that case you have to actually dig in and deal with all that stuff that's always been easier not to deal with. You have to do something with it. You have to take a good hard look at it and you have to face the facts on the ground of your life so to speak, rather than the life you wish you had, which, for me anyway, is the source of most of my stuff. + +*"Well, I might learn to play the banjo one day."* + +*"You've had eight years and you haven't yet."* + +*"I did learn how to tune it though. Plus I'll have more time soon."* + +*"Probably not. Plus, you don't even really like banjo music."* + +*"That's not true. There's that Grant Lee Buffalo song with the banjo intro. And Don Chambers, he plays banjo a lot. Plus I loved waking up to Adam Musick playing the banjo downstairs back when we lived above Southern Bitch."* + +*"So... you have not one, but two banjos and a broken mandolin because they remind you of a few notes of music you like and some experiences you enjoyed seventeen years ago?"* + +*"Hmm. When you put it like that..."* + +*"Probably you can hang on to your love of the music and the experiences even without the banjos. You could even write it all down somewhere so that you have a copy of your memories. That way you can keep what you love, get the cruft out of your life and make room for something new."* + +And so it goes for hundreds of objects, almost none of which actually turned out have any real value to me. + +As George Carlin used to say in a bit about stuff, "have you ever noticed that other people's stuff is shit; and your shit is stuff?" When you strip away the "well I might need/use it someday" logic of accumulating useless stuff, you realize that your life is filled up with shit. + + + +Don't get me wrong. We do have a storage unit, but we deliberately got the smallest unit available. We have a few family heirlooms to store, some books that might be useful one day and a handful of other stuff (I may not have learned the banjo, but you'll have a hell of a time prying my guitars from my cold dead fingers), but for the most part the stuff has been shed. + +We have resold and donated 20 years worth of accumulated stuff over the last year or so. We've donated so much stuff that I know everyone at the local thrift shop by name, including the former mayor of Athens who started volunteering there the first day I made a major stuff drop off. Even now, months later she gets excited every time I show up with more stuff, which, now that we're getting near the end, happens at least once a week. Sometimes two or three times a day. + +It's not like we were hoarders or anything. Neither Corrinne nor I had ever, prior to buying our house, lived in any one location for much more than a year. That kind of constant movement tends to make you stay relatively light on stuff. We did spend seven years at this address though, and we do have three kids, but believe it or not, the kids' stuff isn't the bulk of what we've gotten rid of. It's our stuff. And for the life of me I can't figure out how it all got in my life. + +What I do know is that it has started to feel really good not to have it. Things are really clean. I almost never have to look for anything anymore because there's a) much less to lose b) much less stuff to hide the thing I'm looking for. + +I know there are whole books written about this subject, one in particular that's very popular right now, but until you actually start doing it, you really have no idea how transformative it can really be to free yourself of stuff. It can change the entire way you look at the world, but that's a topic for another day. + +One thing I dislike about all these books and websites about shedding stuff though is that that they treat the process as if you'll achieve some state of zen when you're done, which, uh, yeah, not so much. It's not that dramatic. I guess the zen angle is the best alternative is to admitting you made some mistakes since that's not a popular idea these days. Saying "no regrets" is so common it's a cliche. Our culture seems to think history, both personal and cultural, is a process of endless progress -- from cave to stuffless zen present -- which means regrets and mistakes need to swept under the proverbial rug. + +But looking at your past and saying you have no regrets is crazy. It means you're either, a) perfect or b) incapable of recognizing (and therefore learning) from your mistakes. Neither of which are good things. + +Admitting mistakes is admitting that not all forward movement in time is in fact progress, some of it might consist of dead ends and blind alleys full of unused banjos and broken mandolins. Some of it might even be regress. Some of our stuff might be shit. Still, getting rid of stuff is nothing so much as not just admitting, but directly confronting, your mistakes. And then dumping it all at the thrift store. + +Which is of course bullshit. All of it, the progress, the lack of mistakes, the stuff. The shit. All of it, bullshit. + +I got regrets; lordy do I have some regrets. Particularly when it comes to stuff I have purchased. I didn't buy the aforementioned banjos, but I did buy some dumb shit over the years. Books I could have checked out for free, electronic gadgets I never needed and barely used, kitchen crap no one needs. I really should have known better. I *do* know better. And still I succumbed. + +I make mistakes. I got regrets. I got too much stuff that turned out to be shit. But now it's all gone. Now I have catharsis and perhaps even a tad of personal insight, though that could just be more bullshit, hard to say for sure. + +At first it didn't bother me that much to get rid of my mistakes because hey, we have eBay and you can make some decent cash for the strangest stuff. Like [old 8 track players][2]. Or sleeping bags you never used. But at some point I stopped being amazed by how much money I was able to get on eBay and started thinking more about how much I had spent on shit in the first place. How much money I had spent on stuff which at the time seemed like a good idea, but turned out to mean next to nothing to me and was probably (deep down) motivated by some weird subconscious set of culturally handed down ideals I'm not about to try and parse out. + +What I do know if that all of it was a waste. It was all a bunch of shit. And I regret it. Not because I want the money back, but because I can never get the life energy that went into getting the money back. I'd like to have that back, or to have at least channeled it into something that would have paid more dividends in the future, which is to say now. + +Which is not to say that I'm not grateful that I can at least get something for it. Thanks eBay. Plenty of stuff though -- typically the most expensive, most digital stuff -- is pretty much worthless. The $1200 TV from 2009? Sold for $40. IPod I bought for almost $400 just before I went traveling in 2006? Selling for less than the price of shipping it it to the buyer. So yeah, I have regrets. I also have a new appreciation for buying last year's model used. + +I ended up keeping the iPod. It's my new talisman to protect me from myself. It also does a fine job of playing music. Oddly enough for an Apple product, it still works after all these years. Even the battery is still good, though I put an extra 12V plug in the cab area of the bus just in case. + + +It seems fitting to launch a new trip, just over ten years after the last one, with an artifact or two shared between them. And it sounds just as good as it ever did. Better even since I have some nicer headphones now. And yeah, I've played that Grant Lee Buffalo song with the banjo intro a time or two to reminisce. Every time I catch myself thinking, *I should really learn to play the banjo....* + +[2]: /jrnl/2015/10/8-track-gorilla diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/11/halloween.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/11/halloween.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3fc99cf --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/11/halloween.html @@ -0,0 +1,374 @@ + + + + + Halloween - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Halloween

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Every Halloween I complain about how hot it is. I don’t actually recall this, but my wife does and reviewing some pictures from the last four years reveal that jackets have not been worn on Halloween in recent times. Photos from 2002, however, show plenty of jackets in evidence. Something to think about. This is why the kids carved pumpkins in their underwear.

    +
    + + + Carving pumpkins photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + Pumpkin race photographed by luxagraf + + + + +
    + + Hugs photographed by luxagraf +
    “They’re just so pretty I want to hug them”
    +
    + + +     + + + + Pumpkin admiration photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    I suspect this mis-memory of cold Halloweens is because I grew up in the Los Angeles area and always desperately wanted it to be cold for Halloween, but of course it never was. I finally get somewhere that it does actually get cold sometimes and I project Halloween into that world.

    +

    Unsurprisingly, for my wife anyway, it was hot on Halloween again this year.

    +

    That did not stop our peacock, mouse and shirtless-peacock-owl-creature from taking the streets by storm.

    +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Two weeks later though it’s dipping down to the mid 30s at night and I still haven’t turned on the heat1. Our house is so well insulated that as long as it hits 70 during the day we’re fine without heat. We do some baking, make all day soups and roasts that heat the house while they cook. The way your grandmother used to.

    +

    We won’t have heat in the bus so we may as well toughen up a bit while we can. And we do, until the first cloudy day that doesn’t crest the 60 degree mark. I give in and call the gas company, but it’s five days before they can come out. We warm up using a borrowed space heater.

    +

    Then a couple days later it’s back to hot. The Salvation Army bell ringer is dripping sweating standing five feet from the air conditioned interior of Bells Grocery and I seriously consider calling the gas company to say, “forget it”. Cold feels more like a novelty around here with every passing year. Sometimes I think we should revel in it, make sure we have strong memories of it. But of course we have a house to sell and not everyone thinks the way I do — so on it goes.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      Since the only gas in our house is the heater it’s cheaper to shut it down for the 9 months we don’t need it then it is to pay the “base” charge and taxes for 9 months. ↩

      +
      2. +
    +
    +
    +
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    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +

    Sorry, comments have been disabled for this post.

    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/11/halloween.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/11/halloween.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..80fd7a6 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/11/halloween.txt @@ -0,0 +1,36 @@ +Halloween +========= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 14 November 2016 + +Every Halloween I complain about how hot it is. I don't actually recall this, but my wife does and reviewing some pictures from the last four years reveal that jackets have not been worn on Halloween in recent times. Photos from 2002, however, show plenty of jackets in evidence. Something to think about. This is why the kids carved pumpkins in their underwear. + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +I suspect this mis-memory of cold Halloweens is because I grew up in the Los Angeles area and always desperately wanted it to be cold for Halloween, but of course it never was. I finally get somewhere that it does actually get cold sometimes and I project Halloween into that world. + +Unsurprisingly, for my wife anyway, it was hot on Halloween again this year. + +That did not stop our peacock, mouse and shirtless-peacock-owl-creature from taking the streets by storm. + + + + + + +Two weeks later though it's dipping down to the mid 30s at night and I still haven't turned on the heat[^1]. Our house is so well insulated that as long as it hits 70 during the day we're fine without heat. We do some baking, make all day soups and roasts that heat the house while they cook. The way your grandmother used to. + +We won't have heat in the bus so we may as well toughen up a bit while we can. And we do, until the first cloudy day that doesn't crest the 60 degree mark. I give in and call the gas company, but it's five days before they can come out. We warm up using a borrowed space heater. + +Then a couple days later it's back to hot. The Salvation Army bell ringer is dripping sweating standing five feet from the air conditioned interior of Bells Grocery and I seriously consider calling the gas company to say, "forget it". Cold feels more like a novelty around here with every passing year. Sometimes I think we should revel in it, make sure we have strong memories of it. But of course we have a house to sell and not everyone thinks the way I do -- so on it goes. + +[^1]: Since the only gas in our house is the heater it's cheaper to shut it down for the 9 months we don't need it then it is to pay the "base" charge and taxes for 9 months. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/11/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/11/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..983c51a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/11/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,107 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: November 2016

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/11/nothing-finished-nothing-perfect.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/11/nothing-finished-nothing-perfect.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a36c380 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/11/nothing-finished-nothing-perfect.html @@ -0,0 +1,401 @@ + + + + + Nothing Is Finished, Nothing Is Perfect - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Nothing is Finished, Nothing is Perfect

    + +
    +
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    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    If you zoom out far enough pretty much everything looks absurd. It’s a handy way to reduce stress. Worried about the future? Think about how you would explain your worries to an alien visitor. You’d have to start the very beginning, explain the entire structure of life on earth and how you fit into it. By the end I’d be willing to bet you’ll feel a little better. That maybe it isn’t a big of a deal as you think.

    +

    Perspective can be the salve to thy sores, to paraphrase Milton.

    +

    I’ve been thinking about perspective and about what the Japanese call Wabi-Sabi a lot lately. Wabi-Sabi has a many different aspects to it, many of which are deeply entwined in Japanese culture in ways that an outsider like me is unlikely to ever fully appreciate, but the description I encountered, which has stuck with me is the idea that Wabi-Sabi means “nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect.”1

    +
    + + Iraqi restaurant interior Paris photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    A dozen years ago this week I was at an Iraqi restaurant in Paris. It was a tiny place near the cross roads of two very forgettable avenues, an unassuming door, a small menu board of the kind you see dozens of on nearly every block. I have no recollection of what drew us in, maybe just hunger. There were only four tables, a low ceiling, rock walls and heavy wooden chair and tables. The only people in it were the owner and his wife. To this day I would call it as the best meal of my life. The next morning I was due to get on a plain at Charles De Gaulle and disappear into the Indian subcontinent. I recorded nothing of the day in my journal, nothing of the meal even, though I remember every detail. There is an entry on this site that mentions it, but I haven’t reread it because I have realized it doesn’t matter what I thought.

    +

    Whatever I might have thought about that night at the time — and I did have the sense that it was an important moment in my life even at the time — I lacked the perspective to understand it then.

    +

    That was the beginning of the journey, that meal is where, for me anyway, a trajectory began that is still taking shape, there was something in that meal, something about eating such amazing food from a country that the country I came from was about to invade and attempt to destroy, something about stumbling through my terrible French, my even worse Arabic and somehow still managing to convey that the food was amazing, that the wine was the best I’ve ever had.

    +

    That meal that night was not an awakening so much as a realization that it is possible to duck the politics of the world, to side step the divisions created by the power brokers, the would-be malignant overlords and connect as human beings do, as they always have, by eating together, by talking, by drinking, by walking together down the street, by being human, because life is joy and wonder and love and food and drink and walking. Everything else is just the static background noise of existence.

    +

    All the beliefs, all that religions, all the politics, all the attempts to divide are doomed to fail because they fly in the face of the fundamental truth that everyone knows, no matter how hard we sometimes seek to avoid it — that the universe is incalculably immense, goes on forever and we are so small in it as to hardly be of it at all and yet here we are, able to look around, to appreciate the lap of the sea on the shore, the clatter of palm fronds, the whistle of wind in pines, the soft rain, the driving storm, the inhospitable mountains that welcome us home anyway. I don’t know why we’re here and neither do you, let’s have a meal, maybe a drink if you like and we’ll be friends.

    +
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    +
      +
    1. +

      from Richard R. Powell’s book Wabi Sabi Simple. ↩

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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/11/nothing-finished-nothing-perfect.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/11/nothing-finished-nothing-perfect.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f77c2da --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/11/nothing-finished-nothing-perfect.txt @@ -0,0 +1,26 @@ +Nothing is Finished, Nothing is Perfect +======================================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 20 November 2016 + +If you zoom out far enough pretty much everything looks absurd. It's a handy way to reduce stress. Worried about the future? Think about how you would explain your worries to an alien visitor. You'd have to start the very beginning, explain the entire structure of life on earth and how you fit into it. By the end I'd be willing to bet you'll feel a little better. That maybe it isn't a big of a deal as you think. + +Perspective can be the salve to thy sores, to paraphrase Milton. + +I've been thinking about perspective and about what the Japanese call Wabi-Sabi a lot lately. Wabi-Sabi has a many different aspects to it, many of which are deeply entwined in Japanese culture in ways that an outsider like me is unlikely to ever fully appreciate, but the description I encountered, which has stuck with me is the idea that Wabi-Sabi means "nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect."[^1] + + + +A dozen years ago this week I was at an Iraqi restaurant in Paris. It was a tiny place near the cross roads of two very forgettable avenues, an unassuming door, a small menu board of the kind you see dozens of on nearly every block. I have no recollection of what drew us in, maybe just hunger. There were only four tables, a low ceiling, rock walls and heavy wooden chair and tables. The only people in it were the owner and his wife. To this day I would call it as the best meal of my life. The next morning I was due to get on a plain at Charles De Gaulle and disappear into the Indian subcontinent. I recorded nothing of the day in my journal, nothing of the meal even, though I remember every detail. There is an entry on this site that mentions it, but I haven't reread it because I have realized it doesn't matter what I thought. + +Whatever I might have thought about that night at the time -- and I did have the sense that it was an important moment in my life even at the time -- I lacked the perspective to understand it then. + +That was the beginning of the journey, that meal is where, for me anyway, a trajectory began that is still taking shape, there was something in that meal, something about eating such amazing food from a country that the country I came from was about to invade and attempt to destroy, something about stumbling through my terrible French, my even worse Arabic and somehow still managing to convey that the food was amazing, that the wine was the best I've ever had. + +That meal that night was not an awakening so much as a realization that it is possible to duck the politics of the world, to side step the divisions created by the power brokers, the would-be malignant overlords and connect as human beings do, as they always have, by eating together, by talking, by drinking, by walking together down the street, by being human, because life is joy and wonder and love and food and drink and walking. Everything else is just the static background noise of existence. + +All the beliefs, all that religions, all the politics, all the attempts to divide are doomed to fail because they fly in the face of the fundamental truth that everyone knows, no matter how hard we sometimes seek to avoid it -- that the universe is incalculably immense, goes on forever and we are so small in it as to hardly be of it at all and yet here we are, able to look around, to appreciate the lap of the sea on the shore, the clatter of palm fronds, the whistle of wind in pines, the soft rain, the driving storm, the inhospitable mountains that welcome us home anyway. I don't know why we're here and neither do you, let's have a meal, maybe a drink if you like and we'll be friends. + +[^1]: from Richard R. Powell's book Wabi Sabi Simple. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/12/1969-dodge-travco.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/12/1969-dodge-travco.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4440eb6 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/12/1969-dodge-travco.html @@ -0,0 +1,668 @@ + + + + + 1969 Dodge Travco Before - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    1969 Dodge Travco Before

    +

    What’s it like to restore a 50-year-old motorhome?

    +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    To close out the year I thought I’d post some images from all the work that I’ve done on the bus over the last 12 (really 18, but who’s counting) months. It’s not finished yet, so the 1969 Dodge Travco After post will have to wait another month. It’s been over two years and I’ve never written the after post. I did, however, write a little thing about what it’s like for a family of five to live in a 1969 Dodge Travco Motorhome, which you might enjoy.

    +

    Here’s some pictures of how she looked when we got her, along with some of the damage I uncovered and repaired.

    +
    + +
    + + 1969 Dodge Travco photographed by luxagraf +
    The big blue bus as she was when she arrived
    +
    + + + + + + + Front view of 1969 Dodge Travco RV photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + 1969 Dodge Travco photographed by luxagraf + + + + + +
    + + 1969 Dodge Travco interior pre-restoration photographed by luxagraf +
    The only shot I have of the original interior that’s in focus. Just imagine the driver’s seat isn’t there.
    +
    + + + + + + + 1969 Dodge Travco interior pre-restoration photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + 1969 Dodge Travco driver's side cockpit photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + + 1969 Dodge Travco interior pre-restoration photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + 1969 Dodge Travco interior pre-restoration photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    I know what you’re thinking, “hey, that looks pretty good, what is there to restore? Shouldn’t take long right?” Selective photography is why it looks good.

    +

    I started in the cockpit area because it was easiest thing to get at. The damage was pretty minimal too, just rip out the wood, throw away the fiberglass insulation and you’re ready to rebuild.

    +
    + + 1969 Dodge Travco driver's side cockpit damage photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    In fact tearing out the old wood and fiberglass was so easy I went ahead and did the rest. Long sleeves and a mask recommended.

    +
    + + 1969 Dodge Travco interoir removed. photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Once that was done I dug into the actual structural damage. Fortunately there wasn’t that much. It was all water damage, most of which I knew about going in (except for under the water tank beneath the back bed, which was a surprise).

    +

    The window in the kitchen leaked badly and was the source of most water damage in the bus.

    +
    + + 1969 Dodge Travco water damage kitchen window photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    In the back something around the water tank leaked.

    +
    + + 1969 Dodge Travco interior water damage photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It took quite a while to figure out what was leaking in the back and where. In the end several things could have been the culprit, my guess is it was a combination of all of them — the back window seal, the running light anchor screws, and a ding in fiberglass near the taillight. Once I had the kitchen window resealed and all the leaks in the back fixed I patched the floor in both spots with 5/8in marine grade plywood.

    +

    Plywood digression: quite a few people restoring RVs and trailers seem confused about marine grade plywood. It’s not that special, just expensive. Marine grade doesn’t mean it’s sealed or somehow better wood. Marine grade is a technical term for “not quite as shitty as Home Depot plywood”. All it means is that there’s no gaps in among the layers of ply. You still need to seal it. I used some industrial strength deck sealant on the bottom and several layers of paint on the topside.

    +

    Here’s the basic floor repair process:

    +
    + + 1969 Dodge Travco interior water damage photographed by luxagraf + +
    Identify damage.
    +
    + +
    + + 1969 Dodge Travco interior water damage photographed by luxagraf + +
    Remove rotted area.
    +
    + +
    + + 1969 Dodge Travco interior water damage repaired photographed by luxagraf + +
    Fill with marine grade plywood.
    +
    + +

    Rinse and repeat until you’re structurally sound again. Just make sure you’ve stopped all the leaks first.

    +

    Once the leaks had been stopped and the floor was repaired I got to start on the actual fun stuff (to me anyway) — rebuilding the walls and cabinetry. I didn’t take nearly as many photo as I wish I had during the process of rebuilding, but here’s a few random shots of various things.

    +
    + + 1969 Dodge Travco interior restoration photographed by luxagraf + +
    Where possible I left the original wood, all the cabinets and drawers basically. Elsewhere I replaced the blue tinted luan panels with 1/4in birch paneling sealed with a non-toxic floor finish. The insulation is combination of noise damping car insulation and R5 XPS board for a total R value of maybe 12. Better than nothing.
    +
    + +
    + + 1969 Dodge Travco interior restoration photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + 1969 Dodge Travco interior restoration photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + 1969 Dodge Travco interior restoration photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + 1969 Dodge Travco interior restoration photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    For the most part I tried to keep everything the way it was. I did add a few things here and there though, most noticeably the cabinets above the windows, which I built in part for the storage and in part to make it easier to do the ceiling/wall junction by, well, covering it up.

    +
    + + + + photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + 1969 Dodge Travco interior restoration photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    And finally, here’s a few more up-to-date images from about a month ago.

    +
    + + + 1969 Dodge Travco interior photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + 1969 Dodge Travco interior restoration photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + 1969 Dodge Travco interior restoration photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    There’s still a few things to do, like reupholster the seats, install the floor, and install a water tank, but she’s very close. Close enough that I’d hit the road as soon as the floor goes in (next week if I have the time) were it not for the whole need-to-sell-our-house thing. Next year.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      That’s RV restoration time. To calculate that value in the actual time that most of you live in, just multiply by 2. Or 3. ↩

      +
      2. +
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    4 Comments

    + + + + + + +
    + +
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    + Drew + January 19, 2017 at 1:48 p.m. +
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    + +

    Please tell me you kept the Elvis picture and tell him goodnight every night you fall asleep! I cant wait to read more.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + January 19, 2017 at 4:15 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @drew-

    +

    Thought about putting him in the bathroom. I think Elvis paintings should always be over the toilet. Respect.

    +

    But Elvis fell victim to one our ‘put everything on eBay’ purges.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Uncle Ron + March 25, 2017 at 9:32 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Took me a coon age to find u guys Nice job !!! When do you plan to hit the road? I always wanted to convert a old time milk truck. Have fun, I will try to pay attention to where your at.

    + +
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    + +
    + +
    + DAVID + November 23, 2018 at 12:53 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    I HAVE 1969 1 OWNER 33,000 MI MDL 270 IT WAS PURCHASED IN INGLEWOOD CA.1969,DROVE 4 5 VACATION’S & PARKED IN A BARN, NO REALLY.THE MAN & WOMAN WERE IN THEIR 90s WHEN I BOUGHT IT.THEY NEVER DROVE IT AGAIN AFTER 1980.318cu.(REBUILT 727 OVERDRIVE,NOT INSTALLED)WHEN I INSTALL IT & CLEAN IT UP (THE STOVE HAS NEVER BEEN USED)THE BATHROOM WITH SHOWER LOOK’S NEW.EVERTHING WORK’S WHEN I FINISH $12,000

    + +
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/12/1969-dodge-travco.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/12/1969-dodge-travco.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1faa179 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/12/1969-dodge-travco.txt @@ -0,0 +1,94 @@ +1969 Dodge Travco Before +======================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 31 December 2016 + +To close out the year I thought I'd post some images from all the work that I've done on the bus over the last 12 (really 18, but who's counting) months. It's not finished yet, so the *1969 Dodge Travco After* post will have to wait another month. It's been over two years and I've never written the after post. I did, however, write a little thing about [what it's like for a family of five to live in a 1969 Dodge Travco Motorhome](/1969-dodge-travco-motorhome), which you might enjoy. + +Here's some pictures of how she looked when we got her, along with some of the damage I uncovered and repaired. + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + +I know what you're thinking, "hey, that looks pretty good, what is there to restore? Shouldn't take long right?" Selective photography is why it looks good. + + I started in the cockpit area because it was easiest thing to get at. The damage was pretty minimal too, just rip out the wood, throw away the fiberglass insulation and you're ready to rebuild. + + + +In fact tearing out the old wood and fiberglass was so easy I went ahead and did the rest. Long sleeves and a mask recommended. + + + +Once that was done I dug into the actual structural damage. Fortunately there wasn't that much. It was all water damage, most of which I knew about going in (except for under the water tank beneath the back bed, which was a surprise). + +The window in the kitchen leaked badly and was the source of most water damage in the bus. + + + +In the back something around the water tank leaked. + + + +It took quite a while to figure out what was leaking in the back and where. In the end several things could have been the culprit, my guess is it was a combination of all of them -- the back window seal, the running light anchor screws, and a ding in fiberglass near the taillight. Once I had the kitchen window resealed and all the leaks in the back fixed I patched the floor in both spots with 5/8in marine grade plywood. + +Plywood digression: quite a few people restoring RVs and trailers seem confused about marine grade plywood. It's not that special, just expensive. Marine grade doesn't mean it's sealed or somehow better wood. Marine grade is a technical term for "not quite as shitty as Home Depot plywood". All it means is that there's no gaps in among the layers of ply. You still need to seal it. I used some industrial strength deck sealant on the bottom and several layers of paint on the topside. + +Here's the basic floor repair process: + + + + + + + +Rinse and repeat until you're structurally sound again. Just make sure you've stopped all the leaks first. + +Once the leaks had been stopped and the floor was repaired I got to start on the actual fun stuff (to me anyway) -- rebuilding the walls and cabinetry. I didn't take nearly as many photo as I wish I had during the process of rebuilding, but here's a few random shots of various things. + + + + + + + + + +For the most part I tried to keep everything the way it was. I did add a few things here and there though, most noticeably the cabinets above the windows, which I built in part for the storage and in part to make it easier to do the ceiling/wall junction by, well, covering it up. + +
    + + + + +
    + +And finally, here's a few more up-to-date images from about a month ago. + +
    + + + + + +
    + +There's still a few things to do, like reupholster the seats, install the floor, and install a water tank, but she's very close. Close enough that I'd hit the road as soon as the floor goes in (next week if I have the time) were it not for the whole need-to-sell-our-house thing. Next year. + +[^1]: That's RV restoration time. To calculate that value in the actual time that most of you live in, just multiply by 2. Or 3. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/12/happy-birthday-sun.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/12/happy-birthday-sun.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fd54b8d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/12/happy-birthday-sun.html @@ -0,0 +1,398 @@ + + + + + Happy Birthday, Sun - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Happy Birthday, Sun

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    My son and I share a birthday, separated by 40 years. The next day, today, the sun has its own birthday of sorts. Death and rebirth in one. The sun is talented like that.

    +

    As anyone with a birthday around now can tell you, the plethora of religious holidays nearby largely overshadow your own. Which is fine by me. As far as I can tell, Elliott doesn’t have a strong opinion about it all yet, though he currently very much dislikes being the center of attention, which makes birthdays perhaps a bit unsettling. I can relate.

    +

    Whatever the case our birthdays, combined with the Solstice the next day make for a nice little string of family celebrations. We hang decorations, enjoy a feast of sorts and celebrate the rekindling of light and hope at the depth of winter darkness. Or something like that.

    +
    + + candlelight dinner Alban Arthuan photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It worked out nicely this year that the morning of the Solstice ice rimmed the world and temperatures dipped will below freezing. Winter is here.

    +
    + + frost on leaves, winter solstice morning photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Of course if you look closely at the photo above you’ll notice we’re not exactly traditionalists about our solstice celebration. Soy sauce and chili garlic paste are not your typical Celtic accompaniments. Yule pigs being in short supply in our yard just now, we went for Momofuko’s Bo Ssam pork with some sticky rice and accompaniments. Next year I’ll make some Wassail, this year I had to make do with some beer lao dark. Sorry any Celtic forebearers, I like my Alban Arthuan with a little Southeast Asian flavor.

    +

    I’ve always found it a little curious that so many people, myself included, who don’t otherwise practice the Christian faith, choose to celebrate Christmas. Winter solstice makes far more sense as a holiday to latch onto if you want an excuse to celebrate this time of year. You don’t need to be religious at all to recognize that the earth does indeed wobble a bit, which means that here in the northern hemisphere the longest night of the year happens to fall on, for simplicity’s sake, December 21. Seems like as good a reason as any to celebrate. Naturally there’s more to it if you want there to be, but that’s up to you.

    +

    A happy solstice to all.

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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/12/happy-birthday-sun.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/12/happy-birthday-sun.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c4416b0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/12/happy-birthday-sun.txt @@ -0,0 +1,24 @@ +Happy Birthday, Sun +=================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 21 December 2016 + +My son and I share a birthday, separated by 40 years. The next day, today, the sun has its own birthday of sorts. Death and rebirth in one. The sun is talented like that. + +As anyone with a birthday around now can tell you, the plethora of religious holidays nearby largely overshadow your own. Which is fine by me. As far as I can tell, Elliott doesn't have a strong opinion about it all yet, though he currently very much dislikes being the center of attention, which makes birthdays perhaps a bit unsettling. I can relate. + +Whatever the case our birthdays, combined with the Solstice the next day make for a nice little string of family celebrations. We hang decorations, enjoy a feast of sorts and celebrate the rekindling of light and hope at the depth of winter darkness. Or something like that. + + + +It worked out nicely this year that the morning of the Solstice ice rimmed the world and temperatures dipped will below freezing. Winter is here. + + + +Of course if you look closely at the photo above you'll notice we're not exactly traditionalists about our solstice celebration. Soy sauce and chili garlic paste are not your typical Celtic accompaniments. Yule pigs being in short supply in our yard just now, we went for Momofuko's Bo Ssam pork with some sticky rice and accompaniments. Next year I'll make some Wassail, this year I had to make do with some beer lao dark. Sorry any Celtic forebearers, I like my Alban Arthuan with a little Southeast Asian flavor. + +I've always found it a little curious that so many people, myself included, who don’t otherwise practice the Christian faith, choose to celebrate Christmas. Winter solstice makes far more sense as a holiday to latch onto if you want an excuse to celebrate this time of year. You don't need to be religious at all to recognize that the earth does indeed wobble a bit, which means that here in the northern hemisphere the longest night of the year happens to fall on, for simplicity's sake, December 21. Seems like as good a reason as any to celebrate. Naturally there's more to it if you want there to be, but that's up to you. + +A happy solstice to all. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/12/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/12/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a2a01f1 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/12/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,110 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: December 2016

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/12/waiting-sun.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/12/waiting-sun.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..803d974 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/12/waiting-sun.html @@ -0,0 +1,504 @@ + + + + + Waiting For The Sun - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Waiting for the Sun

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    November came and went. The ginko down the street buried the still green grass in a blanket of brilliant yellow. The maples at the park had a banner year of blood red leaves. Even the oaks seemed brighter than usual.

    +
    + + + + Yellow Ginko leaves on grass photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + single yellow ginko leaf close-up photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Yellow Ginko leaves hanging from branches photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    We cleaned the house for showings. I knocked little items off the bus to do list. We took a trip to Augusta, GA. I inadvertently taught my son to cook.

    +

    We keep busy.

    +

    I’ve never been a big fan of waiting. I should preface that by saying that idling is not waiting. Waiting is the opposite of living. Waiting never ends. You’ll always be waiting. Waiting for things to change. Waiting for things to get better. Waiting for your proverbial ship to come in. Waiting is an alternative to living, a safe alternative that doesn’t require any of the risk and uncertainty and pain of actually living.

    +

    The secret to getting yourself out of this sort of deferred life thinking is realizing that there is nothing to wait for; there is only the living you’re not paying attention to right now. I don’t want to live like that, waiting for some imagined future. That’s not living. I want to live.

    +

    The days have turned cold and gray around these parts. Clouds settle in with a very Portland-esque determination about them. The world is moving into winter, you can see it, you can feel it. The blue birds are passing through, flashes of rusty red and blue feathers dart between the leafless branched of trees already settled into their long winter rest. Most other birds have gone to points south. Only the hardiest remain, the Carolina chickadees, the tufted titmouse, the occasional downy woodpecker.

    +
    + + Chickadees on the bird feeder photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    None of the birds are waiting. Neither are the squirrels constantly scurrying around the yard. I can’t tell if they’re already digging up nuts or still stashing more away. But it’s clear they’re not waiting. There is nothing to wait for, there’s only today and the increasing need for food that the winter cold brings. Though I think that’s a far bleaker way to put it than the birds would could they talk, at least judging by the playfulness they same to have in spite of the cold. Perhaps even because of it. After all, everything else is gone, which means less competition, fewer hawks in the sky. Perhaps winter is the best time to be a chickadee.

    +
    + + +
    + + interior dashboard and console of 1969 dodge travco photographed by luxagraf +
    Needs a coat of paint.
    +
    + + + + +
    + + black walnut heart in 1969 Dodge Travco photographed by luxagraf +
    Finishing touches
    +
    + + +     +
    + +

    Winter is definitely not the best time to work on a 1969 Dodge Travco though. There’s no heater, not in the dash, not in the cabin. There is, however, a couch now, and it converts to a bunk bed. Okay, I still need to order the foam for the couch cushion and get the whole thing recovered, but I finally have a place to sleep at least. I’ve also finished up the kitchen, installed an entirely new propane system and slowly, meticulously sanded down the dash in preparation for a fresh coat of paint (or possible gel coat, still undecided).

    +
    + +
    + + 1969 Dodge travco couch bed in bunk bed position photographed by luxagraf +
    If you’re thinking, wow, his feet are going to be hanging off in the kitchen when he sleeps *cough* you’re right.
    +
    + + + + + + + 1969 Dodge Travco interior photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + 1969 Dodge travco couch bed in couch position photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    The long winter nights mean less working time in the bus though. We seem to spend more time cooking in the winter. My daughters have been helping cook since they were around two. However, because they spend so much time in their own world, they don’t always want to help cook. Elliott on the other hand is sometimes excluded from the world of his sisters and therefore spends more time in the kitchen than they do.

    +

    One night he pulled a chair up to the stove and I let him help with some risotto. Now every meal he’s in the kitchen, dragging his chair up to stove. “Me, cook.” This morning he cooked the sausage. I put it in the pan and broke it up so it was easier to stir, but he did the rest and told me when it was done. I told him when it wasn’t pink anymore it was done. Then he scoops a few bites sausage out of the pan and onto the cutting board to cool.

    +
    +
    + +
    + + + + photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    Of course nothing pulls the girls out of their own little world like noticing that someone else has carved out their own little world, especially if that someone is their bother. So I end up starting a few pans of food and turning them over to the kids while I drink coffee and stare out the window at the chickadees, wondering when the warmer weather will arrive.

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/12/waiting-sun.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/12/waiting-sun.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..87a213e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/12/waiting-sun.txt @@ -0,0 +1,68 @@ +Waiting for the Sun +=================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 19 December 2016 + +November came and went. The ginko down the street buried the still green grass in a blanket of brilliant yellow. The maples at the park had a banner year of blood red leaves. Even the oaks seemed brighter than usual. + +
    + + + + + +
    + +We cleaned the house for showings. I knocked little items off the bus to do list. We took a trip to Augusta, GA. I inadvertently taught my son to cook. + +We keep busy. + +I've never been a big fan of waiting. I should preface that by saying that idling is not waiting. Waiting is the opposite of living. Waiting never ends. You'll always be waiting. Waiting for things to change. Waiting for things to get better. Waiting for your proverbial ship to come in. Waiting is an alternative to living, a safe alternative that doesn't require any of the risk and uncertainty and pain of actually living. + +The secret to getting yourself out of this sort of deferred life thinking is realizing that there is nothing to wait for; there is only the living you're not paying attention to right now. I don't want to live like that, waiting for some imagined future. That's not living. I want to live. + +The days have turned cold and gray around these parts. Clouds settle in with a very Portland-esque determination about them. The world is moving into winter, you can see it, you can feel it. The blue birds are passing through, flashes of rusty red and blue feathers dart between the leafless branched of trees already settled into their long winter rest. Most other birds have gone to points south. Only the hardiest remain, the Carolina chickadees, the tufted titmouse, the occasional downy woodpecker. + + + +None of the birds are waiting. Neither are the squirrels constantly scurrying around the yard. I can't tell if they're already digging up nuts or still stashing more away. But it's clear they're not waiting. There is nothing to wait for, there's only today and the increasing need for food that the winter cold brings. Though I think that's a far bleaker way to put it than the birds would could they talk, at least judging by the playfulness they same to have in spite of the cold. Perhaps even because of it. After all, everything else is gone, which means less competition, fewer hawks in the sky. Perhaps winter is the best time to be a chickadee. + +
    + + + + +
    + +Winter is definitely not the best time to work on a 1969 Dodge Travco though. There's no heater, not in the dash, not in the cabin. There is, however, a couch now, and it converts to a bunk bed. Okay, I still need to order the foam for the couch cushion and get the whole thing recovered, but I finally have a place to sleep at least. I've also finished up the kitchen, installed an entirely new propane system and slowly, meticulously sanded down the dash in preparation for a fresh coat of paint (or possible gel coat, still undecided). + +
    + + + + + +
    + +The long winter nights mean less working time in the bus though. We seem to spend more time cooking in the winter. My daughters have been helping cook since they were around two. However, because they spend so much time in their own world, they don't always *want* to help cook. Elliott on the other hand is sometimes excluded from the world of his sisters and therefore spends more time in the kitchen than they do. + +One night he pulled a chair up to the stove and I let him help with some risotto. Now every meal he's in the kitchen, dragging his chair up to stove. "Me, cook." This morning he cooked the sausage. I put it in the pan and broke it up so it was easier to stir, but he did the rest and told me when it was done. I told him when it wasn't pink anymore it was done. Then he scoops a few bites sausage out of the pan and onto the cutting board to cool. + + +
    +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + +Of course nothing pulls the girls out of their own little world like noticing that someone else has carved out their own little world, especially if that someone is their bother. So I end up starting a few pans of food and turning them over to the kids while I drink coffee and stare out the window at the chickadees, wondering when the warmer weather will arrive. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d20d936 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2016/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,204 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    2016, on luxagraf

    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/01/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/01/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..00e2af0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/01/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,104 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: January 2017

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/01/wilds-of-winder.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/01/wilds-of-winder.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2a97038 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/01/wilds-of-winder.html @@ -0,0 +1,401 @@ + + + + + The Wilds Of Winder - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The Wilds of Winder

    + +
    +
    +

    Fort Yargo State Park, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    A couple weeks back we thought we had a buyer for the house. It fell through at the last minute, but it was close enough that we were all getting excited at the prospect of actually hitting the road. And then nothing.

    +

    To make up for that we decided it was time to do something of an exploratory trip, something to help us discover all the little things we needed to do to get everything livable in the bus.

    +

    The house fiasco happened to coincide with a few days of warm weather so I packed up the bus and we hit the road for a short trip out to Fort Yargo State Park, a lake that sits, more or less, in downtown Winder, about 30 minutes from our house.

    +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Surprisingly though Fort Yargo ends up feeling like you’re more out in nature than you really are. And it worked out well to camp ten minutes from a tasty Laotian restaurant since I haven’t actually hooked up the propane system yet and cooking consists of balancing a Coleman stove atop the Travco’s actual stove. It worked well enough for breakfast. On the whole it was a bit like tent camping in a 27ft fiberglass shell. The bus ran well, as well as I expected on the way out. Right as we pulled into the campground it started to hesitate when I accelerated, but I managed to get it parked reasonably level and pushed that out my mind for a couple of days.

    +
    + + + Breakfast in 1969 Dodge Travco photographed by luxagraf + + + + + +
    + + Breakfast in 1969 Dodge Travco photographed by luxagraf +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + 1969 Dodge Travco kitchen photographed by luxagraf +
    Like tent camping inside an RV.
    +
    + + +     +
    + +

    We pulled in around 2 in the afternoon and the ranger at the visitor center apologized for the fact that the lake was in the process of being drained. I didn’t say anything but I was thinking, you just created possibly the largest mud flat my kids are ever going to see and you’re apologizing?

    +
    + + 1969 Dodge Travco at Fort Yargo State Park photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We found a spot that backed up along what would have been a little inlet, but was currently just a sandy, muddy ravine. About two minutes after the engine shut off everyone was in the mud.

    +
    + + + boy playing in muddy creek, fort yargo state park photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + Boy eating fresh water clams photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + boy playing in the mud photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + Girl photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    We had intended to only stay one night, but Fort Yargo was running a two nights for the price of one special, so, why not?

    +

    As a test run for full time living it was an interesting trip. There’s plenty of practical things we need to do, figure out systems that help us live comfortably in a small space. But beyond that it’s difficult to explain what it’s like to wake up and go outside. This sounds incredibly mundane, but for me it’s not. To wake up and head outside first thing sets a kind of tone for the day that’s very different. I feel part of the natural world in way that I just don’t at home.

    +

    Not everything was wonderful though. The first night we were there we had a rough time getting everyone to bed. It’s hard to fall asleep when everything is new and different and exciting. But by the second night it had all become the new (very wonderful) normal and the kids were asleep by their usual bed time.

    +

    We sat up by the campfire for a while, but if you look closely at the breakfast images above, you’ll noticed that it’s still dark out. In the end we rarely stay up more than an hour or two later than the kids.

    +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    Not actually bedtime.
    +
    + +
    + + campfire photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + 1969 Dodge Travco by firelight photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Friday afternoon we realized it was a long weekend. The campground filled up in a hurry and we decided to pack it in and head home the next day.

    +

    The stalling while accelerating thing was forced out of the back of my mind and into the forefront again. Things started off well enough. A bit of sputtering as we headed out of the campground, but it could have been that the engine wasn’t completely warm. Then headed through downtown Winder it died at a stoplight, then another. Then I pulled off into a nice big parking lot where I spent some quality time messing with the carburetor.

    +

    Eventually I gave up and called Progressive roadside assistance, which was a mistake. I gave up in part because I wanted to test Progressive and man did it fail. Catastrophically failed. Do not under any circumstances buy Progressive roadside assistance. Progressive refused to tow to the mechanic I wanted and instead wanted to tow me to a Ford dealership that didn’t have the slightest idea how to work on a Dodge RV. I know because I called them1. What a bucket of fail Progressive turned out to be. Really hope their insurance is better or we’re screwed if anything ever happens.

    +

    Eventually I managed to coax the bus into running and together the bus and I limped home. It turned out… well, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you so I’ll just say I’m not sure how I did it exactly, but I did. Now she’s headed in for a new carb, exhaust work and a new muffler. After that, I think it’ll be time to get back on the road, whether the house is sold or not.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      Needless to say I have since cancelled Progressive roadside assistance. After asking around on some RV forums I decided to go with AAA Premier RV assistance. It ain’t cheap, but it lets me pick the mechanic I want and that could potentially save thousands by stopping some idiot from messing up the bus. To me that’s well worth the extra money. ↩

      +
      2. +
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    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +

    Sorry, comments have been disabled for this post.

    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/01/wilds-of-winder.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/01/wilds-of-winder.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..91b55c1 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/01/wilds-of-winder.txt @@ -0,0 +1,65 @@ +The Wilds of Winder +=================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 15 January 2017 + +A couple weeks back we thought we had a buyer for the house. It fell through at the last minute, but it was close enough that we were all getting excited at the prospect of actually hitting the road. And then nothing. + +To make up for that we decided it was time to do something of an exploratory trip, something to help us discover all the little things we needed to do to get everything livable in the bus. + +The house fiasco happened to coincide with a few days of warm weather so I packed up the bus and we hit the road for a short trip out to Fort Yargo State Park, a lake that sits, more or less, in downtown Winder, about 30 minutes from our house. + + + +Surprisingly though Fort Yargo ends up feeling like you're more out in nature than you really are. And it worked out well to camp ten minutes from a tasty Laotian restaurant since I haven't actually hooked up the propane system yet and cooking consists of balancing a Coleman stove atop the Travco's actual stove. It worked well enough for breakfast. On the whole it was a bit like tent camping in a 27ft fiberglass shell. The bus ran well, as well as I expected on the way out. Right as we pulled into the campground it started to hesitate when I accelerated, but I managed to get it parked reasonably level and pushed that out my mind for a couple of days. + +
    + + + + + +
    + +We pulled in around 2 in the afternoon and the ranger at the visitor center apologized for the fact that the lake was in the process of being drained. I didn't say anything but I was thinking, *you just created possibly the largest mud flat my kids are ever going to see and you're apologizing?* + + + +We found a spot that backed up along what would have been a little inlet, but was currently just a sandy, muddy ravine. About two minutes after the engine shut off everyone was in the mud. + +
    + + + + + + + + + + +
    + +We had intended to only stay one night, but Fort Yargo was running a two nights for the price of one special, so, why not? + +As a test run for full time living it was an interesting trip. There's plenty of practical things we need to do, figure out systems that help us live comfortably in a small space. But beyond that it's difficult to explain what it's like to wake up and go outside. This sounds incredibly mundane, but for me it's not. To wake up and head outside first thing sets a kind of tone for the day that's very different. I feel part of the natural world in way that I just don't at home. + +Not everything was wonderful though. The first night we were there we had a rough time getting everyone to bed. It's hard to fall asleep when everything is new and different and exciting. But by the second night it had all become the new (very wonderful) normal and the kids were asleep by their usual bed time. + +We sat up by the campfire for a while, but if you look closely at the breakfast images above, you'll noticed that it's still dark out. In the end we rarely stay up more than an hour or two later than the kids. + + + + + +Friday afternoon we realized it was a long weekend. The campground filled up in a hurry and we decided to pack it in and head home the next day. + +The stalling while accelerating thing was forced out of the back of my mind and into the forefront again. Things started off well enough. A bit of sputtering as we headed out of the campground, but it could have been that the engine wasn't completely warm. Then headed through downtown Winder it died at a stoplight, then another. Then I pulled off into a nice big parking lot where I spent some quality time messing with the carburetor. + +Eventually I gave up and called Progressive roadside assistance, which was a mistake. I gave up in part because I wanted to test Progressive and man did it fail. Catastrophically failed. **Do not under any circumstances buy Progressive roadside assistance**. Progressive refused to tow to the mechanic I wanted and instead wanted to tow me to a Ford dealership that didn't have the slightest idea how to work on a Dodge RV. I know because I called them[^1]. What a bucket of fail Progressive turned out to be. Really hope their insurance is better or we're screwed if anything ever happens. + +Eventually I managed to coax the bus into running and together the bus and I limped home. It turned out... well, you wouldn't believe me if I told you so I'll just say I'm not sure how I did it exactly, but I did. Now she's headed in for a new carb, exhaust work and a new muffler. After that, I think it'll be time to get back on the road, whether the house is sold or not. + +[^1]: Needless to say I have since cancelled Progressive roadside assistance. After asking around on some RV forums I decided to go with AAA Premier RV assistance. It ain't cheap, but it lets me pick the mechanic I want and that could potentially save thousands by stopping some idiot from messing up the bus. To me that's well worth the extra money. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/03/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/03/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9458942 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/03/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,107 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: March 2017

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/03/the-mooring-of-starting-out.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/03/the-mooring-of-starting-out.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d431cec --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/03/the-mooring-of-starting-out.html @@ -0,0 +1,423 @@ + + + + + The Mooring Of Starting Out - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The Mooring of Starting Out

    + +
    +
    +

    Watson Mill State Park, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Everything accelerates toward beginnings. But then there’s that moment where things suspend there at the starting line, thin, ephemeral, balanced there with every decision waiting to propel you into the future.

    +

    Or, to put in another way, starting out is like being in that weird moment where Wily E Coyote has merrily run past the edge of the cliff and managed to keep going out of sheer blissful ignorance — until he looks down. Starting out is that moment when you look down and realize the edge of the cliff is well behind you now — you’re on your way down.

    +

    When I did it by myself years ago it was an exhilarating thing I likened to swinging as a child, but I won’t lie, throw three kids and a half still-broken bus in the mix and it’s not really fun or exhilarating; it’s a stressful nightmare. Nothing compared to what millions experience every day, but a long way from those dreams of carefree abandon you imagine you’ll feel. Or, in my case, that you have felt before.

    +

    For the better part of a week we bounced from hotel to in-laws to hotel to in-laws, all while the bus sat at the repair shop waiting on parts, some of which to this day have not arrived (do not get me started on this topic…).

    +
    + + Bus on tow truck photographed by luxagraf + +
    I sincerely hope I never see this again.
    +
    + +

    Still, we did it. The house sold. For the record, we got our full asking price.

    +

    Some where in the middle of packing up ten years worth of accumulated stuff, selling off most of our possessions, negotiating with buyers, oh, and working full time, I managed to finish up the interior of the bus, laying the floor, refinishing the dash, all the trim and countless other little tasks. One day Corrinne called around to find someone to recover the seats and after a few people declined or couldn’t make our deadline we found someone about an hour a way who had a week between two big jobs and was will to take it on. I packed up the seats, drove to Atlanta and worked out the details. A couple days later I dropped off the bus to get the carburetor replaced, electronic ignition and few other odds and ends.

    +

    And then the house sold and we started falling.

    +

    We were forced to confront a problem most of you have not —where do you put your stuff when your home is at the shop? Answer: boxes? We shoved everything in boxes and stuffed them in our minivan, at my in-law’s house and in the storage unit we rented to hold a few items. The remainder we carted from hotel room to hotel room.

    +

    But you know, I’d be lying if I said it was all work and moving. We took time out to have a few last rides in the truck (which we’re selling). Crazy times are also good times to bend the rules a bit, to lighten things up. I’m not saying we did this, because I know what the internet parent police will say, but if we did all ride in the truck at once, using gasp, a single seat belt for three children, theoretically speaking, I bet it would have been fun.

    +
    + + nothing to see here photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We also took a day off somewhere in there to visit a friend’s farm so the kids could drive around in massive tractors. Heck, even Corrinne and I drove the tractors. How often do you get to drive something with a wheel that’s taller than you are?

    +
    + + driving a massive tractor photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Working farms, that is to say, real farms, not those little vegetable patches on ten acres that the hipsters have been buying up, are a healthy reminder that I’ve never really worked a day in my life. Not worked like a farmer does. It’s humbling just to listen to someone tell you about their day to day work on a farm. There are things I dislike about the modern world, but I am frequently thankful that I don’t have to farm.

    +

    Really the worst thing I had to deal with was having a home in the shop. One day I sorta half snapped and had the mechanic just put the thing back together as best he could so we’d have a place to be. So the bus has electronic ignition now at least, still no carburetor though. It ran well enough to get to the tire shop and get new wheels put on, but of course that didn’t go quite as well as planned, the new wheels are different enough that our spare didn’t quite fit. I did get to learn how to use a floor lift though, so not total loss. But I still need to get some longer bolts and get the spare mounted up before we leave.

    +

    But at least we had our home back, which meant we could get out town, stop hemorrhaging money at hotels and restaurants, which we promptly did, decamping to Watson Mill State Park for a week. We still didn’t have working propane or water when we first arrived, but hey, who need luxuries like that when you’ve got camp stoves and water jugs?

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/03/the-mooring-of-starting-out.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/03/the-mooring-of-starting-out.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..98eff5a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/03/the-mooring-of-starting-out.txt @@ -0,0 +1,38 @@ +The Mooring of Starting Out +=========================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Friday, 24 March 2017 + +Everything accelerates toward beginnings. But then there's that moment where things suspend there at the starting line, thin, ephemeral, balanced there with every decision waiting to propel you into the future. + +Or, to put in another way, starting out is like being in that weird moment where Wily E Coyote has merrily run past the edge of the cliff and managed to keep going out of sheer blissful ignorance -- until he looks down. Starting out is that moment when you look down and realize the edge of the cliff is well behind you now -- you're on your way down. + +When I did it by myself years ago it was an exhilarating thing I likened to [swinging as a child](/jrnl/2005/10/twenty-more-minutes-go), but I won't lie, throw three kids and a half still-broken bus in the mix and it's not really fun or exhilarating; it's a stressful nightmare. Nothing compared to what millions experience every day, but a long way from those dreams of carefree abandon you imagine you'll feel. Or, in my case, that you have felt before. + +For the better part of a week we bounced from hotel to in-laws to hotel to in-laws, all while the bus sat at the repair shop waiting on parts, some of which to this day have not arrived (do not get me started on this topic...). + + + +Still, we did it. The house sold. For the record, we got our full asking price. + +Some where in the middle of packing up ten years worth of accumulated stuff, selling off most of our possessions, negotiating with buyers, oh, and working full time, I managed to finish up the interior of the bus, laying the floor, refinishing the dash, all the trim and countless other little tasks. One day Corrinne called around to find someone to recover the seats and after a few people declined or couldn't make our deadline we found someone about an hour a way who had a week between two big jobs and was will to take it on. I packed up the seats, drove to Atlanta and worked out the details. A couple days later I dropped off the bus to get the carburetor replaced, electronic ignition and few other odds and ends. + +And then the house sold and we started falling. + +We were forced to confront a problem most of you have not --where do you put your stuff when your home is at the shop? Answer: boxes? We shoved everything in boxes and stuffed them in our minivan, at my in-law's house and in the storage unit we rented to hold a few items. The remainder we carted from hotel room to hotel room. + +But you know, I'd be lying if I said it was all work and moving. We took time out to have a few last rides in the truck (which we're selling). Crazy times are also good times to bend the rules a bit, to lighten things up. I'm not saying we did this, because I know what the internet parent police will say, but *if* we did all ride in the truck at once, using gasp, a single seat belt for three children, theoretically speaking, I bet it would have been fun. + + + +We also took a day off somewhere in there to visit a friend's farm so the kids could drive around in massive tractors. Heck, even Corrinne and I drove the tractors. How often do you get to drive something with a wheel that's taller than you are? + + + +Working farms, that is to say, real farms, not those little vegetable patches on ten acres that the hipsters have been buying up, are a healthy reminder that I've never really worked a day in my life. Not worked like a farmer does. It's humbling just to listen to someone tell you about their day to day work on a farm. There are things I dislike about the modern world, but I am frequently thankful that I don't have to farm. + +Really the worst thing I had to deal with was having a home in the shop. One day I sorta half snapped and had the mechanic just put the thing back together as best he could so we'd have a place to be. So the bus has electronic ignition now at least, still no carburetor though. It ran well enough to get to the tire shop and get new wheels put on, but of course that didn't go quite as well as planned, the new wheels are different enough that our spare didn't quite fit. I did get to learn how to use a floor lift though, so not total loss. But I still need to get some longer bolts and get the spare mounted up before we leave. + +But at least we had our home back, which meant we could get out town, stop hemorrhaging money at hotels and restaurants, which we promptly did, decamping to Watson Mill State Park for a week. We still didn't have working propane or water when we first arrived, but hey, who need luxuries like that when you've got camp stoves and water jugs? diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/03/watson-mill-bridge.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/03/watson-mill-bridge.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..58c0c51 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/03/watson-mill-bridge.html @@ -0,0 +1,463 @@ + + + + + Watson Mill Bridge - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Watson Mill Bridge

    + +
    +
    +

    Watson Mill State Park, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    While we did get the bus back after nearly two weeks of floating between various hotels and Corrinne’s parents house, we still weren’t quite ready to hit the road. The bus was running much better, but I still wanted to replace the carburetor and get new wheels and tires before we left. Both of those things involved ordering parts and — my least favorite thing — waiting.

    +

    We tried to get back out to Fort Yargo, but the campground was booked up the Friday night we were trying to leave, so we ended up on the other side of Athens at Watson Mill Bridge State Park.

    +
    + + watson mill bridge photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + bridge photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + trees photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It’s a place we’ve been quite a few times for the day, but never overnight. But it has a river for the kids to play in and a small campground that no one seems to use — we slid in around dinner time on a Friday and there were plenty of spots still available after we parked.

    +
    + + chopping fire wood photographed by luxagraf + +
    Chopping fire wood the old fashioned way.
    +
    + +

    The first night was a continuation of our “tent camping in an RV” routine. We still had no city water lines, no hot water tank and no propane inside the bus. I spent the next couple of days taking care of all that and quite a few other projects on the list. By the time we left a week later the bus was actually something like a real RV, with cushy features like running water (still just cold) and a working stove (the gas pressure is a bit low for my tastes, haven’t fully figured that one out, love to hear ideas beyond mine — that the regulator is a cheap piece of crap).

    +
    + + half finished bus photographed by luxagraf + +
    Seats? We don’t need no stinking seats.
    +
    + +
    + + Livy in half finished bus photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + unicorn helmet photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Not that all we did was work. There was a river to play in after all. And a massive covered bridge to walk through. There were not, unfortunately, any paddle boats though. They’re apparently just too stuck in the mud for anyone to bother getting rid of them.

    +
    + + Livy Apple photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + lilah watching photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    There is however, s stretch of rock to the far side of the river, about 50 yards down from the falls where you can, if your butt is up for it, slide down slick mossy granite at speed that, toward the end, becomes moderately alarming. The impact at the bottom is jarring, but it’s a fun ride and jarring or no, I couldn’t say no to the kids so up and down we went well past the point where my butt was sore.

    +

    After a few days the wheels and tires were in and I drove into town and got rid of the split ring rims that have served the bus since 1969. I have mixed feelings about it. On one hand I hate fixing things that aren’t broken and the rims were technically not broken. However, it’s nearly impossible to get tires for them in this country and our current plans don’t have us in Mexico until at least a year from now, which is further than I wanted to go given the dry rot on the old tires.

    +
    + + toy trucks photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    On the plus side, the 195 R19.5 tires I put on add about 2-3 inches of more tread to every wheel and I absolutely feel it. The ride is rougher with the radials, but much more solid with the bus feeling more like it’s stuck the road and significantly less floaty. And that’s with the horribly blown out shocks we’ve got, I can’t wait to see how it rides with a nice fresh set of shocks too.

    +

    The carburetor story is significantly shorter and less happy. I got sick of calling to see if it had come in. No one at the shop ever called me and so we just blew it off. The current carb, while after market and basically a piece of crap, does, technically, nevertheless work. Most of the time anyway.

    +

    We were frustrated with the delays and tired of hanging around for empty false promises, so after a couple nights in a hotel in Athens, during one of which I nearly lost my mind stressing out about the condition of the engine and transmission, we decided to say screw it, let’s hit the road and figure it out as we go. And so we did.

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/03/watson-mill-bridge.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/03/watson-mill-bridge.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..98f06e4 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/03/watson-mill-bridge.txt @@ -0,0 +1,45 @@ +Watson Mill Bridge +================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 30 March 2017 + +While we did get the bus back after nearly two weeks of floating between various hotels and Corrinne's parents house, we still weren't quite ready to hit the road. The bus was running much better, but I still wanted to replace the carburetor and get new wheels and tires before we left. Both of those things involved ordering parts and -- my least favorite thing -- waiting. + +We tried to get back out to [Fort Yargo][1], but the campground was booked up the Friday night we were trying to leave, so we ended up on the other side of Athens at Watson Mill Bridge State Park. + + + + + + +It's a place we've been quite a few times for the day, but never overnight. But it has a river for the kids to play in and a small campground that no one seems to use -- we slid in around dinner time on a Friday and there were plenty of spots still available after we parked. + + + +The first night was a continuation of our "tent camping in an RV" routine. We still had no city water lines, no hot water tank and no propane inside the bus. I spent the next couple of days taking care of all that and quite a few other projects on the list. By the time we left a week later the bus was actually something like a real RV, with cushy features like running water (still just cold) and a working stove (the gas pressure is a bit low for my tastes, haven't fully figured that one out, love to hear ideas beyond mine -- that the regulator is a cheap piece of crap). + + + + + + +Not that all we did was work. There was a river to play in after all. And a massive covered bridge to walk through. There were not, unfortunately, any paddle boats though. They're apparently just too stuck in the mud for anyone to bother getting rid of them. + + + + +There is however, s stretch of rock to the far side of the river, about 50 yards down from the falls where you can, if your butt is up for it, slide down slick mossy granite at speed that, toward the end, becomes moderately alarming. The impact at the bottom is jarring, but it's a fun ride and jarring or no, I couldn't say no to the kids so up and down we went well past the point where my butt was sore. + +After a few days the wheels and tires were in and I drove into town and got rid of the split ring rims that have served the bus since 1969. I have mixed feelings about it. On one hand I hate fixing things that aren't broken and the rims were technically not broken. However, it's nearly impossible to get tires for them in this country and our current plans don't have us in Mexico until at least a year from now, which is further than I wanted to go given the dry rot on the old tires. + + + +On the plus side, the 195 R19.5 tires I put on add about 2-3 inches of more tread to every wheel and I absolutely feel it. The ride is rougher with the radials, but much more solid with the bus feeling more like it's stuck the road and significantly less floaty. And that's with the horribly blown out shocks we've got, I can't wait to see how it rides with a nice fresh set of shocks too. + +The carburetor story is significantly shorter and less happy. I got sick of calling to see if it had come in. No one at the shop ever called me and so we just blew it off. The current carb, while after market and basically a piece of crap, does, technically, nevertheless work. Most of the time anyway. + +We were frustrated with the delays and tired of hanging around for empty false promises, so after a couple nights in a hotel in Athens, during one of which I nearly lost my mind stressing out about the condition of the engine and transmission, we decided to say screw it, let's hit the road and figure it out as we go. And so we did. + +[1]: /jrnl/2017/01/wilds-of-winder diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/april-fools.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/april-fools.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e44555c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/april-fools.html @@ -0,0 +1,498 @@ + + + + + April Fools - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    April Fools

    + +
    +
    +

    Raysville, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Our original plan called for us to hit the road on the first day of spring. In reality we finally got going, fittingly enough, on April 1st.

    +
    + + 1969 Dodge Travco at Raysville campground, GA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We spent the morning saying goodbye to friends and family and (briefly) stopping buy a classic car show that happens once a month at a local coffee shop.

    +
    + + classic cars at jittery joes photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I wouldn’t say we stole the show, but we certainly dominated when it came to size. And hey, we even have a pretty much finished +interior now.

    +
    + + 1969 Dodge Travco interior photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + 1969 Dodge Travco interior photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We finally made it out of town at the crack of 2PM and drove a whooping 80 miles before pulling in to Raysville campground near the southern end of the massive lake that is the Savannah river.

    +
    + + Savannah river, raysville photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    If was an uneventful drive, the bus ran smooth and everything just worked for a change. For posterity’s sake I’d like to note that the person with the paper map drove straight there and the person with the GPS got lost twice. Relying on Google to navigate the back roads of the south is a recipe for disaster. There are now two paper maps and no GPS on our persons.

    +

    Raysville was nice and quiet. Or at least absent human noise. The Canadian geese roosting on the island just off shore from our campsite had frequent loud and rather involved conversations all night long. Still, it was lovely spot so we stayed a second night. A couple friends who’d been out of town when we said goodbye made the trek out from Athens the second day and spent the afternoon with us.

    +

    Mostly though we just played on the shore and got ourselves and all our clothes covered in good old red Georgia clay.

    +
    + + Savannah river, raysville photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + raysville campground photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Savannah river, raysville campground photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Savannah river, raysville campground photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Savannah river, raysville campground photographed by luxagraf + +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +

    3 Comments

    + + + + + + +
    + +
    + +
    + Arva Weinstein + April 06, 2017 at 10:38 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Love Elliott’s red clay socks!!!

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + April 07, 2017 at 8:53 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @arva-

    +

    yeah, the red is pretty much permanent in several bathing suits. you just can’t get the Georgia all the way out.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Denise Hodges + April 08, 2017 at 6:48 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Thank you for sharing! I love Linda and John and enjoy the pictures they share of family. What incredible memories you are making with your children! It is refreshing to see them playing in the mud versus playing with an electronic device! I admire your courage to venture out of ‘mainstream’ and you have my prayers for a safe and fulfilling journey.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
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    + +
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    + + +
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    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/april-fools.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/april-fools.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c5113d8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/april-fools.txt @@ -0,0 +1,36 @@ +April Fools +=========== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 01 April 2017 + +Our original plan called for us to hit the road on the first day of spring. In reality we finally got going, fittingly enough, on April 1st. + + + +We spent the morning saying goodbye to friends and family and (briefly) stopping buy a classic car show that happens once a month at a local coffee shop. + + + +I wouldn't say we stole the show, but we certainly dominated when it came to size. And hey, we even have a pretty much finished +interior now. + + + + +We finally made it out of town at the crack of 2PM and drove a whooping 80 miles before pulling in to Raysville campground near the southern end of the massive lake that is the Savannah river. + + + +If was an uneventful drive, the bus ran smooth and everything just worked for a change. For posterity's sake I'd like to note that the person with the paper map drove straight there and the person with the GPS got lost twice. Relying on Google to navigate the back roads of the south is a recipe for disaster. There are now two paper maps and no GPS on our persons. + +Raysville was nice and quiet. Or at least absent human noise. The Canadian geese roosting on the island just off shore from our campsite had frequent loud and rather involved conversations all night long. Still, it was lovely spot so we stayed a second night. A couple friends who'd been out of town when we said goodbye made the trek out from Athens the second day and spent the afternoon with us. + +Mostly though we just played on the shore and got ourselves and all our clothes covered in good old red Georgia clay. + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/coming-home.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/coming-home.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c51dbcb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/coming-home.html @@ -0,0 +1,530 @@ + + + + + Coming Home - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Coming Home

    + +
    +
    +

    St. George Island, Florida, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    I haven’t accurately tallied it, but my guess is that we’ve spent nearly two months on St. George Island over the years. Enough time anyway, to make it feel a little like coming home when we get here.

    +
    + + kids playing at beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    This also feels a bit like coming home, or at least returning to the beginning, because this is where we were when we decided to do this trip two years ago. It’s also where we were when Corrinne found the bus on Craigslist. Yes, Corrinne found it. And yes, it took two years to get it restored. Tip for anyone reading this who’s thinking, “man, I really want to restore an older RV/Trailer”: make a budget for time and money and then double both. Then, just to be safe, double the money budget again.

    +

    It took longer than we wanted, and there were some darker moments in those last two years when everything seemed impossible, but hey, we did it. We’re here. Again.

    +
    + + open for business photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Ironically not in the bus though. Through all our visits to St. George Island we’ve always stayed in the same place, which is owned by some friends of the family. I tried to talk the girls into camping at the very lovely state park down at the east end of the island, but they wouldn’t hear of it. It had to be the pink beach house.

    +
    + + bridge to st george island photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Fine with me actually. Gave me a chance to finish the last of the bus tasks I need to knock out to call it finished. I don’t know why my wife just laughs now when I say I’m done. But really I am. The only thing left is getting a new water tank. Oh and the solar panels. And the house battery. And the ladder. And the roof rack. And the new awning. Cough.

    +
    + + 1969 Dodge Travco at St George Island, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    When we got here we were leaking transmission fluid pretty bad. I had my eye on a section of the transmission cooler hose that had been replaced with what looked like some cheap rubber hose. But I had promised the family I wouldn’t spend the entire time on the island under the bus so I called around a bit and found a shop that was willing to take a look the following Monday. Good enough. I spent the next four days at the beach, hardly ever thinking about that hose, hardly ever having nightmares about failed gaskets that would require dropping the entire transmission.

    +

    Instead we played in the surf, climbed the lighthouse, ate shrimp, fried up Grouper cheeks, cooled off with shaved ice and frozen lemonades, and tried to find a cool Piggly Wiggly t-shirt. In other words, we did what you do at the beach — a whole lot of nothing.

    +
    + + Playing at the beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + kids playing at beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + kids playing at beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + kids playing at beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Shaved Ice photographed by luxagraf + +
    Shaved ice and frozen lemonade in the shade.
    +
    + +
    + + cooking photographed by luxagraf + +
    Cooking at the beach requires sunglasses.
    +
    + +
    + + Climbing lighthouse stairs photographed by luxagraf + +
    95 stairs and a 10 ft vertical ladder, she did it all. The woman selling tickets thought Lilah was too short to climb a lighthouse. I told her they’d climbed Half Dome, that shut her up.
    +
    + +
    + + Top of the lighthouse photographed by luxagraf + +
    Top of the lighthouse.
    +
    + +

    One day I spent the better part of an hour with the kids, digging up tiny little clams out of the wet sand behind receding waves. The Seashells of North America guide back up at the house told me later that the slightly larger, rainbow colored clams were Florida Coquinas, while the smaller, white ones were Gulf Donax. Both pop themselves out of the sand when they feel the vibration of crashing waves so that they’re carried up and down the beach, always remaining at the edge of the tidal zone where we were sitting, digging in the sand.

    +

    We dug up the Coquinas and Donax and dumped them on the surface of the sand to watch them suck themselves back down into the wet depth. Over and over we dug, then they dug. We started to root for different clams, trying to guess which one would disappear first. There was something hypnotic about watching them, something of the same appeal perhaps of things like frog races. I started to wonder what the clams must think, the ocean gone mad, surf pounding the shore and digging them up over and over again. Or maybe they’re more seasoned than that, maybe they knew exactly what it is, fucking tourists. Or maybe they didn’t need a why at all, maybe they just sucked themselves back down without a thought. Because it is there.

    +

    On Monday we drove the bus up to Port St. Joe, which had the only mechanic that had met my criteria: shop out of the way, huge bay doors in Google Street View and not fazed by my slow sell of, “I got a dodge 318, with a 727, that’s leaking transmission fluid…” “Well, bring it in.” “Okay. One thing, it’s got a 27ft motorhome attached to it, is that okay?” “How many feet?” “27.” Pause. “That should be alright.”

    +

    Turn out to be… wait for it… transmission cooler hose. Sigh. But hey, it’s fixed and I didn’t miss any time with the kids at the beach.

    +
    + + kids playing at beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + kids playing at beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + kids riding bikes photographed by luxagraf + +
    We had a mailing address for a little while, so we went ahead and got the girls their birthday presents — pedal bikes.
    +
    + +
    + + boy on bike photographed by luxagraf + +
    Since the girls got new bikes, Elliott was more than happy to take one of their old ones.
    +
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    2 Comments

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    + G and G Weldon + May 01, 2017 at 2:45 p.m. +
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    + +

    Glad y’all enjoyed the pink house,Linda had told us the girls talked about it from time to time.It is a peaceful,restful place.Glad George’s Grandfather had the wisdom to buy the lot before the bridge was built,wait 8-9 years until the bridge was built then he and his sons came over and built the house.He even cut the framing timber off his farm and stored it in a barn while he was waiting.What a gift to us the third generation to have it.Oh yes,George was glad to(big smile)to hear someone used reference books he put there.Enjoyed your blog almost as much as the one about the joys of an outdoor shower.

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    + Scott + May 02, 2017 at 9:07 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @G and G Weldon-

    +

    I didn’t know he built it himself. I would like to have seen the island back then.

    +

    And I’ve read almost all the books there. A few years ago we met an older gentleman at the nature center in Eastpoint. He talked a bit about being a ferry captain years ago and some other things about the history of the Bay. Anyway later I was reading that Voices of Apalachicola book and he was in it. We sort of got the in-person version of what was in the book. Small world down there.

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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/coming-home.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/coming-home.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7e0acdc --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/coming-home.txt @@ -0,0 +1,50 @@ +Coming Home +=========== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Tuesday, 18 April 2017 + +I haven't accurately tallied it, but my guess is that we've spent nearly two months on St. George Island over the years. Enough time anyway, to make it feel a little like coming home when we get here. + + + +This also feels a bit like coming home, or at least returning to the beginning, because this is where we were when we decided to do this trip two years ago. It's also where we were when Corrinne found the bus on Craigslist. Yes, Corrinne found it. And yes, it took two years to get it restored. Tip for anyone reading this who's thinking, "man, I really want to restore an older RV/Trailer": make a budget for time and money and then double both. Then, just to be safe, double the money budget again. + +It took longer than we wanted, and there were some darker moments in those last two years when everything seemed impossible, but hey, we did it. We're here. Again. + + + +Ironically not in the bus though. Through all our visits to St. George Island we've always stayed in the same place, which is owned by some friends of the family. I tried to talk the girls into camping at the very lovely state park down at the east end of the island, but they wouldn't hear of it. It had to be the pink beach house. + + + +Fine with me actually. Gave me a chance to finish the last of the bus tasks I need to knock out to call it finished. I don't know why my wife just laughs now when I say I'm done. But really I am. The only thing left is getting a new water tank. Oh and the solar panels. And the house battery. And the ladder. And the roof rack. And the new awning. Cough. + + + +When we got here we were leaking transmission fluid pretty bad. I had my eye on a section of the transmission cooler hose that had been replaced with what looked like some cheap rubber hose. But I had promised the family I wouldn't spend the entire time on the island under the bus so I called around a bit and found a shop that was willing to take a look the following Monday. Good enough. I spent the next four days at the beach, hardly ever thinking about that hose, hardly ever having nightmares about failed gaskets that would require dropping the entire transmission. + +Instead we played in the surf, climbed the lighthouse, ate shrimp, fried up Grouper cheeks, cooled off with shaved ice and frozen lemonades, and tried to find a cool Piggly Wiggly t-shirt. In other words, we did what you do at the beach -- a whole lot of nothing. + + + + + + + + + + +One day I spent the better part of an hour with the kids, digging up tiny little clams out of the wet sand behind receding waves. The Seashells of North America guide back up at the house told me later that the slightly larger, rainbow colored clams were Florida Coquinas, while the smaller, white ones were Gulf Donax. Both pop themselves out of the sand when they feel the vibration of crashing waves so that they're carried up and down the beach, always remaining at the edge of the tidal zone where we were sitting, digging in the sand. + +We dug up the Coquinas and Donax and dumped them on the surface of the sand to watch them suck themselves back down into the wet depth. Over and over we dug, then they dug. We started to root for different clams, trying to guess which one would disappear first. There was something hypnotic about watching them, something of the same appeal perhaps of things like frog races. I started to wonder what the clams must think, the ocean gone mad, surf pounding the shore and digging them up over and over again. Or maybe they're more seasoned than that, maybe they knew exactly what it is, fucking tourists. Or maybe they didn't need a why at all, maybe they just sucked themselves back down without a thought. Because it is there. + +On Monday we drove the bus up to Port St. Joe, which had the only mechanic that had met my criteria: shop out of the way, huge bay doors in Google Street View and not fazed by my slow sell of, "I got a dodge 318, with a 727, that's leaking transmission fluid..." "Well, bring it in." "Okay. One thing, it's got a 27ft motorhome attached to it, is that okay?" "How many feet?" "27." Pause. "That should be alright." + +Turn out to be... wait for it... transmission cooler hose. Sigh. But hey, it's fixed and I didn't miss any time with the kids at the beach. + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/edge-continent.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/edge-continent.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..38663af --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/edge-continent.html @@ -0,0 +1,516 @@ + + + + + The Edge Of The Continent - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    The Edge of the Continent

    + +
    +
    +

    Edisto Island, South Carolina, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    We follow the river, more or less, down out of the red Georgia mud into the Carolina coastal plain. It’s not always visible, but it is there, tracing a path down out of the hills and toward the sea.

    +

    We avoid interstates, even divided highways, sticking instead to the county roads, the thin gray lines on the map, many known only by local names, no number at all. Jones Rd. Thompson Bridge Rd. Stoney Bluff Rd. One blurs into the next as we pass down out of the tall Georgia pines, to mixed farmland, ever larger oaks and the first cordgrass hints of marsh.

    +

    In between are the occasional small towns, these days little more than scattered clusters of single wide trailers and abandoned downtown squares encircled by Popeye’s and dollar stores. Life out here feels bleak and hopeless to me. Or at least life as it is right now. Layers of peeling advertisements still clinging to collapsed billboards hint at time when it wasn’t like this.

    +

    I don’t know when it became like this out here, or even how widespread it is, but it feels widespread on this drive. We pass through several whole towns that quite simply aren’t there anymore. Just broken buildings and empty houses remain. It’s remarkable how fast the landscape reclaims what isn’t maintained.

    +

    The abandonment seems recent, within the last 20 years to judge by the advertisements still stuck inside windows here and there. But I imagine the decline started decades earlier. In fact there probably was no collapse at all. We always think things end suddenly, but with a few dramatic exceptions it seldom works out that way. Instead there’s just less and less year after year until one day the last family walks slowly out of town and disappears into somewhere else.

    +

    It’s become fashionable in the last couple of years for the big city glossies to send reporters out to places like this to do a lot of hand-wringing about what happened, what it all means. Very few seem willing to accept that maybe this is just part of the cycle of things. That there is no perpetual progress, that things rise up and eventually fall back down. If you think that cycle is something that only happens elsewhere, to other people, you need to get off the interstate.

    +

    The scene brightens a little as we pass into the Carolina lowcountry. The towns are older, they’re at different point in the cycle, having already declined and rebuilt several times. This is a land where people have been around long enough to get a better idea of what works and what doesn’t. What remains now is what has survived the cycles thus far, what has been pruned and honed.

    +

    Finally we dip down into the intertidal plain and the road becomes covered by massive Live Oaks dripping Spanish Moss. Poking above them you can see the tufted tops of the Loblolly and Long Leaf Pines. They look like pineapples on sticks thrust up into the sky.

    +

    It’s overcast, but never actually rains, which is good because I have no windshield wipers at the moment. I have a single wiper arm on the driver’s side1 and a blade I bought at a truck stop that I’m hoping I can somehow attach, but I’m waiting for a good downpour before I tackle that project. Fortunately for me the weather holds all the way to the Edisto State Park campground.

    +

    We had been promising the kids that we’d be at the beach “soon” for about six months so we literally parked the bus in our campsite and headed straight out the beach. It was chilly, overcast and generally dismal, but no one cared. There was sand and sea and salt air and the weather really doesn’t much matter when you’re a kid and you have everything else.

    +

    There were birds to chase, sandcastles to build, dead jellyfish to investigate, shark’s teeth to gather, shells to collect and just barely enough daylight to even get started on it all before we had to head back and make dinner. Fortunately the next day was bright and sunny and apparently all you have to do if you want the shores of Edisto to yourself is show up before 11 AM.

    +
    + + Edisto beach, storm photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Edisto beach, storm chasing birds photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Edisto beach, storm photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Edisto beach, storm photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Edisto beach, storm photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Edisto beach sunny photographed by luxagraf + +
    When it’s sunny and nice I never remember to take pictures. This is the only image I have.
    +
    + +
    + + Edisto beach windy photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      I recently noticed there’s actually a motor on the passenger’s side, though it has no arm and I have no idea if it works. A new motor and arm assembly that was recommended to me by another Travco owner goes for a cool $200. Not in hurry to drop $200 on a windshield wiper. ↩

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    2 Comments

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    + Bennett + April 11, 2017 at 8:49 p.m. +
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    + +

    So… (markdown isn’t working for me)

    +

    I’m a wee bit jealous. No more breakdowns I assume? Just a road to nowhere.

    +

    There’s nothing like being on the road. With the road there is truly the feeling of being present. Casting all fears and uncertainties aside a person can throw themselves into the abyss, hold their breath and emerge with their brain completely re-wired.

    +

    Stay fearless…

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    + Scott + April 12, 2017 at 9:24 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @bennett-

    +

    I’m leaking transmission fluid at a rate that defies the possible in my opinion (doesn’t seem like there’s that much in there), but otherwise she’s running well.

    +

    For now. There will be breakdowns I’m sure, but for now at least, the road, the endless road.

    +

    (and what markdown didn’t work? I didn’t see any in your comment. It’s possible that it doesn’t render it for the preview, but it should work for the actual comment. Here, I’ll make something italic… seems to work…)

    + +
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
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    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/edge-continent.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/edge-continent.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8a07e0b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/edge-continent.txt @@ -0,0 +1,42 @@ +The Edge of the Continent +========================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Tuesday, 04 April 2017 + +We follow the river, more or less, down out of the red Georgia mud into the Carolina coastal plain. It's not always visible, but it is there, tracing a path down out of the hills and toward the sea. + +We avoid interstates, even divided highways, sticking instead to the county roads, the thin gray lines on the map, many known only by local names, no number at all. Jones Rd. Thompson Bridge Rd. Stoney Bluff Rd. One blurs into the next as we pass down out of the tall Georgia pines, to mixed farmland, ever larger oaks and the first cordgrass hints of marsh. + +In between are the occasional small towns, these days little more than scattered clusters of single wide trailers and abandoned downtown squares encircled by Popeye's and dollar stores. Life out here feels bleak and hopeless to me. Or at least life as it is right now. Layers of peeling advertisements still clinging to collapsed billboards hint at time when it wasn't like this. + +I don't know when it became like this out here, or even how widespread it is, but it feels widespread on this drive. We pass through several whole towns that quite simply aren't there anymore. Just broken buildings and empty houses remain. It's remarkable how fast the landscape reclaims what isn't maintained. + +The abandonment seems recent, within the last 20 years to judge by the advertisements still stuck inside windows here and there. But I imagine the decline started decades earlier. In fact there probably was no collapse at all. We always think things end suddenly, but with a few [dramatic exceptions][1] it seldom works out that way. Instead there's just less and less year after year until one day the last family walks slowly out of town and disappears into somewhere else. + +It's become fashionable in the last couple of years for the big city glossies to send reporters out to places like this to do a lot of hand-wringing about what happened, what it all means. Very few seem willing to accept that maybe this is just part of the cycle of things. That there is no perpetual progress, that things rise up and eventually fall back down. If you think that cycle is something that only happens elsewhere, to other people, you need to get off the interstate. + +The scene brightens a little as we pass into the Carolina lowcountry. The towns are older, they're at different point in the cycle, having already declined and rebuilt several times. This is a land where people have been around long enough to get a better idea of what works and what doesn't. What remains now is what has survived the cycles thus far, what has been pruned and honed. + +Finally we dip down into the intertidal plain and the road becomes covered by massive Live Oaks dripping Spanish Moss. Poking above them you can see the tufted tops of the Loblolly and Long Leaf Pines. They look like pineapples on sticks thrust up into the sky. + +It's overcast, but never actually rains, which is good because I have no windshield wipers at the moment. I have a single wiper arm on the driver's side[^1] and a blade I bought at a truck stop that I'm hoping I can somehow attach, but I'm waiting for a good downpour before I tackle that project. Fortunately for me the weather holds all the way to the Edisto State Park campground. + +We had been promising the kids that we'd be at the beach "soon" for about six months so we literally parked the bus in our campsite and headed straight out the beach. It was chilly, overcast and generally dismal, but no one cared. There was sand and sea and salt air and the weather really doesn't much matter when you're a kid and you have everything else. + +There were birds to chase, sandcastles to build, dead jellyfish to investigate, shark's teeth to gather, shells to collect and just barely enough daylight to even get started on it all before we had to head back and make dinner. Fortunately the next day was bright and sunny and apparently all you have to do if you want the shores of Edisto to yourself is show up before 11 AM. + + + + + + + + + + + +[^1]: I recently noticed there's actually a motor on the passenger's side, though it has no arm and I have no idea if it works. A new motor and arm assembly that was recommended to me by another Travco owner goes for a cool $200. Not in hurry to drop $200 on a windshield wiper. + +[1]: /jrnl/2011/06/forever-today diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/gulf-islands-national-seashore.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/gulf-islands-national-seashore.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1bffd90 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/gulf-islands-national-seashore.html @@ -0,0 +1,627 @@ + + + + + Gulf Islands National Seashore - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Gulf Islands National Seashore

    + +
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    +

    Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    I could spend all day floating in the Gulf of Mexico. Coming from the Pacific I sometimes sneer at places without waves. Waves humanize the ocean, they give it rhythm, maybe even rhyme and reason. Especially big waves.

    +

    The Gulf though. It’s not much for waves, a little chop that tries to be wave like. Still, there is something utterly tranquilly magic about just floating there on your back, staring up the occasional Brown Pelican or tern hunting for fish.

    +
    + + Gulf Island National Seashore Fort Pickens Area photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Or at least it seems like it would be, unfortunately I don’t float for more than about five seconds. I do enjoy sit-floating in the shallows, watching the birds drift by overhead, especially Ospreys, which are in abundance around here. Having spent considerable time watching Ospreys over the last few weeks I’ve decided that, should I get the chance to have another go on this planet, I’d like to do it as an Osprey.

    +

    We ended up staying four extra days at the beach house in St. George Island. Some friends from Atlanta came down for the last couple of days and then we hit the road again, headed for the Fort Pickens area of Gulf Islands National Seashore.

    +

    I am, and will continue to be, an advocate of taking the back roads. However, there are exceptions and Florida’s 98 — not really a back road, but the only option other than I10 — is a horrid disaster of a road. It was so bad I’m not even going to describe it. I’ll just say that if I had it to do over again I’d take I10. Although I don’t know, Florida drivers are so consistently bad I’m not sure I’d want to see them going over 60. I’ve been to 45 states and Florida drivers are without question and by a very large margin consistently the worst drivers I’ve ever had the misfortune to drive among. I’ve also never seen so much garbage hurled from moving cars. Stay classy Florida.

    +
    + + 1970s style sign for pensacola beach, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    Florida, where the 70s never stopped.
    +
    + +
    + + kids riding an old fashion store carousel photographed by luxagraf + +
    You don’t see these much any more either.
    +
    + +

    Despite the horror of Florida roads and the drivers on them we did eventually though we made it to Gulf Islands National Seashore, which might be the prettiest beach I’ve been to in the U.S. It’s downright stunning, if you plunked me here I might guess I was in Thailand though the dunes provide a clue, the dunes are unmistakably Gulf coast barrier island dunes.

    +

    In some ways Gulf Islands is probably what St. George was like 60-70 years ago. Take away the houses and St George wouldn’t be all that different. St. George is darker though, more stars. I’ve never been anywhere on the east coast with more stars visible than St. George.

    +

    We ended up in a really nice partially shaded spot in the Fort Pickens campground, about a three minute walk from the shoreline. Not a mosquito to be found and steady breeze to keep things nice and cool. Approaching perfection.

    +
    + + boardwalk fort pickens campground photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Olivia jumping photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Lilah Jumping photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Elliott jumping photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + campfire photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The weather largely held too, we had couple days of clouds here and there, but that just meant we got the beach to ourselves. If you’re willing to put up with the occasional spit of rain, you can have an entire barrier island to yourself down here. Or at least it feels that way. I spent several hours on the beach one day with the girls and we didn’t see another soul.

    +
    + + Empty beach at gulf islands national seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Sorting shell photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + going swimming at the beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + lifitng elliott high above the waves photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Storms over the beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + kids wrapped in beach towels photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    If all this sounds wonderfully Idyllic there is one, occasional, catch. This particular barrier island is right off the coast of Pensacola, home of a rather large naval air station, a rather large naval air station that happens to be home to the Blue Angels. Just down the road there’s an air force base that’s home to the Thunderbirds. Twice a week, two times a day, for the better part of two hours you get a free air show, whether you want it or not. We even got the see the Blue Angels flying in formation with the Thunderbirds, which I’m pretty sure doesn’t happen at air shows.

    +
    + + Blue angles practicing photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I have mixed feelings about watching 40 million dollar killing machines burn through millions more dollars in jet fuel for the sole purpose of entertainment, but the kids thought it was pretty cool. Or at least they were entertained until they noticed a Great Blue Heron that was going around to all the fishermen and women on the pier and trying to steal their fish.

    +
    + + + + Heron with fisherman photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Heron with fisherman photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    I thought we had a close encounter with a Heron at the cabin the swamp, but that was nothing compared to this. This bird had no fear and seemed to barely care about our existence. It came within arms reach — and Great Blue Herons are very big birds — and just stared, craning its neck around, always keeping an eye on all the buckets of fish around the pier.

    +
    + + + + Great Blue Heron photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Great Blue Heron photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    Fort Pickens itself is fairly uninteresting — big cannons, brick walls, people fighting, same old tired story — but the views from the top are nice.

    +
    + + View from the top of fort pickens photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    Fort Pickens, war, blah blah blah, but on a long enough time scale life always wins.
    +
    + +

    We’re living with just a starting battery. Buying an isolator and house deep cycle battery is on the short list of things to do, but for now we have start up the bus every so often to make sure the starting battery doesn’t get too low. It gives me a chance to slowly acclimate the kids to riding in the bus.

    +
    + + going for a drive photographed by luxagraf + +
    Going for a drive.
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    + + Fixing the bus photographed by luxagraf + +
    Not sure where they got the idea, but fixing the bus is one of their favorite games now.
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    + + Bird's nest photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + reading photographed by luxagraf + +
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    4 Comments

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    + Drew Eldridge + May 01, 2017 at 3:01 p.m. +
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    Its time to get a super wide angle lens and capture some of those stars. So many possibilities open up at night. I love reading your adventures.

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    + Scott + May 02, 2017 at 7:45 a.m. +
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    @Drew- That’s definitely on my list of things to figure out. I know nothing about astrophotography though, gotta do some research before we get out west to the really dark places.

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    I have a couple lenses that might work, a 20mm f/4 and a cheap Russian 12mm fisheye. The fisheye comes with a free softening filter for any aperture wider than f/11 :), but it might work.

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    + Drew Eldridge + May 02, 2017 at 8:53 a.m. +
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    Its not difficult. Turn your ISO up as high as it will go. Even 3200 and 6400 work. Everything is grainy but its super dark and you cant tell.

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    Tripod

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    Use a delayed timer or a switch to fire the shutter. Set the 20mm up at about 25 seconds. Once you go longer than that you will get star trails (which can be awesome anyway).

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    Get a good (free) astro app for your phone. It will show you what you are looking at, where the milky way is, what time the milky way will be prime in your spot, etc.

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    + Scott + May 02, 2017 at 10:00 a.m. +
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    @Drew-

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    Cool, thanks. That’s not too hard. I’ll give that a try. We’re on Dauphin Island right now, which isn’t super dark and has the offshore derricks lit up at night, but maybe I can get something to work.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/gulf-islands-national-seashore.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/gulf-islands-national-seashore.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b9052ec --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/gulf-islands-national-seashore.txt @@ -0,0 +1,76 @@ +Gulf Islands National Seashore +============================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Tuesday, 25 April 2017 + +I could spend all day floating in the Gulf of Mexico. Coming from the Pacific I sometimes sneer at places without waves. Waves humanize the ocean, they give it rhythm, maybe even rhyme and reason. Especially big waves. + +The Gulf though. It's not much for waves, a little chop that tries to be wave like. Still, there is something utterly tranquilly magic about just floating there on your back, staring up the occasional Brown Pelican or tern hunting for fish. + + + +Or at least it seems like it would be, unfortunately I don't float for more than about five seconds. I do enjoy sit-floating in the shallows, watching the birds drift by overhead, especially Ospreys, which are in abundance around here. Having spent considerable time watching Ospreys over the last few weeks I've decided that, should I get the chance to have another go on this planet, I'd like to do it as an Osprey. + +We ended up staying four extra days at the beach house in St. George Island. Some friends from Atlanta came down for the last couple of days and then we hit the road again, headed for the Fort Pickens area of Gulf Islands National Seashore. + +I am, and will continue to be, an advocate of taking the back roads. However, there are exceptions and Florida's 98 -- not really a back road, but the only option other than I10 -- is a horrid disaster of a road. It was so bad I'm not even going to describe it. I'll just say that if I had it to do over again I'd take I10. Although I don't know, Florida drivers are so consistently bad I'm not sure I'd want to see them going over 60. I've been to 45 states and Florida drivers are without question and by a very large margin consistently the worst drivers I've ever had the misfortune to drive among. I've also never seen so much garbage hurled from moving cars. Stay classy Florida. + + + + +Despite the horror of Florida roads and the drivers on them we did eventually though we made it to Gulf Islands National Seashore, which might be the prettiest beach I've been to in the U.S. It's downright stunning, if you plunked me here I might guess I was in Thailand though the dunes provide a clue, the dunes are unmistakably Gulf coast barrier island dunes. + +In some ways Gulf Islands is probably what St. George was like 60-70 years ago. Take away the houses and St George wouldn't be all that different. St. George is darker though, more stars. I've never been anywhere on the east coast with more stars visible than St. George. + +We ended up in a really nice partially shaded spot in the Fort Pickens campground, about a three minute walk from the shoreline. Not a mosquito to be found and steady breeze to keep things nice and cool. Approaching perfection. + + + + + + + +The weather largely held too, we had couple days of clouds here and there, but that just meant we got the beach to ourselves. If you're willing to put up with the occasional spit of rain, you can have an entire barrier island to yourself down here. Or at least it feels that way. I spent several hours on the beach one day with the girls and we didn't see another soul. + + + + + + + + +If all this sounds wonderfully Idyllic there is one, occasional, catch. This particular barrier island is right off the coast of Pensacola, home of a rather large naval air station, a rather large naval air station that happens to be home to the Blue Angels. Just down the road there's an air force base that's home to the Thunderbirds. Twice a week, two times a day, for the better part of two hours you get a free air show, whether you want it or not. We even got the see the Blue Angels flying in formation with the Thunderbirds, which I'm pretty sure doesn't happen at air shows. + + + +I have mixed feelings about watching 40 million dollar killing machines burn through millions more dollars in jet fuel for the sole purpose of entertainment, but the kids thought it was pretty cool. Or at least they were entertained until they noticed a Great Blue Heron that was going around to all the fishermen and women on the pier and trying to steal their fish. + +
    + + + + +
    + +I thought we had a close encounter with a Heron at the cabin the swamp, but that was nothing compared to this. This bird had no fear and seemed to barely care about our existence. It came within arms reach -- and Great Blue Herons are very big birds -- and just stared, craning its neck around, always keeping an eye on all the buckets of fish around the pier. + +
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    + +Fort Pickens itself is fairly uninteresting -- big cannons, brick walls, people fighting, same old tired story -- but the views from the top are nice. + + + + +We're living with just a starting battery. Buying an isolator and house deep cycle battery is on the short list of things to do, but for now we have start up the bus every so often to make sure the starting battery doesn't get too low. It gives me a chance to slowly acclimate the kids to riding in the bus. + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f6a7891 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,119 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Archive: April 2017

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    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/storming.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/storming.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a412a91 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/storming.html @@ -0,0 +1,439 @@ + + + + + Storming - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Storming

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    Edisto Island, South Carolina, U.S.

    + – Map +
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    We woke up on our third day to cloudy skies and predictions of a massive storm. Seemed like a good day to head up to Charleston.

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    One of the downsides to camping at Edisto is that there’s no fresh water. The water table is too shallow, the sea gets in. There’s potable salt water, which works fine for showers and dishes, but if you want drinking water you have to lug your jugs down to the fire station, which apparently has the only deep well around this part of the island.

    +

    The only real problem this causes it that there’s no laundry at the campground. And if you have three kids in the sand and mud all day, you need laundry access pretty regularly. The nearest proper laundromat is in Charleston, and since we wanted to see the city anyway, especially Corrinne, who lived in Charleston for five years, we headed up to do laundry and walk around downtown a bit before the storm hit.

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    We managed to find a shopping center that had a laundromat, a hardware store, a pharmacy and a Thai restaurant, all our errands in one place, plus lunch. Then we headed downtown, took the kids over to see the rainbow houses and the battery park.

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    + + ice cream photographed by luxagraf + +
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    Then we got some ice cream and walked over to the Circular Church, which seemed unchanged since our last visit.

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    + + Circular Church graveyard photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Circular Church graveyard photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We made it back to camp before the storm hit, but just barely. I gambled and threw some burgers on the grill and about two minutes later I lost, the deluge started. I had to race out and salvage what I could of the now soggy raw meat. We finished dinner on the stove and ate to the deafening downpour pounding on the fiberglass of the bus. There were predictions of golf ball size hail, but fortunately all we got was rain. And more rain.

    +

    The rain didn’t stop, nor did the more or less continuous thunder and lightning, for about 10 hours. It was a hell of a storm. Or so I’m told. I fell asleep amid the flashes and booms around 10. Corrinne was awake most of the night.

    +

    Surprising even me, the bus hardly leaked at all. A little water came in through a window track that was simply overwhelmed by the sheets of rain coming down, but even the leaks I know about didn’t seem to leak that night. Odd, but I’ll take it. My last thought before falling asleep was man, it would really suck to be in a tent right now.

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    + + bus decorations photographed by luxagraf + +
    Bus decorations.
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    + + edisto environmental learning center photographed by luxagraf + +
    It was very windy the day after the storm so we went down to the environmental learning center, which had some touch tanks.
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    + + directions in crayon photographed by luxagraf + +
    We don’t need GPS, we always have very detailed directions.
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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/storming.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/storming.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9cf037e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/storming.txt @@ -0,0 +1,33 @@ +Storming +======== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 06 April 2017 + +We woke up on our third day to cloudy skies and predictions of a massive storm. Seemed like a good day to head up to Charleston. + +One of the downsides to camping at Edisto is that there's no fresh water. The water table is too shallow, the sea gets in. There's potable salt water, which works fine for showers and dishes, but if you want drinking water you have to lug your jugs down to the fire station, which apparently has the only deep well around this part of the island. + +The only real problem this causes it that there's no laundry at the campground. And if you have three kids in the sand and mud all day, you need laundry access pretty regularly. The nearest proper laundromat is in Charleston, and since we wanted to see the city anyway, especially Corrinne, who lived in Charleston for five years, we headed up to do laundry and walk around downtown a bit before the storm hit. + +We managed to find a shopping center that had a laundromat, a hardware store, a pharmacy and a Thai restaurant, all our errands in one place, plus lunch. Then we headed downtown, took the kids over to see the rainbow houses and the battery park. + + + +Then we got some ice cream and walked over to the Circular Church, which seemed unchanged since [our last visit][1]. + + + + +We made it back to camp before the storm hit, but just barely. I gambled and threw some burgers on the grill and about two minutes later I lost, the deluge started. I had to race out and salvage what I could of the now soggy raw meat. We finished dinner on the stove and ate to the deafening downpour pounding on the fiberglass of the bus. There were predictions of golf ball size hail, but fortunately all we got was rain. And more rain. + +The rain didn't stop, nor did the more or less continuous thunder and lightning, for about 10 hours. It was a hell of a storm. Or so I'm told. I fell asleep amid the flashes and booms around 10. Corrinne was awake most of the night. + +Surprising even me, the bus hardly leaked at all. A little water came in through a window track that was simply overwhelmed by the sheets of rain coming down, but even the leaks I know about didn't seem to leak that night. Odd, but I'll take it. My last thought before falling asleep was man, it would really suck to be in a tent right now. + + + + + +[1]: /jrnl/2011/01/charleston-a-z diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/swamped.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/swamped.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b5978d8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/swamped.html @@ -0,0 +1,483 @@ + + + + + Swamped - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Swamped

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    Okefenokee Swamp, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
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    From Edisto we took a few back roads through the low country, headed south and west.

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    + + The road photographed by luxagraf + +
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    The winds left over from the storm made it a less than fully relaxed drive, which is to say I had both feet on the floor and both hands on the wheel. As always with wind my greatest fear wasn’t the wind, but my own accidental over-compensation for the wind.

    +

    It was all fine in the end, except for the part of the drive we decided to do on the interstate — passing through Savannah. What a boring thing driving on interstates. And American drivers these days… curious bunch, I’m somewhat surprised they all continue to live doing what they do every day. Maybe I’m just old, but I swear hardly anyone knows how to drive these days. And truckers are the only people who understand how things larger than a car move1.

    +

    There’s actually a whole hidden communication system among truckers that I haven’t fully deciphered yet, but I recognize it now. A headlight flash here, a brake there. Nods and hat tips. I don’t pretend to know what it all means but it’s out there, happening all around you, unseen because you’re too low on the road. I get to see it, but I’m not sure I get to participate. The bus is big, but not that big. I’m twelve wheels short of that club.

    +

    We were headed for the middle of nowhere, but it was further than we wanted to go in a day. We’ve thus far kept our max driving under 200 miles a day. And frankly anything over two hours feels long. Just because we’re living in an RV doesn’t mean we want to spend all our time driving it. There’s no hurry to get anywhere after all.

    +

    In fact our destination in the middle of nowhere was mainly to pass some time. We’re not really reservations type of people, but sometimes you have to. And for Edisto we had to book way in advance. We also had to reserve the beach house we often rent in Florida ahead of time. The problem is that it worked out such that there were four days in between those two reservations.

    +

    This is a problem because, well, there just isn’t much in the South Georgia/North Florida region. Its swamp and farm land. Sometimes both, remarkably enough. In a casual conversation about this a while back we discovered that some friends of our family had a “cabin” down just west of the Okefenokee Swamp and said we were welcome to stay as long as we wanted. Sold.

    +

    We spent an interim night in one of those parking lot style RV parks at the end of the Altamaha River, an experience I am not going to comment on, save to say that everyone we talked to was very nice. The kids quickly made friends and had fun anyway.

    +

    We left early the next morning and drove north, around the top of the Okefenokee and down the west side. It was one of those drives where there wasn’t much traffic to begin with and then there was less and finally we drove at least 30 miles without seeing another car. Then we turned off that road onto a private dirt road where the only other allowed traffic was logging trucks. Several miles down that road we turned on an even smaller road, just two tire tracks really, and finally arrived at the cabin.

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    The middle of nowhere. Or the edge of the Okefenokee. Same thing really.

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    + + sunrise, pond outside fargo, ga photographed by luxagraf + +
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    The cabin sat in the middle of a pine farm, backed up against a pond that was about a mile long and half a mile wide. I killed the engine and opened the door and it was… totally and completely silent. Still and quiet in a way I haven’t heard since I went snowshoeing in the Sierra Nevada in the dead of winter — so quiet the silence really is deafening. Your ears sound like they’re ringing even when they’re not.

    +

    Once your ears adjust it’s not quite so quiet. There are sounds in the swamp. The occasional calls of birds, a few cicadas chirping and every now and then a pig frog’s staccato, almost digital sounding croak. But if you’ve been sitting atop a 1969 Dodge 318 V8 for three hours the difference is a silence that’s nearly overwhelming. And even after four days in the cabin, there were still moments when you heard absolutely nothing.

    +

    It was glorious.

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    + + cabin interior, fargo, ga photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + lunch outdoors photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Except for the part where it was in a swamp. I find swamps interesting in the way I find stamp collecting interesting, which is to say I recognize that some people really enjoy it and I love to hear them talk about it for a while, but it’s not really for me. I love to be in a swamp for a while, but by and large, I am not a swamp person. It is in fact the only ecosystem in which I find myself feeling distinctly ill at ease, out of place. Humans don’t seem to fit in swamps and, for me, just being there at all feels like violating some fundamental law of nature.

    +

    Fortunately the cabin came with a couple of canoes. I never feel quite so much at home as when I’m in a boat — no matter how small — and so the two things balanced each other out. I spent a couple hours a day on the water, just paddling the pond with the kids. Trying to sneak up and get a closer look at the alligators or trying to edge ever deeper into the thickets of cypress and water grass in search of herons, egrets, anhingas and the two very elusive wood ducks that would come all the way up to the patio/dock area so long as no one was around, but would flee deep into the inner sanctum of the pond the minute a door opened.

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    + + + + Elliott canoe photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Lilah in canoe photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + Livy in canoe photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + olivia and lilah, fargo, ga photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +
    + + pong outside fargo, ga photographed by luxagraf + +
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    Despite by best efforts and stealthiest paddling we never got anywhere near a gator, but I did manage to grab a feather left behind by one of the wood ducks.

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    + + pong outside fargo, ga photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    And there was no shortage of other animals around, sleek blue-tailed five-lined skinks, green anoles, carolina wrens, tiny pig frogs, great egrets, snowy egrets, great blue herons, and a sharp shinned hawk that screamed every time we went to the far side of the pond. There were supposed to be lots of snakes around too, we’d been warned to keep a close eye on the kids, but the only snake I saw was a tiny six-inch pigmy rattlesnake. Fortunately our close encounters with wildlife were limited to birds and mammals.

    +
    + + + + frog in hand, fargo, ga photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + pigmy rattlesnake, fargo, ga photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + + green anole, fargo ga photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + deer, fargo, ga photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    One morning the girls and I were out in the canoe, slowly drifting into the one of several narrow, thicket choked channels when we flushed some kind of large bird we couldn’t quite make out.

    +

    I set the paddle down and we just drifted in silence for a minute until we slid deeper into the channel and came face to face with a black-crowned night heron. It stayed put, yellow legs wrapped tight around one of the upper branches of a dead cypress tree. It was was no more than 10 feet from the canoe and it stood there, stalk still, studying us with its huge red eyes, black head cocked slightly to the side. We stared at each other for a good five minutes, no one moving, no one talking. Then I slowly lowered in a paddle and pushed us back out again.

    +

    The birds weren’t the only close encounters we had either. White tailed deer came around regularly every day we were there. There was a trashcan full of dried corn on the back porch that served as feed for deer, raccoons, squirrels and anything else that wanted it. But the deer especially came around regularly at meal times looking for corn, which we’d fling out for them. They’d come around every morning while we ate breakfast and again in the evening when we at dinner. We ate watching them, they ate watching us. Mutual admiration society perhaps.

    +

    Later I got to thinking that maybe they weren’t watching us though. The cabin was really a hunting lodge, the vast majority of the decor was once living things shot, stuff and mounted on a wall.

    +
    + + cabin interior, fargo, ga photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I’ve nothing a against hunting for food, but the whole notion of hunting as sport has always struck me a morally dubious. The most common dead thing on the walls of the cabin were deer and later I started thinking, maybe the deer were out there staring in, not at us, but at the heads mounted on the chimney behind us. Whatever the case, it certainly didn’t stop the deer from eating the corn. There is no moral code of the wild that includes passing up easy calories.

    +

    Explaining guns, hunting, death and lots of related topics to the kids added a wrinkle I wasn’t expecting to our time at the cabin, but we try not sugarcoat the world too much. The girls seemed mostly okay with the idea of hunting. They already know they’re eating animals when we have meat for dinner, so it wasn’t a great leap to explaining how that meat comes to be on your plate. I haven’t yet told them how the current practices of industrial farming work, which of course makes hunting seem not just okay, but downright saintly, but we’ll get there. Or we’ll take up hunting.

    +

    The other nice thing about having a cabin to stay in is that we could work on and organize the bus without upending our entire living area. And yes, we’ve already figured out enough about what works, what doesn’t and what we need to change and rearrange to warrant more or less unpacking the entire thing and re-organizing.

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    + + The bus in fargo, ga photographed by luxagraf + +
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    I also had time to finish up the plumbing so now the toilet flushes without needing to turn on the shower nozzle. And, much more exciting, we have, wait for it, hot water. Luxury living. The last bit of plumbing to do is tying the water tank we don’t yet own and water pump into the city water system, but I won’t be tackling that for a while.

    +

    I also went ahead and made the wiper blade work with the wiper arm. As much as I was looking forward to doing that in a hurry, at the side of the road, in the rain, I decided, meh, what the heck, I’ll do it ahead of time. This trip is turning me into a regular boy scout. Now if only I could find the source of the transmission fluid leak.

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      When you pass a truck and cut over right in front of them, it is only by the grace of whatever god you believe in that you continue to exist. There’s no way the truck could stop in time if it had to; the way some people do it there wouldn’t even be time to hit the brakes before the truck drove over you. ↩

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    Thoughts?

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/swamped.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/swamped.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d6c23f9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/04/swamped.txt @@ -0,0 +1,100 @@ +Swamped +======= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 10 April 2017 + +From Edisto we took a few back roads through the low country, headed south and west. + + + +The winds left over from the storm made it a less than fully relaxed drive, which is to say I had both feet on the floor and both hands on the wheel. As always with wind my greatest fear wasn't the wind, but my own accidental over-compensation for the wind. + +It was all fine in the end, except for the part of the drive we decided to do on the interstate -- passing through Savannah. What a boring thing driving on interstates. And American drivers these days... curious bunch, I'm somewhat surprised they all continue to live doing what they do every day. Maybe I'm just old, but I swear hardly anyone knows how to drive these days. And truckers are the only people who understand how things larger than a car move[^1]. + +There's actually a whole hidden communication system among truckers that I haven't fully deciphered yet, but I recognize it now. A headlight flash here, a brake there. Nods and hat tips. I don't pretend to know what it all means but it's out there, happening all around you, unseen because you're too low on the road. I get to see it, but I'm not sure I get to participate. The bus is big, but not that big. I'm twelve wheels short of that club. + +We were headed for the middle of nowhere, but it was further than we wanted to go in a day. We've thus far kept our max driving under 200 miles a day. And frankly anything over two hours feels long. Just because we're living in an RV doesn't mean we want to spend all our time driving it. There's no hurry to get anywhere after all. + +In fact our destination in the middle of nowhere was mainly to pass some time. We're not really reservations type of people, but sometimes you have to. And for Edisto we had to book way in advance. We also had to reserve the beach house we often rent in Florida ahead of time. The problem is that it worked out such that there were four days in between those two reservations. + +This is a problem because, well, there just isn't much in the South Georgia/North Florida region. Its swamp and farm land. Sometimes both, remarkably enough. In a casual conversation about this a while back we discovered that some friends of our family had a "cabin" down just west of the Okefenokee Swamp and said we were welcome to stay as long as we wanted. Sold. + +We spent an interim night in one of those parking lot style RV parks at the end of the Altamaha River, an experience I am not going to comment on, save to say that everyone we talked to was very nice. The kids quickly made friends and had fun anyway. + +We left early the next morning and drove north, around the top of the Okefenokee and down the west side. It was one of those drives where there wasn't much traffic to begin with and then there was less and finally we drove at least 30 miles without seeing another car. Then we turned off that road onto a private dirt road where the only other *allowed* traffic was logging trucks. Several miles down that road we turned on an even smaller road, just two tire tracks really, and finally arrived at the cabin. + +The middle of nowhere. Or the edge of the Okefenokee. Same thing really. + + + +The cabin sat in the middle of a pine farm, backed up against a pond that was about a mile long and half a mile wide. I killed the engine and opened the door and it was... totally and completely silent. Still and quiet in a way I haven't heard since I went snowshoeing in the Sierra Nevada in the dead of winter -- so quiet the silence really is deafening. Your ears sound like they're ringing even when they're not. + +Once your ears adjust it's not quite so quiet. There are sounds in the swamp. The occasional calls of birds, a few cicadas chirping and every now and then a pig frog's staccato, almost digital sounding croak. But if you've been sitting atop a 1969 Dodge 318 V8 for three hours the difference is a silence that's nearly overwhelming. And even after four days in the cabin, there were still moments when you heard absolutely nothing. + +It was glorious. + + + + +Except for the part where it was in a swamp. I find swamps interesting in the way I find stamp collecting interesting, which is to say I recognize that some people really enjoy it and I love to hear them talk about it for a while, but it's not really for me. I love to be in a swamp for a while, but by and large, I am not a swamp person. It is in fact the only ecosystem in which I find myself feeling distinctly ill at ease, out of place. Humans don't seem to fit in swamps and, for me, just being there at all feels like violating some fundamental law of nature. + +Fortunately the cabin came with a couple of canoes. I never feel quite so much at home as when I'm in a boat -- no matter how small -- and so the two things balanced each other out. I spent a couple hours a day on the water, just paddling the pond with the kids. Trying to sneak up and get a closer look at the alligators or trying to edge ever deeper into the thickets of cypress and water grass in search of herons, egrets, anhingas and the two very elusive wood ducks that would come all the way up to the patio/dock area so long as no one was around, but would flee deep into the inner sanctum of the pond the minute a door opened. + +
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    + + + +Despite by best efforts and stealthiest paddling we never got anywhere near a gator, but I did manage to grab a feather left behind by one of the wood ducks. + + + + + + +And there was no shortage of other animals around, sleek blue-tailed five-lined skinks, green anoles, carolina wrens, tiny pig frogs, great egrets, snowy egrets, great blue herons, and a sharp shinned hawk that screamed every time we went to the far side of the pond. There were supposed to be lots of snakes around too, we'd been warned to keep a close eye on the kids, but the only snake I saw was a tiny six-inch pigmy rattlesnake. Fortunately our close encounters with wildlife were limited to birds and mammals. + + +
    + + + + + + + + +
    + + +One morning the girls and I were out in the canoe, slowly drifting into the one of several narrow, thicket choked channels when we flushed some kind of large bird we couldn't quite make out. + +I set the paddle down and we just drifted in silence for a minute until we slid deeper into the channel and came face to face with a black-crowned night heron. It stayed put, yellow legs wrapped tight around one of the upper branches of a dead cypress tree. It was was no more than 10 feet from the canoe and it stood there, stalk still, studying us with its huge red eyes, black head cocked slightly to the side. We stared at each other for a good five minutes, no one moving, no one talking. Then I slowly lowered in a paddle and pushed us back out again. + +The birds weren't the only close encounters we had either. White tailed deer came around regularly every day we were there. There was a trashcan full of dried corn on the back porch that served as feed for deer, raccoons, squirrels and anything else that wanted it. But the deer especially came around regularly at meal times looking for corn, which we'd fling out for them. They'd come around every morning while we ate breakfast and again in the evening when we at dinner. We ate watching them, they ate watching us. Mutual admiration society perhaps. + +Later I got to thinking that maybe they weren't watching us though. The cabin was really a hunting lodge, the vast majority of the decor was once living things shot, stuff and mounted on a wall. + + + +I've nothing a against hunting for food, but the whole notion of hunting as sport has always struck me a morally dubious. The most common dead thing on the walls of the cabin were deer and later I started thinking, maybe the deer were out there staring in, not at us, but at the heads mounted on the chimney behind us. Whatever the case, it certainly didn't stop the deer from eating the corn. There is no moral code of the wild that includes passing up easy calories. + +Explaining guns, hunting, death and lots of related topics to the kids added a wrinkle I wasn't expecting to our time at the cabin, but we try not sugarcoat the world too much. The girls seemed mostly okay with the idea of hunting. They already know they're eating animals when we have meat for dinner, so it wasn't a great leap to explaining how that meat comes to be on your plate. I haven't yet told them how the current practices of industrial farming work, which of course makes hunting seem not just okay, but downright saintly, but we'll get there. Or we'll take up hunting. + +The other nice thing about having a cabin to stay in is that we could work on and organize the bus without upending our entire living area. And yes, we've already figured out enough about what works, what doesn't and what we need to change and rearrange to warrant more or less unpacking the entire thing and re-organizing. + + + +I also had time to finish up the plumbing so now the toilet flushes without needing to turn on the shower nozzle. And, much more exciting, we have, wait for it, hot water. Luxury living. The last bit of plumbing to do is tying the water tank we don't yet own and water pump into the city water system, but I won't be tackling that for a while. + +I also went ahead and made the wiper blade work with the wiper arm. As much as I was looking forward to doing that in a hurry, at the side of the road, in the rain, I decided, meh, what the heck, I'll do it ahead of time. This trip is turning me into a regular boy scout. Now if only I could find the source of the transmission fluid leak. + +[^1]: When you pass a truck and cut over right in front of them, it is only by the grace of whatever god you believe in that you continue to exist. There's no way the truck could stop in time if it had to; the way some people do it there wouldn't even be time to hit the brakes before the truck drove over you. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/austin-part-one.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/austin-part-one.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bb19d9a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/austin-part-one.html @@ -0,0 +1,578 @@ + + + + + Austin, Part One - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Austin, part one

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    Bastrop, Texas, U.S.

    + – Map +
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    I grew up spending a lot of time outdoors. Camping, hiking, and later, backpacking, rock climbing, and mountaineering. The latter two activities ended up consuming more and more of my time as I got older. I chose the first college I went to chiefly because it got me closer to some of the best rock climbing and mountaineering around in Joshua Tree National Park, the San Jacinto mountains and, a bit further but still accessible, the high sierra.

    +

    All I wanted to do was be in the mountains and, ideally, climb them. Since that wasn’t financially viable for me I did what I considered the next best thing, I worked at the North Face and mostly sat around reading books on Reinhold Messner, Conrad Anker, Edmund Hillary, Alex Lowe, Galen Rowell and others. I even got to hang out with Ron Kauk when he gave a talk at our store. And of course I went climbing whenever I could. There was no “van life” crap back then, just dirt bag climbers sleeping in their cars out in Joshua Tree, the Buttermilks, Horseshoe Slabs, and Deadman’s.

    +

    Which is all just a little background on why, rather than writing about what we did for two weeks in the Austin Texas area, I’m writing about how absolutely mind blowing it is that Alex Honnold free soloed El Capitan.

    +

    Just in case you’re not familiar with what that means, it means that he climbed a 3000 foot rock face, alone with no ropes, no protection, no margin for error. He climbed it perfectly. You know that he did because if he hadn’t he’d be a bloody smear somewhere up the face of El Capitan.

    +

    While the sheer physicality of climbing for three hours and fifty-six minutes with no break is impressive, to me it’s nothing next to the mental strength and absolute confidence it takes to even consider doing something like that, let alone doing it. If that doesn’t blow your fucking mind then I have to say, I think you’re probably not wired up quite right.

    +

    Anyway, we drove across more of Texas.

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    + + The open road, texas photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + travco dashboard, texas photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + directions, somewhere in texas photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + 1969 dodge travco, rest area, somewhere in texas photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The plan was to spend a while hanging around the Austin area, but we’re not very good planners. We forgot about Memorial day and couldn’t get a place to camp in Austin. We ended up just east of Austin, near Bastrop which had a space and was close enough to drive into town. We tried to take the kids to a children’s museum, but it was so crowded it was no fun for anyone.

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    + + children's museum, austin, tx photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + children's museum, austin, tx photographed by luxagraf + +
    “Me ready to go.”
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    We bailed out of that and headed out to Pioneer Farm, an all-volunteer effort to preserve a little slice of Texas (and more broadly, American) history with historic buildings, re-enactments and a working farm and blacksmith shop. Much more to the kids’ liking.

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    + + oil lamp, pioneer farm, austin, tx photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + pioneer farm, austin, tx photographed by luxagraf + +
    Given space kids can make a game out of anything, even an open window.
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    + + building, pioneer farm, austin, tx photographed by luxagraf + +
    They don’t build them like they used to.
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    + + pioneer farm, austin, tx photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + black and white photographed by luxagraf + +
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    The rest of the time we hung around camp and sweated.

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    + + riding bike, buscher state park photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + wildflowers of texas drawing photographed by luxagraf + +
    This time of year Texas roads are flanked by huge fields of wildflowers, which get translated to crayon.
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    + + wildflowers of texas drawing photographed by luxagraf + +
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    It finally got hot while we were in Bastrop. Really hot. One day the weather said it was 97 degrees and the “feels like” was at 116. What better day to go to a dinosaur park and walk around in the hot sun for a few hours? Made me miss Matt and Debi who would definitely have been up for some heat. Surprisingly though it wasn’t empty, there were more than a few Texans just as crazy as us, which was impressive.

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    + + dinosaur park, bastrop, tx photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + dinosaur nest, dinosaur park, bastrop, tx photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + dinosaur egg, dinosaur park, bastrop, tx photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + trex mouth, dinosaur park, bastrop, tx photographed by luxagraf + +
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    4 Comments

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    + Drew Eldridge + June 08, 2017 at 3:21 p.m. +
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    I knew you were into climbing but not to the extent. Youll have to talk to Sam about it sometime. As im typing he is out climbing with his coach at Foster Falls which is one of the best areas in the southeast. His coach is Wills Young who literally wrote the book on bouldering in Bishop, CA. https://www.amazon.com/Bishop-Bouldering-Wills-Young/dp/0982615418

    +

    His other coach is Wills’ wife Lisa Rands who was the number one female boulderer in the world

    +

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fc5JuQIcJOE

    +

    This is insane. +part 1 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BUQGSFN1rC4 +part 2 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XjoGRYFM6ZA

    +

    The confidence elite climbers have is second to none. And these climbers confidence is nothing compared to Alex Honnold.

    +

    Safe travels.

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    + Scott + June 08, 2017 at 6:06 p.m. +
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    @Drew-

    +

    Wow, those are some impressive coaches. I was never anywhere near those skill levels. Sam is probably already much better than I ever was.

    +

    I was really more into climbing the high peaks and big walls. I liked to be at the top of things when I was done. That was back in the mid to late ‘90s when a lot of first assents were being done in Torres del Paine and other exotic places, which sort of started the world travel desire. I trained twice to do half dome, but both times it didn’t work out. Then my main partners moved away (both because guides, one still is) and I just sorta stopped climbing.

    +

    But I’m going to see if my parents can bringing my old climbing shoes out in a couple months when we meet up. I thought I’d see if they still fit 20 years later…

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    + Drew Eldridge + June 09, 2017 at 9:31 a.m. +
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    It they fit (and you make it back out east) we will get out sometime. Im not much of a climber, but im a hell of a belayer.

    +

    Id love to go to Whiteside in NC sometime. Ive never done anything over 1 pitch. We were supposed to climb Castleton tower in Moab this Spring, but Sam had a 102 temp.

    +

    Whiteside has some 6-10 pitch stuff. and one line that supposed to be an insanely perfect 500 foot 5.8

    +

    https://www.mountainproject.com/v/whiteside-mountain/105965576

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    + Scott + June 09, 2017 at 7:40 p.m. +
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    Definitely. Multi-pitch 5.8s are pretty much what I chased all over the place. A nice crack with couple traverses, maybe a bit of 5.9 here and there… that was my happy stuff.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/austin-part-one.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/austin-part-one.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..80d5b82 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/austin-part-one.txt @@ -0,0 +1,54 @@ +Austin, part one +================ + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Tuesday, 30 May 2017 + +I grew up spending a lot of time outdoors. Camping, hiking, and later, backpacking, rock climbing, and mountaineering. The latter two activities ended up consuming more and more of my time as I got older. I chose the first college I went to chiefly because it got me closer to some of the best rock climbing and mountaineering around in Joshua Tree National Park, the San Jacinto mountains and, a bit further but still accessible, the high sierra. + +All I wanted to do was be in the mountains and, ideally, climb them. Since that wasn't financially viable for me I did what I considered the next best thing, I worked at the North Face and mostly sat around reading books on Reinhold Messner, Conrad Anker, Edmund Hillary, Alex Lowe, Galen Rowell and others. I even got to hang out with Ron Kauk when he gave a talk at our store. And of course I went climbing whenever I could. There was no "van life" crap back then, just dirt bag climbers sleeping in their cars out in Joshua Tree, the Buttermilks, Horseshoe Slabs, and Deadman's. + +Which is all just a little background on why, rather than writing about what we did for two weeks in the Austin Texas area, I'm writing about how absolutely mind blowing it is that Alex Honnold free soloed El Capitan. + +Just in case you're not familiar with what that means, it means that he climbed a 3000 foot rock face, alone with no ropes, no protection, no margin for error. He climbed it perfectly. You know that he did because if he hadn't he'd be a bloody smear somewhere up the face of El Capitan. + +While the sheer physicality of climbing for three hours and fifty-six minutes with no break is impressive, to me it's nothing next to the mental strength and absolute confidence it takes to even consider doing something like that, let alone doing it. If that doesn't blow your fucking mind then I have to say, I think you're probably not wired up quite right. + +Anyway, we drove across more of Texas. + + + + + + +The plan was to spend a while hanging around the Austin area, but we're not very good planners. We forgot about Memorial day and couldn't get a place to camp in Austin. We ended up just east of Austin, near Bastrop which had a space and was close enough to drive into town. We tried to take the kids to a children's museum, but it was so crowded it was no fun for anyone. + + + + +We bailed out of that and headed out to Pioneer Farm, an all-volunteer effort to preserve a little slice of Texas (and more broadly, American) history with historic buildings, re-enactments and a working farm and blacksmith shop. Much more to the kids' liking. + + + + + + + +The rest of the time we hung around camp and sweated. + + + + + +It finally got hot while we were in Bastrop. Really hot. One day the weather said it was 97 degrees and the "feels like" was at 116. What better day to go to a dinosaur park and walk around in the hot sun for a few hours? Made me miss Matt and Debi who would definitely have been up for some heat. Surprisingly though it wasn't empty, there were more than a few Texans just as crazy as us, which was impressive. + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/dauphin-island.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/dauphin-island.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a2d4486 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/dauphin-island.html @@ -0,0 +1,543 @@ + + + + + Dauphin Island - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Dauphin Island

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    Dauphin Island, Alabama, U.S.

    + – Map +
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    From Fort Pickens we headed inland, through Pensacola and up around Mobile Bay before heading back down to the coast and out to Dauphin Island.

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    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
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    I was not a fan of Dauphin Island. I mean it’s an island in the gulf, it’s not that bad. The beaches are nice enough, though nothing like what you’ll on the other side of Mobile Bay, in Florida. The ocean is brown here, from the rivers, but you can’t help feeling that it might be, as my daughter put it, “because Alabama is dirty?” No, it’s just the river, I swear.

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    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
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    Left to our own devices we’d have stayed one night and moved on, but we’d already made plans to meet up with some family who were nearby on a trip of their own. We ended up staying for four days. Sometimes it’s good to spend time in a place you’re not that fond of if only to better understand why you like the places you do. In this case it might just be a luck of geography, Florida got better sand and clearer water. But it might also be because Florida’s beaches have been better cared for and protected.

    +

    If you need any firsthand insight into the advantages of turning land over to federal management — currently very unpopular — head to Dauphin Island. There is no federally managed land on Dauphin Islands, just county land and in the grand scheme of tax money, counties typically don’t rake it in. To see the difference a generous budget can make, head over to Gulf Islands National Seashore, which, as the name suggests, is managed by the National Park Service.

    +

    Forget the part where the non-federal owned one is covered in houses and garbage while the federally owned one features relatively pristine beaches without a house in sight, all I want to contrast are the facilities and what you get for your money. For $28 in Gulf Islands you get a nice clean, level camp site with 50 amp, 30 amp and 20 amp hookups, along with good fresh water, a spacious picnic table, and a fire pit. Every day at 9 AM ranger comes and cleans the bathroom. This more or less the same as every other national park in the U.S.

    +

    For $42 a night at Dauphin Island Park & Beach Board you get a tiny sliver of land that hasn’t ever been leveled, will more than likely have giant roots you’ll need to navigate and a picnic table so small my three children under five barely fit on one side of it. Your neighbor’s RV will be just beyond arm’s reach. The electric service will max out at 30 amps and stop working at the first hint of rain. You’ll need to bring your own fire pit and the last time the bathrooms were cleaned at Dauphin Island RV Park Jimmy Carter was president1. The beach, which could be quite nice, will, inevitably, courtesy of your neighbors, almost every single one of whom will be from Alabama, be covered in trash, beer cans and whatever refuse happened to be used while said neighbors were at the beach. Because to an Alabaman Alabama is nothing so much as a giant trash can.

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    This actually extends from top to bottom from what I can see. Not only is trash everywhere, it gets celebrated in exhibits. About 25 percent of the local aquarium is more or less a pro-oil propaganda exhibit that spends most of its time highlighting all the ways in which oil can be cleaned up without ever showing a single picture of what an oil spill of the size of the Deep Water Horizon disaster actually looks like when it rolls ashore, nor mentions the devastation it has done to the local fishing industry which as more or less gone belly up and had to sell out to multinational corps since the accident. It’s so breathtakingly one-sided that you notice it.

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    Of course it’s not like we sat around miserable the whole time. As you can probably tell from the pictures we had a pretty good time. It’s not the worst place on earth after all, but there’s certainly many better in this world and we couldn’t wait to get to them.

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      The bathrooms are technically cleaned every day, they just don’t actually get any cleaner. ↩

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    6 Comments

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    + Linda Norman + May 11, 2017 at 8:01 p.m. +
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    So glad you stayed so we could see you!! 24 hours of bliss for us!!

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    + Scott + May 12, 2017 at 9:19 a.m. +
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    @Linda- Things got better when ya’ll got there.

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    + classical_liberal + May 15, 2017 at 10:02 a.m. +
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    Following along on your adventures. I’ve heard pretty good things about the Biloxi/Gulfport area. Are you continuing west on the coast? I’d be interested to read a contrast vs the disappointing Alabama coast.

    +

    As always, great photos! I’ve been considering giving photography a shot as a hobby since I, evidently, lack any artist ability with my hands. Photos have always spoke to me. What would you recommend for a frugal beginner to start?

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    + Scott + May 15, 2017 at 10:57 a.m. +
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    @classic_liberal-

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    Thanks for stopping by. So we did find some cool stuff in the Gulfport area, particularly Ocean Springs was nice. That’ll be the next post. Been too busy in New Orleans to get anything up lately, but I’ll get back to it this week.

    +

    For photos, I really don’t know. A lot of people say the gear doesn’t matter, which is true in the sense that a skilled photographer can make a great photo with any camera, but not entirely true in the sense that different size sensors are capable of different things.

    +

    That said, I would suggest getting something cheapish off ebay, not a point and shoot, but don’t spend a ton until you’re sure you like it. Micro 4/3 camera’s are a great place to start, lenses are cheap and work regardless of maker (i.e. panasonic lens work fine on Olympus cameras and vice versa, which is not true of other sensor sizes).

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    + +
    + gwen macallister + May 16, 2017 at 9:13 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    My only context for Dauphin Island before reading your post is a poem of the same name that I love by southern poet Jeff Hardin. You have kind of destroyed the lovely image I had of it due to the poem. At least I know not to visit now! Enjoying following your journey and the great photos.

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    + Scott + May 16, 2017 at 9:42 p.m. +
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    + +

    @gwen- Hey, thanks for stopping by. That’s a nice poem. Not a Dauphin Island I recognized, but then I came very close to not publishing this because I hate to be negative about places. I should probably keep my mouth shut so to speak and say nothing so other people can discover for themselves without my coloring things ahead of time. It could just be me. It probably is just me. So don’t take my word for it :) In fact, I’d be sorta curious to go back, though I wouldn’t camp there. The campground is definitely a dump, I stand by that.

    +

    By the way, finished up Travels with Charley while I was at Dauphin Island, thanks for the recommendation.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/dauphin-island.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/dauphin-island.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0bd7438 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/dauphin-island.txt @@ -0,0 +1,47 @@ +Dauphin Island +============== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 03 May 2017 + +From Fort Pickens we headed inland, through Pensacola and up around Mobile Bay before heading back down to the coast and out to Dauphin Island. + + + +I was not a fan of Dauphin Island. I mean it's an island in the gulf, it's not that bad. The beaches are nice enough, though nothing like what you'll on the other side of Mobile Bay, in Florida. The ocean is brown here, from the rivers, but you can't help feeling that it might be, as my daughter put it, "because Alabama is dirty?" No, it's just the river, I swear. + + + + + +Left to our own devices we'd have stayed one night and moved on, but we'd already made plans to meet up with some family who were nearby on a trip of their own. We ended up staying for four days. Sometimes it's good to spend time in a place you're not that fond of if only to better understand why you like the places you do. In this case it might just be a luck of geography, Florida got better sand and clearer water. But it might also be because Florida's beaches have been better cared for and protected. + +If you need any firsthand insight into the advantages of turning land over to federal management -- currently very unpopular -- head to Dauphin Island. There is no federally managed land on Dauphin Islands, just county land and in the grand scheme of tax money, counties typically don't rake it in. To see the difference a generous budget can make, head over to Gulf Islands National Seashore, which, as the name suggests, is managed by the National Park Service. + +Forget the part where the non-federal owned one is covered in houses and garbage while the federally owned one features relatively pristine beaches without a house in sight, all I want to contrast are the facilities and what you get for your money. For $28 in Gulf Islands you get a nice clean, level camp site with 50 amp, 30 amp and 20 amp hookups, along with good fresh water, a spacious picnic table, and a fire pit. Every day at 9 AM ranger comes and cleans the bathroom. This more or less the same as every other national park in the U.S. + +For $42 a night at Dauphin Island Park & Beach Board you get a tiny sliver of land that hasn't ever been leveled, will more than likely have giant roots you'll need to navigate and a picnic table so small my three children under five barely fit on one side of it. Your neighbor's RV will be just beyond arm's reach. The electric service will max out at 30 amps and stop working at the first hint of rain. You'll need to bring your own fire pit and the last time the bathrooms were cleaned at Dauphin Island RV Park Jimmy Carter was president[^1]. The beach, which could be quite nice, will, inevitably, courtesy of your neighbors, almost every single one of whom will be from Alabama, be covered in trash, beer cans and whatever refuse happened to be used while said neighbors were at the beach. Because to an Alabaman Alabama is nothing so much as a giant trash can. + +This actually extends from top to bottom from what I can see. Not only is trash everywhere, it gets celebrated in exhibits. About 25 percent of the local aquarium is more or less a pro-oil propaganda exhibit that spends most of its time highlighting all the ways in which oil can be cleaned up without ever showing a single picture of what an oil spill of the size of the Deep Water Horizon disaster actually looks like when it rolls ashore, nor mentions the devastation it has done to the local fishing industry which as more or less gone belly up and had to sell out to multinational corps since the accident. It's so breathtakingly one-sided that you notice it. + + + + + + + + +
    + + + + + +
    + + + +Of course it's not like we sat around miserable the whole time. As you can probably tell from the pictures we had a pretty good time. It's not the worst place on earth after all, but there's certainly many better in this world and we couldn't wait to get to them. + +[^1]: The bathrooms are technically cleaned every day, they just don't actually get any cleaner. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/davis-bayou.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/davis-bayou.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cfd76cc --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/davis-bayou.html @@ -0,0 +1,641 @@ + + + + + Davis Bayou - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    Davis Bayou

    + +
    +
    +

    Davis Bayou, Mississippi, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + marsh, davis bayou photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    One thing that we did like about Dauphin Island was the drive there. We’re not fans of long drives — too long for us is about four hours — and getting to Dauphin Island was just a two hour drive. We decided that was about right so we opted not to drive straight from Dauphin Island to New Orleans. Instead we noticed a little slice of the Gulf Islands National Seashore sitting roughly midway between the two.

    +

    We pulled into Davis Bayou around mid day and figured we’d spend a night or two and move on, but we wound up spending a week.

    +
    + + marsh, davis bayou photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + davis bayou photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    There is something very relaxing about marshes, or bayous as they call them down here. There’s a rhythm to life that lulls and comforts. The tide goes out, the tide goes in. The periwinkles go up the cordgrass, they go back down. If it’s sunny the alligators are on the log, if it’s not they’re in the water. You almost get the feeling that life is predictable. And then you watch a heron wading in the mud, like herons always do, when suddenly it trips and falls face first in the water and you remember that nothing is totally predictable, just rhythmic, one foot in front of the other.

    +
    + + trail, davis bayou photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + boy on trail, davis bayou photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + hiking in davis bayou photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Some places are like that, they lull you and keep you longer than you think. It wasn’t that there was much to do, there was a nice enough beach that the kids liked because this part of the Gulf is flat like a lake and has a long, shallow shelf so that you can walk out a hundred yards and only be in shin deep water. Annoying for people my size, perfect if you’re two.

    +
    + + eating a peach, ocean springs, ms photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + kids playing on the beach, ocean springs, ms photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    There was also a playground that proved popular, more popular than the beach in fact.

    +
    + + playground, ocean springs, ms photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + kids on a bench, ocean springs, ms photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + kids playing on playground, ocean springs, ms photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    One day we got some ice cream from a store. The owner basically shooed us away from the bench outside and gave us towels “so I don’t have to clean up”. To be fair, Elliott can be messy with his ice cream, but the guy didn’t need to be an asshole.
    +
    + +

    Ocean Beach was pretty nice, but like most places these days it had tons of rules signs. Pretty sure if you combined all these rules all you’d be able to do is still perfectly still until you died.

    +
    + + + + rules, ocean springs, ms photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + rules, ocean springs, ms photographed by luxagraf + + + + + +
    + + rules, ocean springs, ms photographed by luxagraf +
    One of the problems with so many rules is people tend to ignore them all, when there’s one that’s actually a sound rule to have.
    +
    + + +
    + +

    About half way through our stay we were chatting with the ranger who suggested we visit the children’s museum down near Gulfport. It ended up being really fun for the kids, with a ton of stuff tucked away in a massive old schoolhouse, even some face painting.

    +
    + + playing vet at the children's museum photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    “Sorry, not enough money”. Our children are into very realistic health care games.
    +
    + +
    + + kids playing at children's museum photographed by luxagraf + +
    Lilah giving one of her rare interviews.
    +
    + +
    + + Playing talking head photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + playing drums at the children's museum photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + face painting photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + face painting photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    A fair bit of the time we hung around the campground, I got some work done, the girls learned to ride bikes, explored the nature center, went on a hike and watched the random wildlife that stopped by our camp. All in all a pretty good week, but by the end we were ready to hit the road again.

    +
    + + playing in bus photographed by luxagraf + +
    “We’re baby sea turtles running to the sea.”
    +
    + +
    + + old time car with trailer photographed by luxagraf + +
    If I had that car I’d sure as heck get a cooler trailer. Still pretty cool though.
    +
    + +
    + + + + rabbit, davis bayou photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + raccoon, davis bayou photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    This is Jumpy. He or she was a pet for a few hours before making a dramatic escape.
    +
    + +
    + + The bus in Davis Bayou photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + eating bananas in the bus photographed by luxagraf + +
    “Hey dad, take my picture.”
    +
    + +
    + + eating bananas in the bus photographed by luxagraf + +
    “No, take *my* picture”. Clearly they already understand depth of field.
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    5 Comments

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    + Jeena + May 17, 2017 at 3:34 p.m. +
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    Very nice writeup and cute pictures!

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    + Scott + May 22, 2017 at 11:10 a.m. +
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    @jeena-

    +

    Thank you.

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    + Drew Eldridge + May 22, 2017 at 11:18 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Your DOF is awesome. Love keeping up here.

    +

    Your text under the photos looks like it is right centered. It cuts off the last couple of letters on full sentences on my screen- but that may just be mine.

    +

    Safe travels.

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    + Arva C Weinstein + May 22, 2017 at 4:47 p.m. +
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    LOVE love love the pictures!!!

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    + Scott + May 22, 2017 at 6:24 p.m. +
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    @drew-

    +

    Thanks, I went from micro 4/3 to full frame and I’m still a little obsessed with the DOF potential a huge sensor gets you. Most of these were shot with 50mm Canon f1.4 I got off ebay for $40.

    +

    And yeah, I’ve been unhappy with the caption design for a while anyway, I’ll make changing that a priority.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/davis-bayou.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/davis-bayou.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4fd25d9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/davis-bayou.txt @@ -0,0 +1,75 @@ +Davis Bayou +=========== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 08 May 2017 + + + +One thing that we did like about Dauphin Island was the drive there. We're not fans of long drives -- too long for us is about four hours -- and getting to Dauphin Island was just a two hour drive. We decided that was about right so we opted not to drive straight from Dauphin Island to New Orleans. Instead we noticed a little slice of the Gulf Islands National Seashore sitting roughly midway between the two. + +We pulled into Davis Bayou around mid day and figured we'd spend a night or two and move on, but we wound up spending a week. + + + + +There is something very relaxing about marshes, or bayous as they call them down here. There's a rhythm to life that lulls and comforts. The tide goes out, the tide goes in. The periwinkles go up the cordgrass, they go back down. If it's sunny the alligators are on the log, if it's not they're in the water. You almost get the feeling that life is predictable. And then you watch a heron wading in the mud, like herons always do, when suddenly it trips and falls face first in the water and you remember that nothing is totally predictable, just rhythmic, one foot in front of the other. + + + + + +Some places are like that, they lull you and keep you longer than you think. It wasn't that there was much to do, there was a nice enough beach that the kids liked because this part of the Gulf is flat like a lake and has a long, shallow shelf so that you can walk out a hundred yards and only be in shin deep water. Annoying for people my size, perfect if you're two. + + + + + +There was also a playground that proved popular, more popular than the beach in fact. + + + + + + +Ocean Beach was pretty nice, but like most places these days it had tons of rules signs. Pretty sure if you combined all these rules all you'd be able to do is still perfectly still until you died. + +
    + + + + + +
    + + + +About half way through our stay we were chatting with the ranger who suggested we visit the children's museum down near Gulfport. It ended up being really fun for the kids, with a ton of stuff tucked away in a massive old schoolhouse, even some face painting. + + + + + + + + + + +A fair bit of the time we hung around the campground, I got some work done, the girls learned to ride bikes, explored the nature center, went on a hike and watched the random wildlife that stopped by our camp. All in all a pretty good week, but by the end we were ready to hit the road again. + + + + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bcb5cf9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,125 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

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    +

    Archive: May 2017

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/keeps-rainin.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/keeps-rainin.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9f730c6 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/keeps-rainin.html @@ -0,0 +1,477 @@ + + + + + Keeps On A-Rainin’ - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Keeps on A-Rainin’

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    Huntsville State Park, Texas, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    We drove into Texas, still sticking to the back roads for the most part. I have some thoughts on driving in Texas, but I am not going to air them until I leave.

    +

    A while back someone asked what we do when it rains. At the time I didn’t know because, despite having some big storms come through in various places, it still hadn’t really rained during the day. In Huntsville it rained most of the day so now I know. When it rains, we put on raincoats and play in the rain.

    +
    + + + + Playing in the rain, Huntsville state park, tx photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Playing in the rain, Huntsville state park, tx photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + + Playing in the rain, Huntsville state park, tx photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Playing in the rain, Huntsville state park, tx photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +
    + + inside the bus in a storm, huntsville, tx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + rainy windshield photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    When that gets old we drive into the nearest town, have lunch, and check out the sights.

    +
    + + huntsville, tx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + huntsville, tx photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + huntsville, tx photographed by luxagraf + +
    First Lenin statue I had seen since Eastern Europe.
    +
    + +
    + + Aligators exist photographed by luxagraf + +
    Yes, but are they happy? Fulfilled? Satisfied?
    +
    + +

    Then we do something I’ve been pondering ever since Taylor and Beth served us cornbread waffles — would chocolate cake waffles work? Yes, yes it would1

    +
    + + waffle cake! photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + waffle cake! photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + waffle cake! photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Eventually the rain stops and then it’s back to life as usual exploring the outdoors.

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    + + visitor squirrel photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + scooter ride photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + dock, hunstville state park, tx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + dock, hunstville state park, tx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + bus, huntsville, tx photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + grumpy eaters photographed by luxagraf + +
    Not every dinner is enthusiastically received.
    +
    + +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      Our oven doesn’t work, so actual chocolate cake or cupcakes or whatever aren’t possible. I believe something is wrong with the thermostat, though I haven’t really spent much time investigating it yet. ↩

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/keeps-rainin.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/keeps-rainin.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..323ab3d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/keeps-rainin.txt @@ -0,0 +1,51 @@ +Keeps on A-Rainin' +================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Tuesday, 23 May 2017 + +We drove into Texas, still sticking to the back roads for the most part. I have some thoughts on driving in Texas, but I am not going to air them until I leave. + +A while back someone asked what we do when it rains. At the time I didn't know because, despite having some big storms come through in various places, it still hadn't really rained during the day. In Huntsville it rained most of the day so now I know. When it rains, we put on raincoats and play in the rain. + +
    + + + + + + + + +
    + + + + +When that gets old we drive into the nearest town, have lunch, and check out the sights. + + + + + + +Then we do something I've been pondering ever since Taylor and Beth served us cornbread waffles -- would chocolate cake waffles work? Yes, yes it would[^1] + + + + + +Eventually the rain stops and then it's back to life as usual exploring the outdoors. + + + + + + + + + + + +[^1]: Our oven doesn't work, so actual chocolate cake or cupcakes or whatever aren't possible. I believe something is wrong with the thermostat, though I haven't really spent much time investigating it yet. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/little-black-train.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/little-black-train.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0370604 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/little-black-train.html @@ -0,0 +1,426 @@ + + + + + Little Black Train - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Little Black Train

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    DeQuincy, Louisiana, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Leaving Palmetto Island meant that we had to make a directional decision. Heading south would mean more beach time, but a long road back up to Austin and then Dallas where we’re scheduled to meet up with Corrinne’s family. We decided to skip the Texas beaches for now. Temperatures have been rising beyond comfortable in the afternoon anyway, and one of the big appeals of Texas beaches is boondocking, which we can’t do yet because we still have no water tank.

    +

    So westward we go.

    +

    I’ve recently realized through a few internet conversations I’ve had with friends and family, that no one believes that we drive (whenever possible) back roads. It seems that when I say back roads people think I mean staying off the interstate in favor of state roads (usually two digit highways with four lanes). But no, that’s not how we roll, so to speak.

    +

    Admittedly, sometimes those highways are the only option, but when possible we go much smaller than that, stringing together routes using county roads, random streets and the occasional barely-a-road dirt track. I generally feel like a driving day should include at least one moment where we collectively think “there’s no way this is right” and then continue on anyway. To give you some flavor of what it’s like here’s an otherwise not very good photo from somewhere along our drive out of Palmetto Island, through Louisiana:

    +
    + + Driving the Atchafalaya basin photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Traveling this way is unquestionably slow (that 35 mph stretch above was probably at least 15 miles, not exactly covering ground in a hurry), but the advantage is that you get to stumble unto things you’d otherwise never find, like the wonderful railroad museum in DeQuincy Louisiana.

    +

    Coming into the otherwise unremarkable DeQuincy LA, I spotted a couple of train cars under a large metal covering. It looked interesting, but it was late in the day and I was pretty sure everyone was tired. I drove on past the first obvious turn toward it. A couple of red lights later though I saw a sign that said “railroad museum” and I thought what the hell, this is why we’re out here, randomness, even when you’re tired. I pulled down a small side street and parked the bus.

    +

    I popped in the Iron Horse pub where what turned out to be a few off duty railroad workers were enjoying a drink, or ten, and asked if the bus was okay where it was. Now, the thing I know about the bus is that it’s really hard to tow so it’s not like I’m worried about it disappearing, but I dislike offending the local citizenry so I always like to ask when I park it in places where it takes up a good bit of the available street.

    +
    + + travco outside the train museum dequincy louisiana photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Of course one does not simply point to the bus, ask a question and walk away. So I spent ten minutes or so hanging out, fielding engine questions (Dodge 318, nope, not the 440, that comes along in ‘72, 8.2mpg) and learning a tiny bit about railroad work. Most of the people there were not just railroad workers, but second and even third generation railroad workers. I also noticed a sign that said all canned beer was just $1 whenever a train went by the tracks just out front. This was the second time that having children has forced me to a different itinerary than I would have naturally picked. Left to my own devices I’d have never made it to the museum, but I bet I’d know a lot more about railroad workers.

    +
    + + train museum dequincy louisana photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Eventually I extracted myself and headed across the street to the museum. Corrinne and the kids were already inside what turned out to be the old station house. There were switches and time tables — most people don’t realize this but time zones, and accurate time keeping only exists because railroads demanded it1 — along with old typewriters, a telegraph, even a Burroughs adding machine.

    +
    + + train museum dequincy louisiana photographed by luxagraf + +
    “Dad, what’s that?” “Early email.” “What’s email?” “A way to write letters without mailing them” “Why?” “No idea.”
    +
    + +
    + + train museum dequincy louisiana photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + train museum dequincy louisiana photographed by luxagraf + +
    Because of the Poliovirus. Ironically a day later we would discover that Texas SP bathrooms lack soap dispensers. Health codes, hit or miss.
    +
    + +

    The kids, particularly Elliott, were drawn to the back room with the model railroad set up. Humans have come up with a lot of different ways of moving themselves around, but trains seem to catch kids’ imaginations in some way that most others do not.

    +
    + + train museum dequincy louisiana photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Eventually we started to head outside when the woman behind the counter intercepted us and gave us keys to the padlocks. “I have to go pick up my daughter from school,” she said, “just make sure you lock up when you’re done and put the keys in the mailbox.” We had free run of the place, which was cool, but I was more impressed with the trusting of strangers, how often does that happen in America anymore?

    +
    + + + train museum dequincy louisiana photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + train museum dequincy louisiana photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + train museum dequincy louisiana photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + inside of railroad car, dequincy railroad museum photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    We went in the railcar, poked around the engine a bit and looked in the cabooses as well. The kids seemed most enthralled by the mini train that gets used during the local “railroad days” festival. Sometimes you need something that’s more your size.

    +
    + + train museum dequincy louisiana photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    After looking around we locked up, dropped the key in the mailbox and headed on down the road.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      Most of what I know about what we call “time” — and just how downright strange and culturally-bound it turns out to be — comes from reading the excellent, A Geography Of Time, by Robert Levine. ↩

      +
      2. +
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    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
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    + + + +
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    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/little-black-train.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/little-black-train.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..49a3a5a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/little-black-train.txt @@ -0,0 +1,57 @@ +Little Black Train +================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Friday, 19 May 2017 + +Leaving Palmetto Island meant that we had to make a directional decision. Heading south would mean more beach time, but a long road back up to Austin and then Dallas where we're scheduled to meet up with Corrinne's family. We decided to skip the Texas beaches for now. Temperatures have been rising beyond comfortable in the afternoon anyway, and one of the big appeals of Texas beaches is boondocking, which we can't do yet because we still have no water tank. + +So westward we go. + +I've recently realized through a few internet conversations I've had with friends and family, that no one believes that we drive (whenever possible) back roads. It seems that when I say back roads people think I mean staying off the interstate in favor of state roads (usually two digit highways with four lanes). But no, that's not how we roll, so to speak. + +Admittedly, sometimes those highways are the only option, but when possible we go much smaller than that, stringing together routes using county roads, random streets and the occasional barely-a-road dirt track. I generally feel like a driving day should include at least one moment where we collectively think "there's no way this is right" and then continue on anyway. To give you some flavor of what it's like here's an otherwise not very good photo from somewhere along our drive out of Palmetto Island, through Louisiana: + + + +Traveling this way is unquestionably slow (that 35 mph stretch above was probably at least 15 miles, not exactly covering ground in a hurry), but the advantage is that you get to stumble unto things you'd otherwise never find, like the wonderful railroad museum in DeQuincy Louisiana. + +Coming into the otherwise unremarkable DeQuincy LA, I spotted a couple of train cars under a large metal covering. It looked interesting, but it was late in the day and I was pretty sure everyone was tired. I drove on past the first obvious turn toward it. A couple of red lights later though I saw a sign that said "railroad museum" and I thought what the hell, this is why we're out here, randomness, even when you're tired. I pulled down a small side street and parked the bus. + +I popped in the Iron Horse pub where what turned out to be a few off duty railroad workers were enjoying a drink, or ten, and asked if the bus was okay where it was. Now, the thing I know about the bus is that it's really hard to tow so it's not like I'm worried about it disappearing, but I dislike offending the local citizenry so I always like to ask when I park it in places where it takes up a good bit of the available street. + + + +Of course one does not simply point to the bus, ask a question and walk away. So I spent ten minutes or so hanging out, fielding engine questions (Dodge 318, nope, not the 440, that comes along in '72, 8.2mpg) and learning a tiny bit about railroad work. Most of the people there were not just railroad workers, but second and even third generation railroad workers. I also noticed a sign that said all canned beer was just $1 whenever a train went by the tracks just out front. This was the second time that having children has forced me to a different itinerary than I would have naturally picked. Left to my own devices I'd have never made it to the museum, but I bet I'd know a lot more about railroad workers. + + + +Eventually I extracted myself and headed across the street to the museum. Corrinne and the kids were already inside what turned out to be the old station house. There were switches and time tables -- most people don't realize this but time zones, and accurate time keeping only exists because railroads demanded it[^1] -- along with old typewriters, a telegraph, even a Burroughs adding machine. + + + + + +The kids, particularly Elliott, were drawn to the back room with the model railroad set up. Humans have come up with a lot of different ways of moving themselves around, but trains seem to catch kids' imaginations in some way that most others do not. + + + +Eventually we started to head outside when the woman behind the counter intercepted us and gave us keys to the padlocks. "I have to go pick up my daughter from school," she said, "just make sure you lock up when you're done and put the keys in the mailbox." We had free run of the place, which was cool, but I was more impressed with the trusting of strangers, how often does that happen in America anymore? + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +We went in the railcar, poked around the engine a bit and looked in the cabooses as well. The kids seemed most enthralled by the mini train that gets used during the local "railroad days" festival. Sometimes you need something that's more your size. + + + +After looking around we locked up, dropped the key in the mailbox and headed on down the road. + +[^1]: Most of what I know about what we call "time" -- and just how downright strange and culturally-bound it turns out to be -- comes from reading the excellent, A Geography Of Time, by Robert Levine. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/new-orleans-instrumental-number-1.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/new-orleans-instrumental-number-1.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..42415af --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/new-orleans-instrumental-number-1.html @@ -0,0 +1,591 @@ + + + + + New Orleans Instrumental Number 1 - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    New Orleans Instrumental Number 1

    + +
    +
    +

    New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    New Orleans is the last living city in the United States.

    +

    Every time I return here I am amazed that it is allowed to continue existing, that something so contrary to the rest of America has not been destroyed, locked up and disneyfied. But it hasn’t. Somehow the people here manage to carry their unique way of life on day after day in this amazing place. The people here shame the rest of us with their vibrancy, their community, their music, their love.

    +

    Must be hot as hell in August though.

    +
    + + new orleans collage photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We came in from the east, on 90 which takes its time wandering through all the bayous the interstate passes right over. Highway 90 cuts out to the very edge where the last of the bayous gives way to the sea. The islands are thin little wafers out here, you feel exposed and vulnerable just driving them, as if at any given moment the sea is going rise up and take them back. But it doesn’t. Hasn’t yet. There are houses here that are obviously from at least 50 years ago. My favorite was the one with a message that felt aimed directly at today’s AirBnBer: “It’s a camp, not a condo.”

    +

    I didn’t track which bridge finally brought us into the city, but I do know that the minute we were at the high point I was hit with a smell so strong for a minute I thought something was wrong with the bus, but no, it was just New Orleans and some curious melange of oyster poboys, truck brakes, shrimp boats, fried dough, flashy new taco trucks and Vietnamese restaurants, all trapped inside a couple bends of the Mississippi by some mysterious force of voodoo. It has it’s own fragrance, unbottleable and only available here.

    +

    Driving into the city in the bus was an experience I can’t really do justice to with just words. People everywhere honk and wave and call out to me when I’m driving the bus. It happens half a dozen times every day I drive it, often more. But getting through New Orleans topped everything else before it and I suspect after it. The bus was especially a hit in the Treme, which I’ll be honest, made me feel good. Because yeah, of course I drove right through the heart of the city. How else would you cross it? I even had one woman have a five minute conversation with me at a stop light about camping out west who ended it with a simple, ‘okay, you ahright, you ahright son’. I hope so.

    +

    We stayed at Bayou Segnette State Park on the west bank, which is nice enough, but forgettable save the fact that it’s a 10 minute drive from the French Quarter.

    +

    The first day we took the ferry in from Algiers in part to let the kids ride a ferry and in part because I’ve been curious to see Algiers ever since I heard the name in a Grant Lee Buffalo song decades ago. It lived up to my vision of it, complete with hundred year old bars possibly full of hundred year old sailors. I didn’t want to spoil the image in my head so I didn’t go in.

    +
    + + Algers ferry, New Orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Algers ferry, New Orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Algers ferry, New Orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Instead we crossed the river to Vieux Carré which still amazes me because it is both itself and a parody of itself at the same time and somehow manages to do both very well. It’s cheesy and full of tourists, but it’s also a really part of the city and full of locals. It might be the strangest tourist destination I’ve ever been to and I love it.

    +
    + + river front, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Playing on statues, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Playing on statues, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I also love that I keep coming back here and finding a different New Orleans. All the old ones I’ve found are still there too, I even took a picture of the diner my friend Mike hung out at 20 years ago when we passed through. We had a huge fight about something or other and I left him in the French Quarter to stew for half a day or so. He ended up at the diner below. At least I like to think it’s the same diner. Eventually I came back and found him hanging out here with the largest man I’ve ever met who was named Earl and rather sweet on Mike I believe. There was something about a toothless bum too. He got some good stories out of it, me, all I got was another tank of gas. This time around we got some tater tots and fries.

    +
    + + + Diner, New Orleans photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + at the diner, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + at the diner, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    This was my first time in New Orleans with kids, which changed things a little bit. I like to get a coffee or a drink and just watch the people drift by on the streets, which we did do a couple times, but never for more than about 10 minutes. Because kids.

    +
    + + eating treats at Envie, New orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    We didn’t get to stay long, but we did stop in at one of my favorite people watching spots, Envie.
    +
    + +
    + + Walking Decatur st new orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    While sitting in one place is not their thing, they had no trouble walking. They walked the streets of the French Quarter from one end to the other and back again almost daily. In the heat the of the day. They were enthralled the whole time. And they slept well after ward. I shake my head every time I see someone with a 3 or 4 year old in stroller, what a lost opportunity . There aren’t many places in America with so much going on on the streets. New Orleans is vibrant and alive, like kids.

    +

    I tried to get a little history in the kids, we stopped by the Jean Lafitte Museum and the kids got another stamp in their NPS passport books. The museum also has a small courtyard of the sort you find in New Orleans, something I’d been trying to explain for a while, but which is best understood by seeing one.

    +
    + + Listening to New Orleans History photographed by luxagraf + +
    She picked up the phone to her left, listened for a minute and said, “hey, this one is just about soup”.
    +
    + +

    But mostly they just wanted to hang around Jackson Square, listen to the music and watch the living statues, which the girls developed a minor obsession with for a few days, playing living statue whenever we were back in camp.

    +
    + + Brand playing in Jackson Square, New Orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    The Free Spirit Brass Band was pretty damn good. You can listen to them on youtube.
    +
    + +
    + + watching music in Jackson Square photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Living statue, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    For a $1 the living statue hands out tiny messages, Olivia’s said “enjoy your piece of peace”.
    +
    + +
    + + pretending to be a living statue photographed by luxagraf + +
    The hat is full of little scraps of paper with messages written on them.
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + + crepes in the french market photographed by luxagraf +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + crepes in the french market, new orleans photographed by luxagraf +
    crepes in the french market, new orleans.
    +
    + + +     +
    + +

    The New Orleans we found this time was all over the map. Along with the French Quarter, City Park turned out to be a huge hit as was their trolley ride up there. There was something called Story Land, which, on our initial visit was closed, which caused much gnashing of teeth, but fortunately playgrounds never close so we were able to salvage the day.

    +
    + + Swings in City Park, New Orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + +
    + + climbing a tree, city park, new orleans photographed by luxagraf +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + climbing a tree, city park, new orleans photographed by luxagraf +
    All the playground equipment in the park didn’t hold their attention as long as this tree.
    +
    + + +     +
    + +
    + + ducks in city park, New Orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + taking notes photographed by luxagraf + +
    I carry a notebook around in my back pocket, but sometimes other people snatch it and add their own impressions.
    +
    + +
    + + cashew chicken in the bus photographed by luxagraf + +
    We might be out and about a lot, but the bus bookends our days.
    +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +

    1 Comment

    + + + + + + +
    + +
    + +
    + Drew Eldridge + May 30, 2017 at 10:14 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Awesome. Hello, my name is Drew Eldridge and Ive never been to NO! Your story makes me want to visit. I think im the right age to soak it all in.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/new-orleans-instrumental-number-1.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/new-orleans-instrumental-number-1.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..30927c6 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/new-orleans-instrumental-number-1.txt @@ -0,0 +1,87 @@ +New Orleans Instrumental Number 1 +================================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Friday, 12 May 2017 + +New Orleans is the last living city in the United States. + +Every time I return here I am amazed that it is allowed to continue existing, that something so contrary to the rest of America has not been destroyed, locked up and disneyfied. But it hasn't. Somehow the people here manage to carry their unique way of life on day after day in this amazing place. The people here shame the rest of us with their vibrancy, their community, their music, their love. + +Must be hot as hell in August though. + + + +We came in from the east, on 90 which takes its time wandering through all the bayous the interstate passes right over. Highway 90 cuts out to the very edge where the last of the bayous gives way to the sea. The islands are thin little wafers out here, you feel exposed and vulnerable just driving them, as if at any given moment the sea is going rise up and take them back. But it doesn't. Hasn't yet. There are houses here that are obviously from at least 50 years ago. My favorite was the one with a message that felt aimed directly at today's AirBnBer: "It's a camp, not a condo." + +I didn't track which bridge finally brought us into the city, but I do know that the minute we were at the high point I was hit with a smell so strong for a minute I thought something was wrong with the bus, but no, it was just New Orleans and some curious melange of oyster poboys, truck brakes, shrimp boats, fried dough, flashy new taco trucks and Vietnamese restaurants, all trapped inside a couple bends of the Mississippi by some mysterious force of voodoo. It has it's own fragrance, unbottleable and only available here. + +Driving into the city in the bus was an experience I can't really do justice to with just words. People everywhere honk and wave and call out to me when I'm driving the bus. It happens half a dozen times every day I drive it, often more. But getting through New Orleans topped everything else before it and I suspect after it. The bus was especially a hit in the Treme, which I'll be honest, made me feel good. Because yeah, of course I drove right through the heart of the city. How else would you cross it? I even had one woman have a five minute conversation with me at a stop light about camping out west who ended it with a simple, 'okay, you ahright, you ahright son'. I hope so. + +We stayed at Bayou Segnette State Park on the west bank, which is nice enough, but forgettable save the fact that it's a 10 minute drive from the French Quarter. + +The first day we took the ferry in from Algiers in part to let the kids ride a ferry and in part because I've been curious to see Algiers ever since I heard the name in a Grant Lee Buffalo song decades ago. It lived up to my vision of it, complete with hundred year old bars possibly full of hundred year old sailors. I didn't want to spoil the image in my head so I didn't go in. + + + + + + +Instead we crossed the river to Vieux Carré which still amazes me because it is both itself and a parody of itself at the same time and somehow manages to do both very well. It's cheesy and full of tourists, but it's also a really part of the city and full of locals. It might be the strangest tourist destination I've ever been to and I love it. + + + + + + +I also love that I keep coming back here and finding a different New Orleans. All the old ones I've found are still there too, I even took a picture of the diner my friend Mike hung out at 20 years ago when we passed through. We had a huge fight about something or other and I left him in the French Quarter to stew for half a day or so. He ended up at the diner below. At least I like to think it's the same diner. Eventually I came back and found him hanging out here with the largest man I've ever met who was named Earl and rather sweet on Mike I believe. There was something about a toothless bum too. He got some good stories out of it, me, all I got was another tank of gas. This time around we got some tater tots and fries. + +
    + + + + + +
    + +This was my first time in New Orleans with kids, which changed things a little bit. I like to get a coffee or a drink and just watch the people drift by on the streets, which we did do a couple times, but never for more than about 10 minutes. Because kids. + + + + +While sitting in one place is not their thing, they had no trouble walking. They walked the streets of the French Quarter from one end to the other and back again almost daily. In the heat the of the day. They were enthralled the whole time. And they slept well after ward. I shake my head every time I see someone with a 3 or 4 year old in stroller, what a lost opportunity . There aren't many places in America with so much going on on the streets. New Orleans is vibrant and alive, like kids. + +I tried to get a little history in the kids, we stopped by the Jean Lafitte Museum and the kids got another stamp in their NPS passport books. The museum also has a small courtyard of the sort you find in New Orleans, something I'd been trying to explain for a while, but which is best understood by seeing one. + + + + +But mostly they just wanted to hang around Jackson Square, listen to the music and watch the living statues, which the girls developed a minor obsession with for a few days, playing living statue whenever we were back in camp. + + + + + + +
    + + + + +
    + +The New Orleans we found this time was all over the map. Along with the French Quarter, City Park turned out to be a huge hit as was their trolley ride up there. There was something called Story Land, which, on our initial visit was closed, which caused much gnashing of teeth, but fortunately playgrounds never close so we were able to salvage the day. + + + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/new-orleans-instrumental-number-2.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/new-orleans-instrumental-number-2.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6a83f8c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/new-orleans-instrumental-number-2.html @@ -0,0 +1,528 @@ + + + + + New Orleans Instrumental Number 2 - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    New Orleans Instrumental Number 2

    + +
    +
    +

    New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    There are thin silvery white cracks in the clouds. They burn into the backs of your eyelids when you blink. Thunder arrives before you can count to three. It’s the crisp, crackling thunder that happens when you’re under a mile from lightning.

    +

    The bus is a sauna, windows shut tight and fogged, air conditioner already shut off. But I like watching the beads of water run down the vastness of windshield.

    +

    I have a bag packed and a rain jacket over it and I should probably go, but there’s something very peaceful about the clattering roar of rain on the roof, the rivulets of water running down the windows. The storm feels closer when you’re in here, you have to confront more of it when your walls are only two inches thick. Even more of it when your walls are made of nylon, which I know several people in this campground are doing right now. Compared to them, this is nothing. But then it is a cozy 105 degrees or so, which ruins the peacefulness.

    +
    + + rainbow over the bridge, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Eventually I go and find Corrinne and the kids in the bathroom with a few other people who had taken shelter, mostly because there was a tornado warning. I have my doubts about how much being in a bathroom would help you in a tornado — have you ever seen what a tornado can do to human structures, even concrete structures? — but I understand the basic human (animal?) need to huddle together in groups for some small sense of protection.

    +

    I dislike the whole notion of tornadoes. I’m from earthquake country. I like my disasters to come suddenly without warning and generally be over before you even know what happened. If you die, you probably won’t even know it. Tornadoes? I don’t know the first thing about tornadoes other than you get warned about them ahead of time, which, to me, is like telling some who’s afraid of flying that they’re statistically more likely to die on the way to airport. Thanks, now I have two things to be afraid of. I’m happy in my ignorance of pending tornadoes. I’ve seen what they can do and I don’t think I can outrun one, so why the hell are you “warning” me about them? Where am I possible going to go?

    +

    To the bathroom apparently. Which worked out well because we met a bunch of nice people there, particularly Taylor and Beth, some fellow full time RVers who turned out to know the only other person I’m aware of that lives full time in a Travco. We chatted, decided to meet up in New Orleans at some point and then the storm was over and everyone went their separate ways. We headed into to New Orleans to wander the French Quarter some more.

    +
    + + Walking the French quarter photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    More importantly though, a couple days later, we finally made it to Storyland out in City Park. It apparently has the world’s fastest carousel, according to my wife, and the world’s fastest slide according to my kids.

    +
    + + carousel, storyland, city park, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + + + carousel, storyland, city park, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + carousel, storyland, city park, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +
    + + storyland, city park, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + storyland, city park, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + three pigs storyland, city park, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + storyland, city park, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We couldn’t leave without doing something that’s become a pilgrimage of sorts for me — visiting Marie Laveau’s grave.

    +
    + + painting of Marie Laveau photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The so-called voodoo queen of New Orleans has been growing in popularity over the years, but she’s still a little obscure. The facts in her story are few and far between, but sometimes facts aren’t the most important part of a story. If you know your way around the occult scene at all you’ve probably heard of Marie Laveau. She’s sort of the patron saint of female occult power, because, let’s face it, male dominated religions rule our era.

    +

    But Marie Laveau seems to laugh in the face of all that. Born in 1801, mixed blood creole, she became a hairdresser to the wealthy — no small part of her power I’m sure — and was the city’s most famous practitioner of Voodoo. Even if you care nothing about Voodoo, and I don’t really, beyond the mild respect I hold for all animist/naturalist religious systems, Marie Laveau is fascinating because she wielded power in a culture that wouldn’t have otherwise given her any. But by all accounts she held considerable political power as a non-white woman in the early 19th century. Think what you will of the Vodun/Voodoo religion, it takes someone special to completely subvert their culture like that. And I have a fondness for cultural subversives.

    +

    I had been reading some books on Voodoo the first time I came to New Orleans in 1996 and was captivated by what little is known of her story. I dragged my friend Mike out to visit her grave in St. Louis Cemetery Number 1. At the time the neighborhood around the cemetery was a bit sketchy, sketchy enough that we had the only working car parked on the street. We also had the entire cemetery to ourselves. Marie Laveau’s grave was clearly visited, but not often, to judge by the flowers around it.

    +

    Years later, around 2003 I came back and it was much the same, but when Corrinne and I came in 2010, things had changed. There was a new stop light down the street with a new Valero station just past it. People walked the streets and new buildings were going up. Things were looking, if not quite gentrified, certainly headed in that direction. And now, sadly, the gentrification is complete. St. Louis Cemetery Number 1 is hemmed in on three sides by new construction and, worst part, you can no longer get to Marie Laveau’s grave.

    +

    Technically you can, you just have to pay $20 and take a tour with a guide. I’d sooner chew my leg off.

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    The money is a non-issue to me. Admittedly, it’s a bit steep. I certainly would not have paid $100 to get a family of five in, but I understand that part, it’s the “you must have a tour guide” bit the rubs me the wrong way. I hate tour guides. I hate having my experiences mediated through another person, especially someone who’s a professional mediator. I’d rather walk away and not show the kids Marie Laveau’s grave (despite building it up quite a bit) than have them experience it through someone else’s words. So we did. Walk away that is.

    +

    We did a bit of research and it turns out people were desecrating graves, pulling out bones and what not and the Catholic church decided that money and tour guides was the solution to that problem. The thing is, people have always done that. Depending on which occult text you trust Marie Laveau’s bones may not have even been in that grave for more than a couple days before 19th century grave robbers came seeking her bones (or her family moved her, again depending on which shakily documented story you want to believe). I’ve also toured quite a few Catholic churches where the bones of the dead had been dug up and rearranged by the Catholic Church itself, but I guess that’s out of fashion now, current hipster pope not withstanding.

    +

    Whatever the case Marie Laveau’s grave is a thing of the past for me. We opted to head to the New Orleans Voodoo Museum instead. Museum is something of a misnomer, it’s really just a tiny two room building with some shrines that (I assume) are actively used by Voodoo practitioners. At least they looked fairly actively used, we let the kids add a wish to one. It wasn’t quite as nice as visiting the grave would have been, but it gave them a sense of the flavor of Voodoo if you will. Or at least I like to think it did.

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    + + Voodoo shrines photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Voodoo shrines photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + + + Voodoo shrines photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Voodoo shrines photographed by luxagraf + + + +
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    Back at camp we met up with Taylor and Beth for dinner. Living in campgrounds is a little odd because while you meet tons of really nice people, who are almost always in a good mood (they’re on vacation after all), they never really want to hang out because, well, they’re on vacation. But fellow fulltimers… we meet up for dinner. So many thanks to Taylor and Beth for having us over for some delicious food and teaching us about a million tricks we didn’t know about living full time in an RV. Hopefully our paths will cross again soon.

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    2 Comments

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    + Drew Eldridge + June 01, 2017 at 2:27 p.m. +
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    Your best writing to date. Great story telling. I love this blog and always look forward to the next entry.

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    + Scott + June 01, 2017 at 5:16 p.m. +
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    @Drew-

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    Thanks man, glad you’re enjoying it.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/new-orleans-instrumental-number-2.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/new-orleans-instrumental-number-2.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..45080b8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/new-orleans-instrumental-number-2.txt @@ -0,0 +1,70 @@ +New Orleans Instrumental Number 2 +================================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 15 May 2017 + +There are thin silvery white cracks in the clouds. They burn into the backs of your eyelids when you blink. Thunder arrives before you can count to three. It's the crisp, crackling thunder that happens when you're under a mile from lightning. + +The bus is a sauna, windows shut tight and fogged, air conditioner already shut off. But I like watching the beads of water run down the vastness of windshield. + +I have a bag packed and a rain jacket over it and I should probably go, but there's something very peaceful about the clattering roar of rain on the roof, the rivulets of water running down the windows. The storm feels closer when you're in here, you have to confront more of it when your walls are only two inches thick. Even more of it when your walls are made of nylon, which I know several people in this campground are doing right now. Compared to them, this is nothing. But then it is a cozy 105 degrees or so, which ruins the peacefulness. + + + +Eventually I go and find Corrinne and the kids in the bathroom with a few other people who had taken shelter, mostly because there was a tornado warning. I have my doubts about how much being in a bathroom would help you in a tornado -- have you ever seen what a tornado can do to human structures, even concrete structures? -- but I understand the basic human (animal?) need to huddle together in groups for some small sense of protection. + +I dislike the whole notion of tornadoes. I'm from earthquake country. I like my disasters to come suddenly without warning and generally be over before you even know what happened. If you die, you probably won't even know it. Tornadoes? I don't know the first thing about tornadoes other than you get warned about them ahead of time, which, to me, is like telling some who's afraid of flying that they're statistically more likely to die on the way to airport. Thanks, now I have two things to be afraid of. I'm happy in my ignorance of pending tornadoes. I've seen what they can do and I don't think I can outrun one, so why the hell are you "warning" me about them? Where am I possible going to go? + +To the bathroom apparently. Which worked out well because we met a bunch of nice people there, particularly Taylor and Beth, some fellow full time RVers who turned out to know the only other person I'm aware of that lives full time in a Travco. We chatted, decided to meet up in New Orleans at some point and then the storm was over and everyone went their separate ways. We headed into to New Orleans to wander the French Quarter some more. + + + +More importantly though, a couple days later, we finally made it to Storyland out in City Park. It apparently has the world's fastest carousel, according to my wife, and the world's fastest slide according to my kids. + + + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + +We couldn't leave without doing something that's become a pilgrimage of sorts for me -- visiting Marie Laveau's grave. + + + +The so-called voodoo queen of New Orleans has been growing in popularity over the years, but she's still a little obscure. The facts in her story are few and far between, but sometimes facts aren't the most important part of a story. If you know your way around the occult scene at all you've probably heard of Marie Laveau. She's sort of the patron saint of female occult power, because, let's face it, male dominated religions rule our era. + +But Marie Laveau seems to laugh in the face of all that. Born in 1801, mixed blood creole, she became a hairdresser to the wealthy -- no small part of her power I'm sure -- and was the city's most famous practitioner of Voodoo. Even if you care nothing about Voodoo, and I don't really, beyond the mild respect I hold for all animist/naturalist religious systems, Marie Laveau is fascinating because she wielded power in a culture that wouldn't have otherwise given her any. But by all accounts she held considerable political power as a non-white woman in the early 19th century. Think what you will of the Vodun/Voodoo religion, it takes someone special to completely subvert their culture like that. And I have a fondness for cultural subversives. + +I had been reading some books on Voodoo the first time I came to New Orleans in 1996 and was captivated by what little is known of her story. I dragged my friend Mike out to visit her grave in St. Louis Cemetery Number 1. At the time the neighborhood around the cemetery was a bit sketchy, sketchy enough that we had the only working car parked on the street. We also had the entire cemetery to ourselves. Marie Laveau's grave was clearly visited, but not often, to judge by the flowers around it. + +Years later, around 2003 I came back and it was much the same, but when Corrinne and I came in 2010, things had changed. There was a new stop light down the street with a new Valero station just past it. People walked the streets and new buildings were going up. Things were looking, if not quite gentrified, certainly headed in that direction. And now, sadly, the gentrification is complete. St. Louis Cemetery Number 1 is hemmed in on three sides by new construction and, worst part, you can no longer get to Marie Laveau's grave. + +Technically you can, you just have to pay $20 and take a tour with a guide. I'd sooner chew my leg off. + +The money is a non-issue to me. Admittedly, it's a bit steep. I certainly would not have paid $100 to get a family of five in, but I understand that part, it's the "you must have a tour guide" bit the rubs me the wrong way. I hate tour guides. I hate having my experiences mediated through another person, especially someone who's a professional mediator. I'd rather walk away and not show the kids Marie Laveau's grave (despite building it up quite a bit) than have them experience it through someone else's words. So we did. Walk away that is. + +We did a bit of research and it turns out people were desecrating graves, pulling out bones and what not and the Catholic church decided that money and tour guides was the solution to that problem. The thing is, people have always done that. Depending on which occult text you trust Marie Laveau's bones may not have even been in that grave for more than a couple days before 19th century grave robbers came seeking her bones (or her family moved her, again depending on which shakily documented story you want to believe). I've also toured quite a few Catholic churches where the bones of the dead had been dug up and rearranged by the Catholic Church itself, but I guess that's out of fashion now, current hipster pope not withstanding. + +Whatever the case Marie Laveau's grave is a thing of the past for me. We opted to head to the New Orleans Voodoo Museum instead. Museum is something of a misnomer, it's really just a tiny two room building with some shrines that (I assume) are actively used by Voodoo practitioners. At least they looked fairly actively used, we let the kids add a wish to one. It wasn't quite as nice as visiting the grave would have been, but it gave them a sense of the flavor of Voodoo if you will. Or at least I like to think it did. + + + +
    + + + + +
    + +Back at camp we met up with Taylor and Beth for dinner. Living in campgrounds is a little odd because while you meet tons of really nice people, who are almost always in a good mood (they're on vacation after all), they never really want to hang out because, well, they're on vacation. But fellow fulltimers... we meet up for dinner. So many thanks to Taylor and Beth for having us over for some delicious food and teaching us about a million tricks we didn't know about living full time in an RV. Hopefully our paths will cross again soon. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/palmetto-island-state-park.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/palmetto-island-state-park.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b9c5025 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/palmetto-island-state-park.html @@ -0,0 +1,439 @@ + + + + + Palmetto Island State Park - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Palmetto Island State Park

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    Near Abbeville, Louisiana, U.S.

    + – Map +
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    From New Orleans we headed west through the bayou country, crossing from the Mississippi basin to the Atchafalaya river delta area where the Atchafalaya River meets the Gulf of Mexico. It’s a land of wide open fields, rice paddies, blue crab traps, great flocks of snowy egrets wading patiently through marshes. There’s hardly anyone living out here, the roads are thin strips of land barely above water level.

    +
    + + Driving the Atchafalaya basin photographed by luxagraf + +
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    Every now and then there are pockets of swamp, bald cypress trees in a lake of duckweed so thick it looks like you could walk across it.

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    + + bayou in palmetto island photographed by luxagraf + +
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    Palmetto Island State Park exists just inside one of these pockets of unfarmed land, though it is not full of bald cypress, but, as the name suggests, Saw Palmettos. It was the sort of place you can tell is going to be pretty nice just by the drive in, the road kep getting narrower and narrower, and rougher and rougher, sure signs of good things to come.

    +
    + + road, abbeville, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We came here just looking for a nice place to get some work done, with little entertainment for the kids, but it turned out to be one of the nicest campgrounds we’ve stayed in. It had the newest, cleanest facilities we’ve seen, there was even a leave-one-take-one library full of kids books that we used to swap out a books.

    +
    + + painting, Palmetto island, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I got some writing done, the kids played around the campsite in the mornings and then after lunch, when the heat and humidity was becoming a bit much we all headed over to the splashpad to cool off.

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    + + Splashpad, Palmetto Island, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Splashpad, Palmetto Island, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Splashpad, Palmetto Island, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Splashpad, Palmetto Island, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Splashpad, Palmetto Island, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Splashpad, Palmetto Island, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + climbing, palmetto island state park photographed by luxagraf + +
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    And just to liven things up a little, there were plenty of wild pigs running around. And bears. Supposedly, we did not see any.

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    + + Wild Pigs, Palmetto Island, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    Wait for me…
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    + +
    + + bedroom in the big blue bus photographed by luxagraf + +
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    The other part of the reason we came to Palmetto Island was to postpone a decision about our future direction. From here we could still go south to beaches of Texas, the Bolivar Peninsula, Galveston, Corpus Christie, or we could head due west, inland, toward Austin. There are good arguments to be made in favor of both, which is why we postponed the choice and came here.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/palmetto-island-state-park.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/palmetto-island-state-park.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4beb240 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/05/palmetto-island-state-park.txt @@ -0,0 +1,40 @@ +Palmetto Island State Park +========================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 18 May 2017 + +From New Orleans we headed west through the bayou country, crossing from the Mississippi basin to the Atchafalaya river delta area where the Atchafalaya River meets the Gulf of Mexico. It's a land of wide open fields, rice paddies, blue crab traps, great flocks of snowy egrets wading patiently through marshes. There's hardly anyone living out here, the roads are thin strips of land barely above water level. + + + +Every now and then there are pockets of swamp, bald cypress trees in a lake of duckweed so thick it looks like you could walk across it. + + + +Palmetto Island State Park exists just inside one of these pockets of unfarmed land, though it is not full of bald cypress, but, as the name suggests, Saw Palmettos. It was the sort of place you can tell is going to be pretty nice just by the drive in, the road kep getting narrower and narrower, and rougher and rougher, sure signs of good things to come. + + + +We came here just looking for a nice place to get some work done, with little entertainment for the kids, but it turned out to be one of the nicest campgrounds we've stayed in. It had the newest, cleanest facilities we've seen, there was even a leave-one-take-one library full of kids books that we used to swap out a books. + + + +I got some writing done, the kids played around the campsite in the mornings and then after lunch, when the heat and humidity was becoming a bit much we all headed over to the splashpad to cool off. + + + + + + + + + +And just to liven things up a little, there were plenty of wild pigs running around. And bears. Supposedly, we did not see any. + + + + + + + Arc Of Time - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Arc of Time

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    Chaco Canyon, New Mexico, U.S.

    + – Map +
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    I have only one note from Chaco Canyon1: the wind gusts, a light whistling sound through the thin curled leaves of creosote; in the interludes the stillness is filled with raven calls reverberating across the canyon, a conversation bouncing around sandstone, echoing in arroyos until, like everything else here, they fade into the darkness of the past.

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    + + Fajada butte, chaco canyon photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Sunrise, Chaco Canyon photographed by luxagraf + +
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    There is only so much one can say for sure here. Try to cling to some idea and it will slip through your fingers as another contradictory one arises. That something happened here once upon a time at Chaco is really all I or anyone else can say about this place.

    +

    There are ruins to prove that something happened. Great stone structures that have stood for over a thousand years in many cases. Once there were people, now there are stones. And ravens.

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    + + ravens, chaco canyon photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Chaco wash, Chaco canyon photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + + + Thousand year old walls, Chaco Canyon photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + hiking Chaco Canyon photographed by luxagraf + + + +
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    Craig Childs, whose book House of Rain I highly recommend2, recounts the various theories on what happened here. In the end there are nearly as many theories as archaeologists.

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    The evidence gathered from a century of digging and mapping can support nearly any speculation thrown at Chaco Canyon: religious center, military center, government center, economic center, ceremonials center — the list is extensive. The place is thought by some to have been a colony of churches, its numerous great houses exhibiting certain recurring features thought to be religious. The repetition of specific architectural designs could also be interpreted as a form imposed by a ruling elites, the abundance of goods as tithing. The outrageously copious artifacts found inside these great houses look like ritual paraphernalia: feathers and bones representing nearly every bird species found with a thousand mile radius; a large number of wooden staffs like shepherds crooks, their handles inlaid with fines stones; and many rooms filled precious, expertly crafted mementos, may of which were found positioned as if on alters.

    +

    Other people take the abundance to mean that Chaco was a commercial center, a pre-Colombian shopping mall built to redistributes good in the Southwests notoriously unstable environment. In that sense the buildings are seen as store houses with some rooms tacked nearly to the ceiling.

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    + + Pueblo bonita chaco canyon photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Pueblo bonita chaco canyon photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Pueblo bonita chaco canyon photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Pueblo bonita chaco canyon photographed by luxagraf + +
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    Probably all these theories are wrong. The first things to do at Chaco is accept that you cannot know.

    +

    The question that most nagged me in Chaco seemed simpler, but perhaps was not — why here? What was that lured so many people here, inspired them to some of the finest construction in North America in this otherwise rather unremarkable wash, one of about a dozen that come off the San Juan river in it’s path down off the Colorado Plateau.

    +

    That’s the question I pondered on the trails, walking through the dusty flatlands, up the rough, rocky climbs to the mesa tops where the sun is hot and relentless.

    +
    + + hiking Chaco Canyon photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Chaco wash, Chaco canyon photographed by luxagraf + +
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    Standing in thousand year old buildings tends to fill you with awe, it doesn’t matter if it’s Cambodia, Austria or New Mexico. As fragile, impermanent beings we’re drawn to permanence, we are inspired by by what we lack — sturdiness and longevity. Even today, when we could build with anything, we choose steel girders, concrete, and asphalt, imitations of stone. Because laying in and fitting stone like the builders of Chaco is labor intensive and time consuming, time we don’t seem to have. But they did.

    +
    + + Pueblo bonita chaco canyon photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Pueblo bonita chaco canyon photographed by luxagraf + +
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    The Chacoans had time. Not just for these buildings, but for even more labor intensive projects, like a network of roads running absolutely straight and true across the desert, possibly for thousands of miles. Raised stone road beds thirty to forty feet wide running for thousands of miles — even with modern technology that would likely take decades. How the Chocans did it remains a mystery, but the faint outlines of them can still be seen from space.

    +

    Similar head-scratching feats of design and building surround the builders of Angkor Wat, Machu Pichu, Teotihuacan and elsewhere. But there is something different about here, something extra about this place. You hear it in the murmur of the wind through creosote, you see it in the stone work of the greathouses. Something happened here, something happened in a way it never has again. Whatever these people saw, whatever they had access to, it was more than we do today. Their world was unutterably alien to ours and you feel it every second you are here.

    +

    You should come here. You should sit here and consider it. Don’t worry about the heat, it is everywhere. You will make peace with it. Or you will die in it, either way there is no need to worry about it. It will be here. You must come when it is here. You will not know the core of this place if you do not come in the heat.

    +

    Some archaeologists think these citadels may have been painted white. Gleaming white beacons rising out of the shimmering mirage of heat. It must have been something to arrive here having walked from Mexico, California, The Gulf Coast and all the other places for which there is evidence that people came.

    +
    + + mesa, Chaco canyon photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We hiked in the mornings, climbing up the canyon walls, while there was still some shade to be had, and up on to the mesa where there was none. Or so it seems at first glance. But then you look closer, you start to think differently, you realize you could crawl up under that juniper tree and get a break from the sun, you see ledges in the rocks where you could wedge yourself flat against what might still be cool sandstone. There are escapes here, but you will have to work for them.

    +

    Chaco remains largely off the grid. The road in from the north is rough enough that it takes nearly an hour to drive 13 miles. And the first two miles are paved, so really it takes about 50 minutes to drive 11 miles. That’s part of the remoteness, but there is more. There’s something about this wash that once you are in it it consumes your past in some way, you are no longer just you, you are you in Chaco.

    +

    This is one of those places that can influence things. It seems to have a will about it, whether it’s the place or some echo of the people who were here I could not say, but if you come here you will feel it.

    +

    You might see some things you’re pretty sure aren’t there. They are there. Everything is here.

    +

    The first day we left early to stay out of the heat, we headed up the eastern wall of the main wash, no real destination in mind, simply following that ancient human need to get to high point and survey the land, wrap your head about where you are.

    +
    + + + + hiking Chaco Canyon photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + hiking Chaco Canyon photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + view from the mesa, chaco canyon photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Pueblo bonita chaco canyon photographed by luxagraf + + +
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    + + view from the mesa, chaco canyon photographed by luxagraf + +
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    We stuck to the trail for a good while, then we deviated. Chaco is the most tightly controlled national parkish area I’ve ever been in. In my experience National Parks typically have a tightly controlled area, generally around whatever the feature of the park is — Yosemite valley, Sequoia trees, the grand canyon, etc — and then the backcountry is more or less unregulated, at least in terms of where you can go. Not enough people venture beyond the first mile of trail to bother regulating the backcountry too much.

    +

    Not true here.

    +

    It’s still true that no ventures beyond that first mile, but here the backcountry is regulated just like the rest. There’s not even overnight camping allowed in the backcountry. It’s a little bit like being a kid again (not in a good way), you have to be home by sunset and you’re not to detour from the trail. Ever.

    +

    We might have gotten lost you could say. There was a tiny wash, up near the end of it I spied an overhang that promised at least shade, perhaps more. I could not say, we did not make it. The kids are kids after all. They tuckered out in the heat and the soft sand of the wash, which was just wide enough to look trail-like, plausible deniability should we have run into a ranger. I can do a mean dumb tourist when I need to. But no ranger came for us, just the heat and the exhaustion it brings. We ate a snack, rested on some rocks. Every now and then a breeze would puff our sweaty clothes like air conditioning. It was wonderful. Then we gathered up our things and walked back.

    +
    + + hiking Chaco Canyon photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + view from the bus, chaco canyon photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Campground, Chaco canyon photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Campground, Chaco canyon photographed by luxagraf + +
    Post hike tacos
    +
    + +

    The campground is tucked back in a tributary wash, up against a short sandstone bluff, wedge between the road and some 900-odd-year-old buildings tucked back under an overhang. About 30 feet up the wall to the right of the buildings are some petroglyphs, some ancient, some recent.

    +

    In another of Craig Child’s books, Finder’s Keepers, about the rather outrageous world of archaeology, artifacts and the people obsessed with them, Childs recounts a story he heard from a flamboyant and occasionally flagrantly law breaking Santa Fe antiquities dealer who invited over a bunch of archaeologists and local pueblo tribal leaders for a barbecue party. Half way through the party the host announced that food everyone was eating was grilled over a fire built with charcoal from a dig on private land — 1000 year old charcoal used to grill up some burgers in a backyard in Santa Fe. The archaeologists all went pale and started to toss their food in outrage. The tribal leaders just smiled and shook their heads.

    +

    What does that mean? I don’t know. I wonder though, was that charcoal made 1000 years ago perhaps as part of a backyard barbecue? Would that charcoal maker by mortified or satisfied to know that 1000 years later it finally seared some meat?

    +

    In America we experience the past mainly as a roped off thing, something carefully catalogued and carted off to museums where only a fraction of it ever visible to people like you and I. In Chaco the past is right here, all around you, you step into it, you are part of it. The big artifacts are gone, that’s true. The rooms are bare, the pots, baskets and mysterious staffs, to say nothing of the bones, have been carted off to the Peabody and elsewhere. The walls of the ruins by the road are reinforced with modern concrete, the kivas roped off, but it’s surprisingly easy to leave that behind and get out to the real ruins.

    +

    The second day we climbed the south mesa. It was slightly more accessible, though still pretty much straight up the side of mesa. We went a couple of miles on the mesa until we spied an overhang with just enough shade for all of us to eat lunch out of the sun. Corrinne wandered off for a while, down the hillside, until she found some potsherds.

    +
    + + hiking Chaco Canyon photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + mesa, Chaco canyon photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + shade under a juniper, chaco canyon photographed by luxagraf + +
    shade under a juniper
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + + hiking Chaco Canyon photographed by luxagraf +
    Our guide.
    +
    + + + + +
    + + hiking Chaco Canyon photographed by luxagraf +
    +
    + + +     + + + + potsherds, chaco canyon photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    They are everywhere here, if you have an eye for them. I do not, but she does. That is some of what makes Chaco special, it has not all be catalogued and carted off, most of it perhaps, but there is still plenty here all around you. We held the potsherds and then put them back where they had been so you can come and find them too.

    +

    If Chaco Canyon has a disappointment it’s the visitor center, or rather it’s the official line the visitor center takes on the demise of the Chaco culture. There’s a movie in which someone actually says “it’s amazing that they could just walk away from all this, think of the strength it would take to just walk away.” It’s amazing because that’s utter bullshit. No one has ever just walked away from any civilization. Like everything else civilizations rise, hit an apex and then decline. They follow the same pattern over and over again. The Greeks, the Romans, India, China, Mesoamerica, every civilization for which have even the faintest historical records has followed a nearly identical trajectory. If you don’t believe me set aside a couple of months and tackle Arnold Toynbee’s A Study of History.

    +

    Chaco’s decline was likely as bumpy, violent and unpleasant as that of the rest of humanity’s experiments in civilization. No one just walks away, and to pretend otherwise says far more about our culture and its stubborn insistence that it will not, cannot decline, even in the face of increasingly difficult to ignore signs of its decline, than it does about Chacoan culture. Skip the visitor center.

    +

    Stay outside instead. The truth of this place is not behind glass, not in books, it is out here in the wind, in the heat. Go to the stones that remain, step inside, find the cool of the shade, feel the breeze that comes through doorways even on the stillest afternoon, the temperature difference between outside and the rooms deepest within creates a breeze to this day, the way I assume its builders intended.

    +

    Walk the mesas if you can, look for shade and you will probably find you are not the first to spy whatever shady spot you spy. You may find ruins, you may only find rodent droppings and the impressions of something larger that lay in the sand, a deer perhaps, a mountain lion possibly. Whatever you find, know that you are not the first to walk here or anywhere else. Like those who passed before you step softly, walk quietly, and remember to listen.

    +

    Note: If Chaco sounds at all interesting to you, I highly recommend first reading House of Rain.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      luxagraf is created by piecing together half-legible thought fragments scribbled in tattered notebook that lives in my pocket. ↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      Rather conspicuously absent from the Chaco bookstore, despite stocking Finder’s Keepers. I suspect because Childs does not sugar coat the archaeological evidence that suggests that late Chacoan history was marked by violence and decline, which is very much not part of the narrative the visitor center presents. But then I could be wrong, maybe they were just sold out. ↩

      +
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    4 Comments

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    + Mike &a Patsy Wall + July 28, 2017 at 9:17 a.m. +
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    So glad you and your family are enjoying your adventure. Folks in Winder, Georgia are praying for your travels to be safe and worry free. Love reading your accounts of all that you are seeing and experiencing. Have fun and be safe!

    + +
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    + Arva C Weinstein + July 31, 2017 at 1:20 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Wow, what an adventure. I love your little tour guide though he’s looking a bit more like a kid than a baby these days. The photos are amazing, kinda reminds me of my trip to Egypt, being priviledged enough to walk thru the ruins, being a part of an ancient culture. What an experience for you all. Continue to enjoy and keep us posted!

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    + Scott + August 05, 2017 at 9:09 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Arva-

    +

    He is looking more like a kid isn’t he. And Egypt is one place I’d love to go. We’ll just have to ship the bus over. :-)

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    + classical_liberal + December 01, 2017 at 7:29 p.m. +
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    I had to reread this; the first reading inspired a trip of my own last month. It was awe inspiring, Thanks.

    +

    A couple weeks before my trip the north road had washed out (I did not know this, should’ve called?… naw) and had a hard time getting in with my old Japanese s**tbox. I had to move some rocks into large ruts the size of my tires to get through. The few folks in the campground met me with enthusiasm since they were amazed I got in without a 4WD vehicle.

    +

    I should have planned for longer as I only spent two nights, but it’s a trip I will never forget.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/arc-time.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/arc-time.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b8dea0a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/arc-time.txt @@ -0,0 +1,133 @@ +Arc of Time +=========== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 28 June 2017 + +I have only one note from Chaco Canyon[^1]: the wind gusts, a light whistling sound through the thin curled leaves of creosote; in the interludes the stillness is filled with raven calls reverberating across the canyon, a conversation bouncing around sandstone, echoing in arroyos until, like everything else here, they fade into the darkness of the past. + + + + +There is only so much one can say for sure here. Try to cling to some idea and it will slip through your fingers as another contradictory one arises. That something happened here once upon a time at Chaco is really all I or anyone else can say about this place. + +There are ruins to prove that something happened. Great stone structures that have stood for over a thousand years in many cases. Once there were people, now there are stones. And ravens. + + + +
    + + + + +
    + + +Craig Childs, whose book House of Rain I highly recommend[^2], recounts the various theories on what happened here. In the end there are nearly as many theories as archaeologists. + +> The evidence gathered from a century of digging and mapping can support nearly any speculation thrown at Chaco Canyon: religious center, military center, government center, economic center, ceremonials center -- the list is extensive. The place is thought by some to have been a colony of churches, its numerous great houses exhibiting certain recurring features thought to be religious. The repetition of specific architectural designs could also be interpreted as a form imposed by a ruling elites, the abundance of goods as tithing. The outrageously copious artifacts found inside these great houses look like ritual paraphernalia: feathers and bones representing nearly every bird species found with a thousand mile radius; a large number of wooden staffs like shepherds crooks, their handles inlaid with fines stones; and many rooms filled precious, expertly crafted mementos, may of which were found positioned as if on alters. + +> Other people take the abundance to mean that Chaco was a commercial center, a pre-Colombian shopping mall built to redistributes good in the Southwests notoriously unstable environment. In that sense the buildings are seen as store houses with some rooms tacked nearly to the ceiling. + + + + + + +Probably all these theories are wrong. The first things to do at Chaco is accept that you cannot know. + +The question that most nagged me in Chaco seemed simpler, but perhaps was not -- why here? What was that lured so many people here, inspired them to some of the finest construction in North America in this otherwise rather unremarkable wash, one of about a dozen that come off the San Juan river in it's path down off the Colorado Plateau. + +That's the question I pondered on the trails, walking through the dusty flatlands, up the rough, rocky climbs to the mesa tops where the sun is hot and relentless. + + + + +Standing in thousand year old buildings tends to fill you with awe, it doesn't matter if it's Cambodia, Austria or New Mexico. As fragile, impermanent beings we're drawn to permanence, we are inspired by by what we lack -- sturdiness and longevity. Even today, when we could build with anything, we choose steel girders, concrete, and asphalt, imitations of stone. Because laying in and fitting stone like the builders of Chaco is labor intensive and time consuming, time we don't seem to have. But they did. + + + + + +The Chacoans had time. Not just for these buildings, but for even more labor intensive projects, like a network of roads running absolutely straight and true across the desert, possibly for thousands of miles. Raised stone road beds thirty to forty feet wide running for thousands of miles -- even with modern technology that would likely take decades. How the Chocans did it remains a mystery, but the faint outlines of them can still be seen from space. + +Similar head-scratching feats of design and building surround the builders of Angkor Wat, Machu Pichu, Teotihuacan and elsewhere. But there is something different about here, something extra about this place. You hear it in the murmur of the wind through creosote, you see it in the stone work of the greathouses. Something happened here, something happened in a way it never has again. Whatever these people saw, whatever they had access to, it was more than we do today. Their world was unutterably alien to ours and you feel it every second you are here. + +You should come here. You should sit here and consider it. Don't worry about the heat, it is everywhere. You will make peace with it. Or you will die in it, either way there is no need to worry about it. It will be here. You must come when it is here. You will not know the core of this place if you do not come in the heat. + +Some archaeologists think these citadels may have been painted white. Gleaming white beacons rising out of the shimmering mirage of heat. It must have been something to arrive here having walked from Mexico, California, The Gulf Coast and all the other places for which there is evidence that people came. + + + +We hiked in the mornings, climbing up the canyon walls, while there was still some shade to be had, and up on to the mesa where there was none. Or so it seems at first glance. But then you look closer, you start to think differently, you realize you could crawl up under that juniper tree and get a break from the sun, you see ledges in the rocks where you could wedge yourself flat against what might still be cool sandstone. There are escapes here, but you will have to work for them. + +Chaco remains largely off the grid. The road in from the north is rough enough that it takes nearly an hour to drive 13 miles. And the first two miles are paved, so really it takes about 50 minutes to drive 11 miles. That's part of the remoteness, but there is more. There's something about this wash that once you are in it it consumes your past in some way, you are no longer just you, you are you in Chaco. + +This is one of those places that can influence things. It seems to have a will about it, whether it's the place or some echo of the people who were here I could not say, but if you come here you will feel it. + +You might see some things you're pretty sure aren't there. They are there. Everything is here. + +The first day we left early to stay out of the heat, we headed up the eastern wall of the main wash, no real destination in mind, simply following that ancient human need to get to high point and survey the land, wrap your head about where you are. + +
    + + + + + + +
    + + + +We stuck to the trail for a good while, then we deviated. Chaco is the most tightly controlled national parkish area I've ever been in. In my experience National Parks typically have a tightly controlled area, generally around whatever the feature of the park is -- Yosemite valley, Sequoia trees, the grand canyon, etc -- and then the backcountry is more or less unregulated, at least in terms of where you can go. Not enough people venture beyond the first mile of trail to bother regulating the backcountry too much. + +Not true here. + +It's still true that no ventures beyond that first mile, but here the backcountry is regulated just like the rest. There's not even overnight camping allowed in the backcountry. It's a little bit like being a kid again (not in a good way), you have to be home by sunset and you're not to detour from the trail. Ever. + +We might have gotten lost you could say. There was a tiny wash, up near the end of it I spied an overhang that promised at least shade, perhaps more. I could not say, we did not make it. The kids are kids after all. They tuckered out in the heat and the soft sand of the wash, which was just wide enough to look trail-like, plausible deniability should we have run into a ranger. I can do a mean dumb tourist when I need to. But no ranger came for us, just the heat and the exhaustion it brings. We ate a snack, rested on some rocks. Every now and then a breeze would puff our sweaty clothes like air conditioning. It was wonderful. Then we gathered up our things and walked back. + + + + + + +The campground is tucked back in a tributary wash, up against a short sandstone bluff, wedge between the road and some 900-odd-year-old buildings tucked back under an overhang. About 30 feet up the wall to the right of the buildings are some petroglyphs, some ancient, some recent. + +In another of Craig Child's books, Finder's Keepers, about the rather outrageous world of archaeology, artifacts and the people obsessed with them, Childs recounts a story he heard from a flamboyant and occasionally flagrantly law breaking Santa Fe antiquities dealer who invited over a bunch of archaeologists and local pueblo tribal leaders for a barbecue party. Half way through the party the host announced that food everyone was eating was grilled over a fire built with charcoal from a dig on private land -- 1000 year old charcoal used to grill up some burgers in a backyard in Santa Fe. The archaeologists all went pale and started to toss their food in outrage. The tribal leaders just smiled and shook their heads. + +What does that mean? I don't know. I wonder though, was that charcoal made 1000 years ago perhaps as part of a backyard barbecue? Would that charcoal maker by mortified or satisfied to know that 1000 years later it finally seared some meat? + +In America we experience the past mainly as a roped off thing, something carefully catalogued and carted off to museums where only a fraction of it ever visible to people like you and I. In Chaco the past is right here, all around you, you step into it, you are part of it. The big artifacts are gone, that's true. The rooms are bare, the pots, baskets and mysterious staffs, to say nothing of the bones, have been carted off to the Peabody and elsewhere. The walls of the ruins by the road are reinforced with modern concrete, the kivas roped off, but it's surprisingly easy to leave that behind and get out to the real ruins. + +The second day we climbed the south mesa. It was slightly more accessible, though still pretty much straight up the side of mesa. We went a couple of miles on the mesa until we spied an overhang with just enough shade for all of us to eat lunch out of the sun. Corrinne wandered off for a while, down the hillside, until she found some potsherds. + + + + + +
    + + + + + +
    + + +They are everywhere here, if you have an eye for them. I do not, but she does. That is some of what makes Chaco special, it has not all be catalogued and carted off, most of it perhaps, but there is still plenty here all around you. We held the potsherds and then put them back where they had been so you can come and find them too. + +If Chaco Canyon has a disappointment it's the visitor center, or rather it's the official line the visitor center takes on the demise of the Chaco culture. There's a movie in which someone actually says "it's amazing that they could just walk away from all this, think of the strength it would take to just walk away." It's amazing because that's utter bullshit. No one has ever just walked away from any civilization. Like everything else civilizations rise, hit an apex and then decline. They follow the same pattern over and over again. The Greeks, the Romans, India, China, Mesoamerica, every civilization for which have even the faintest historical records has followed a nearly identical trajectory. If you don't believe me set aside a couple of months and tackle Arnold Toynbee's A Study of History. + +Chaco's decline was likely as bumpy, violent and unpleasant as that of the rest of humanity's experiments in civilization. No one just walks away, and to pretend otherwise says far more about our culture and its stubborn insistence that it will not, cannot decline, even in the face of increasingly difficult to ignore signs of its decline, than it does about Chacoan culture. Skip the visitor center. + +Stay outside instead. The truth of this place is not behind glass, not in books, it is out here in the wind, in the heat. Go to the stones that remain, step inside, find the cool of the shade, feel the breeze that comes through doorways even on the stillest afternoon, the temperature difference between outside and the rooms deepest within creates a breeze to this day, the way I assume its builders intended. + +Walk the mesas if you can, look for shade and you will probably find you are not the first to spy whatever shady spot you spy. You may find ruins, you may only find rodent droppings and the impressions of something larger that lay in the sand, a deer perhaps, a mountain lion possibly. Whatever you find, know that you are not the first to walk here or anywhere else. Like those who passed before you step softly, walk quietly, and remember to listen. + +Note: If Chaco sounds at all interesting to you, I highly recommend first reading House of Rain. + +[^1]: luxagraf is created by piecing together half-legible thought fragments scribbled in tattered notebook that lives in my pocket. +[^2]: Rather conspicuously absent from the Chaco bookstore, despite stocking Finder's Keepers. I suspect because Childs does not sugar coat the archaeological evidence that suggests that late Chacoan history was marked by violence and decline, which is very much not part of the narrative the visitor center presents. But then I could be wrong, maybe they were just sold out. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/dallas.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/dallas.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bf25598 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/dallas.html @@ -0,0 +1,504 @@ + + + + + Dallas - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Dallas

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    Fort Parker State Park, Texas, U.S.

    + – Map +
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    From Austin we drifted north, toward Dallas, hitting a milestone along the way:

    +
    + + 100000 miles photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + vintge GMC motorhome photographed by luxagraf + +
    I spied this vintage GMC by the side of the road. Later I was talking to someone at a gas station not far from here who said there was a Travco further down the same road.
    +
    + +

    We pulled into Fort Parker State Park on a Thursday afternoon and spent the next day watching the campground fill up. This is more or less the pattern, even in summer, the weekends are jammed full, during the week we have the campgrounds to ourselves.

    +
    + + Empty campground photographed by luxagraf + +
    +
    + +
    + + Using the fan to fly origami birds photographed by luxagraf + +
    Using the fan to fly origami birds
    +
    + +
    + + slides at fort parker photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We passed a couple of days in Fort Parker State Park and then headed north to Plano, TX to visit Corrinne’s sister and her family. Thanks to the bus we ended up spending an entire week in Plano. Let this be a lesson to those of you who have invited us to your homes, sometimes we way overstay to that point when the smell of rotten fish is upon us. We tried to get it off in the pool.

    +
    + + Pool time, Plano TX photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Pool time, Plano TX photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pool time, Plano TX photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Possibly worse we shipped a ton of parts, random purchases, laptops I’m reviewing and other stuff that piled up around the house. Seriously, think twice before you invite us over. It all starts out innocently enough. We show up for a couple days, make some vague plans and then. Then.

    +
    + + Pool time, Plano TX photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pool time, Plano TX photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pool time, Plano TX photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Birthday wishes photographed by luxagraf + +
    Technically Kenny’s birthday, but since the girls are close too they joined in. And Elliott, he manages to weasel his way into all sorts of things.
    +
    + +

    The engine was, yet again, running hot on the way into Plano. I figured since we had a couple days and there wasn’t really room to park on the street anyway, I would take it to a repair shop and get the radiator fixed and have a place to park — two birds one stone sort of thing.

    +

    I found a tiny pinhole size leak in the back side of the radiator, but then the shop that I went to at first turned out to not be able to solder. Kids these days. But they didn’t seem opposed to me leaving the bus there for a few days, so we pulled the radiator off and I drove it over to another shop that did solder (I had the first shop replace two belts, which was about the same price as paying for a week’s worth of parking).

    +

    The old guy at the radiator shop — by the way, never trust a mechanic under 50 — took one look at the radiator and said I can’t patch that. When we first got it off and I saw the back my reaction was very similar. I believe what I said was, oh shit. The pinhole leak was small enough that you could only find it when it was pressurized, but it had obviously been going for some time. And the fins were bent in at the corners which means someone had probably been in there already.

    +

    Long story short, for those that don’t find engine adventures entertaining1, I gave him the go ahead to re-core it. Expensive, but we want to be able to get into the mountains and not worry about overheating. I even considered making it four core, but held off on that since clearance could have been an issue.

    +

    Getting the new cores and having it all rebuilt added a weekend and some change to our stay. But it gave me time to install the water tank and get the solar panels on the roof. So I spent my morning in the alley behind a mechanic’s wrestling a 65 gallon water tank under a bed and crimping pex. To do all that I had to empty out everything under the bed and pile it out in the alley with me. And then run back and forth to home depot ten times in two days. Oh who am I kidding, it was probably almost twice that many times. I actually didn’t think much of the whole project, but then one day I just left everything outside the bus while I was at home depot and I came back around the corner and realized it looked like a small tornado had hit a dumpster and blown everything all over the alley.

    +

    In the afternoons I would eventually start sweating so much my eyebrows would fail me and I couldn’t see anymore. I’d give up and pack it up. Fortunately there was a pool back at the house and I could spend some time recovering in proper fashion — floating it all away. The kids of course spent nearly all their time in the pool playing with their cousins.

    +

    Eventually I got the water tank in and the radiator back in to. Started it up, drove home, everything seemed fine. Well. Maybe it was a tad hotter than I’d like, but it was 95 that evening so I dismissed it.

    +

    We said our goodbyes and headed west, into the sunset.

    +
    + + family portrait with 1969 travco photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + extended family portrait with 1969 travco photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + sisters in front of bus, plano, tx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We weren’t even out of the subdivision when the temperature gauge started to climb again. There was some creative swearing in the bus for a few miles. It’s frustrating to fix something and realize you didn’t have the right problem, but it’s even more frustrating when you spent almost $1000 doing it. I stopped at an auto parts store and let the bus cool, while I contemplating trying to install a new thermostat in the parking lot. Me pulling out radiators at the side of the road, it could be a thing. The part store intervened and saved me from myself by not having the part I needed anyway.

    +

    Eventually the engine cooled and I thought screw this, let’s push on. Perhaps not the best choice, but I’m stubborn and I needed to get on the road. I also decided to test something hairbrained. Back when we first entered Texas I put some insulation around the engine doghouse, mostly just to cut down on the heat coming off the engine into the cabin, but also to cut down on the noise. It happened to coincide with the engine starting to run hot, so I thought well, let’s crack the doghouse and see what happens, maybe that extra airflow was helping.

    +

    Crazy, I know. But. But. Well, no that didn’t help at all, but it did reveal something interesting — a loud clattering sound that was previously muffled enough that I assumed it was just some pans in the oven rattling. But with the engine hood open it was very clearly louder and coming from the engine. The mechanically inclined could probably put those two clues together — rattling metal sounds and overheating engine — and figure out the problem. It took me about 20 miles but it slowly started to dawn on me, water pumps have ball bearings in them.

    +

    We pushed it as far as Denton, which wasn’t far and, very frustrated, called around looking for someone to take a look. About five different shops didn’t want anything to do with it, one shop did, but couldn’t get to it for another week. Finally on the advice of one of the other shops I called a place way outside of town that supposedly “did old engines”. No one answered so I said screw it, let’s drive out there and see. So I did and somehow convinced the shop owner, who was mainly a rat rod and custom car builder, to take a look at the bus. Well, I didn’t really convince him, the bus did, the bus is cool like that.

    +

    So he agreed to replace the water pump the next day. We grabbed a hotel room to wait it out.

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      If engine adventures bore this is not the blog for you. Until we get everything dialed in I expect to have more engine adventures. ↩

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    2 Comments

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    + Drew Eldridge + June 29, 2017 at 2:14 p.m. +
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    Bout time. I was jonesing for a new adventure. I almost sent a message on FB. You have to give the people what they need. An escape and hope that there is life outside of my cubicle.

    +

    I know its frustrating at times out there. But its worse in here.

    +

    Happy trails.

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    + Scott + June 29, 2017 at 3:06 p.m. +
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    @drew-

    +

    I got a few more cued up, but I can’t upload photos at the moment. Waiting to see if a forest fire is going to force us to evacuate our current camp. Can’t go down and use coffee shop wifi cause I’m scared they won’t let me back to get the bus. Never leave the bus.

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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/dallas.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/dallas.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fb8a0ae --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/dallas.txt @@ -0,0 +1,63 @@ +Dallas +====== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 07 June 2017 + +From Austin we drifted north, toward Dallas, hitting a milestone along the way: + + + + +We pulled into Fort Parker State Park on a Thursday afternoon and spent the next day watching the campground fill up. This is more or less the pattern, even in summer, the weekends are jammed full, during the week we have the campgrounds to ourselves. + + + + + + +We passed a couple of days in Fort Parker State Park and then headed north to Plano, TX to visit Corrinne's sister and her family. Thanks to the bus we ended up spending an entire week in Plano. Let this be a lesson to those of you who have invited us to your homes, sometimes we way overstay to that point when the smell of rotten fish is upon us. We tried to get it off in the pool. + + + + + +Possibly worse we shipped a ton of parts, random purchases, laptops I'm reviewing and other stuff that piled up around the house. Seriously, think twice before you invite us over. It all starts out innocently enough. We show up for a couple days, make some vague plans and then. Then. + + + + + + +The engine was, yet again, running hot on the way into Plano. I figured since we had a couple days and there wasn't really room to park on the street anyway, I would take it to a repair shop and get the radiator fixed and have a place to park -- two birds one stone sort of thing. + +I found a tiny pinhole size leak in the back side of the radiator, but then the shop that I went to at first turned out to not be able to solder. Kids these days. But they didn't seem opposed to me leaving the bus there for a few days, so we pulled the radiator off and I drove it over to another shop that did solder (I had the first shop replace two belts, which was about the same price as paying for a week's worth of parking). + +The old guy at the radiator shop -- by the way, never trust a mechanic under 50 -- took one look at the radiator and said I can't patch that. When we first got it off and I saw the back my reaction was very similar. I believe what I said was, oh shit. The pinhole leak was small enough that you could only find it when it was pressurized, but it had obviously been going for some time. And the fins were bent in at the corners which means someone had probably been in there already. + +Long story short, for those that don't find engine adventures entertaining[^1], I gave him the go ahead to re-core it. Expensive, but we want to be able to get into the mountains and not worry about overheating. I even considered making it four core, but held off on that since clearance could have been an issue. + +Getting the new cores and having it all rebuilt added a weekend and some change to our stay. But it gave me time to install the water tank and get the solar panels on the roof. So I spent my morning in the alley behind a mechanic's wrestling a 65 gallon water tank under a bed and crimping pex. To do all that I had to empty out everything under the bed and pile it out in the alley with me. And then run back and forth to home depot ten times in two days. Oh who am I kidding, it was probably almost twice that many times. I actually didn't think much of the whole project, but then one day I just left everything outside the bus while I was at home depot and I came back around the corner and realized it looked like a small tornado had hit a dumpster and blown everything all over the alley. + +In the afternoons I would eventually start sweating so much my eyebrows would fail me and I couldn't see anymore. I'd give up and pack it up. Fortunately there was a pool back at the house and I could spend some time recovering in proper fashion -- floating it all away. The kids of course spent nearly all their time in the pool playing with their cousins. + +Eventually I got the water tank in and the radiator back in to. Started it up, drove home, everything seemed fine. Well. Maybe it was a tad hotter than I'd like, but it was 95 that evening so I dismissed it. + +We said our goodbyes and headed west, into the sunset. + + + + + +We weren't even out of the subdivision when the temperature gauge started to climb again. There was some creative swearing in the bus for a few miles. It's frustrating to fix something and realize you didn't have the right problem, but it's even more frustrating when you spent almost $1000 doing it. I stopped at an auto parts store and let the bus cool, while I contemplating trying to install a new thermostat in the parking lot. Me pulling out radiators at the side of the road, it could be a thing. The part store intervened and saved me from myself by not having the part I needed anyway. + +Eventually the engine cooled and I thought screw this, let's push on. Perhaps not the best choice, but I'm stubborn and I needed to get on the road. I also decided to test something hairbrained. Back when we first entered Texas I put some insulation around the engine doghouse, mostly just to cut down on the heat coming off the engine into the cabin, but also to cut down on the noise. It happened to coincide with the engine starting to run hot, so I thought well, let's crack the doghouse and see what happens, maybe that extra airflow was helping. + +Crazy, I know. But. *But*. Well, no that didn't help at all, but it did reveal something interesting -- a loud clattering sound that was previously muffled enough that I assumed it was just some pans in the oven rattling. But with the engine hood open it was very clearly louder and coming from the engine. The mechanically inclined could probably put those two clues together -- rattling metal sounds and overheating engine -- and figure out the problem. It took me about 20 miles but it slowly started to dawn on me, water pumps have ball bearings in them. + +We pushed it as far as Denton, which wasn't far and, very frustrated, called around looking for someone to take a look. About five different shops didn't want anything to do with it, one shop did, but couldn't get to it for another week. Finally on the advice of one of the other shops I called a place way outside of town that supposedly "did old engines". No one answered so I said screw it, let's drive out there and see. So I did and somehow convinced the shop owner, who was mainly a rat rod and custom car builder, to take a look at the bus. Well, I didn't really convince him, the bus did, the bus is cool like that. + +So he agreed to replace the water pump the next day. We grabbed a hotel room to wait it out. + +[^1]: If engine adventures bore this is not the blog for you. Until we get everything dialed in I expect to have more engine adventures. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/escaping-texas.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/escaping-texas.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c343d18 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/escaping-texas.html @@ -0,0 +1,391 @@ + + + + + Escaping Texas - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    +
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    +

    Escaping Texas

    + +
    +
    +

    Trinidad, Colorado, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    By the time we left Denton we’d put in a new radiator core, new water pump, new thermostat and new power steering hose that had cracked when I made too tight of turn in the hotel parking lot. In Texas we had in fact pretty much redone the entire cooling system of the bus. Ideally that would have solved the overheating issues, but it did not. I left ahead of Corrinne and kids, hitting the road by 6AM to avoid the forecasted 105 degree midday temps.

    +

    The night before I purchased one of those nice digital thermometer guns in hopes that perhaps the problem was the temperature or sending unit. Armed with that I stopped frequently to crawl under the engine and take temp readings all over the place. What quickly became obvious was that most of the temp readings were well within ideal operating temps for the engine. The exception was right around the sending unit, which sits roughly on the first piston on the passenger’s side of the engine. That area was notably hotter than everything else, though still not overheating hot.

    +

    Despite the heat I made it Amarillo without overtaxing the engine. And just for fun, since I have the digital thermometer anyway, I started taking readings in cab of the bus… about 122 degrees on the dashboard (direct sun), about 108 on most other surfaces and 115 by my right foot where a bit of engine air still leaks out. Hot. Damn hot.

    +

    That night I sat out sweating in the Amarillo night talking with my uncle Ron who serves as official bus mechanical repair consultant. He walked me through a few scenarios/possibilities, but in the end the most likely fix will probably involve flushing the engine block. In the mean time, the temp readings stayed pretty constant and within operating params for the engine so we decided to push on out of Texas, out of the heat wave and into the mountains where the bus, and we, would be much cooler and happier.

    +

    That meant bypassing one of my favorite places in this region, Comanche National Grassland, but with a forecast temp in the mid 90s and not a hookup for three hundred miles, we were hesitant to push it. We still hadn’t actually camped without hookups in the bus so we didn’t know what sort of temperature would be comfortable and what would be miserable. 93 degrees sounded miserable so we decided to skip it (turns out it’s not bad at all if you have a breeze, but oh well).

    +
    + + west texas sunrise photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I left Amarillo at 5AM, well ahead of Corrinne and kids, trying to push through to the mountains before the heat of the day kicked in. I was halfway out of Texas when the sun finally did start to glow on the eastern horizon of the vast nothingness that is the western Texas desert. This is part of Texas I know reasonably well and happen to really like, the wide open, barren land, parched badlands of windswept sand and nearly endless grass and creosote. But only crazy people come out here in June. Even if you’re not crazy when you get here, you will be soon, the heat bakes you until you come unglued. The day we passed through the forecasted temp was 112.

    +
    + + west texas sunrise photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I was well into New Mexico long before the sun got high enough for those temps.

    +

    When I stopped to take this photo:

    +
    + + Welcome to New Mexico Sign photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    This train honked and I looked over to see the engineer waving and giving me the thumbs up:

    +
    + + train, new mexico photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I’ve driven a lot of miles in this country, seen a lot of trains, but I’ve never seen or heard of train honking and waving at a car. The bus is like that though, it extracts the extraordinary from the ordinary.

    +
    + + Welcome to Colorado sign photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Rocky mountains photographed by luxagraf + +
    The kids’ first view of real snowy mountains, the Sangre de Christo range.
    +
    + +

    The bus struggled to get over Ratan pass, which is just shy of 8000 feet. It made it, the engine wasn’t overheating even, but I didn’t have much power. I was doing about 35 by the time the road finally started down again. From there I coasted on down to Trinidad Lake State Park, which has two campgrounds, one with full hookups and one totally dry with nothing save a communal water spigot and some pit toilets. We grabbed a site in the latter area, filled our new water tank and settled in to enjoy an afternoon at the lake.

    +

    Unfortunately I made the mistake of asking the ranger if there were any good sandy, beach-like areas further down the road. I was prompted informed that there was no swimming in the lake. Say what? The ranger was unable to provide any reason for the no swimming, but I’d already blown it — there’s no plausible deniability after you ask. Never ask permission, just do and play dumb when you need to. Sometimes my mouth gets ahead of my brain.

    +
    + + Room with a view photographed by luxagraf + +
    We don’t have a lot of space indoors, but we have some nice views.
    +
    + +

    We ended up just sitting around the camp, which was nice enough, if a little warm. The heatwave was still too much on us, so we hatched a plan to head higher into the mountains the next day.

    +
    + + Sunset over the lake, trinidad, co photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    That night was the first in the wide open big sky of the west. The sunset reflected on the clouds for hours. I let the fire burn down and watched the sky instead. Later on thunderheads rolled in over the peaks of the Sangre de Christo range. Arcing flashes of lightening bounced around the clouds like streaking silver pinballs. Just as the last light faded away coyotes began to bark and sing. Finally, the west.

    +
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/escaping-texas.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/escaping-texas.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..76d359f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/escaping-texas.txt @@ -0,0 +1,50 @@ +Escaping Texas +============== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 12 June 2017 + +By the time we left Denton we'd put in a new radiator core, new water pump, new thermostat and new power steering hose that had cracked when I made too tight of turn in the hotel parking lot. In Texas we had in fact pretty much redone the entire cooling system of the bus. Ideally that would have solved the overheating issues, but it did not. I left ahead of Corrinne and kids, hitting the road by 6AM to avoid the forecasted 105 degree midday temps. + +The night before I purchased one of those nice digital thermometer guns in hopes that perhaps the problem was the temperature or sending unit. Armed with that I stopped frequently to crawl under the engine and take temp readings all over the place. What quickly became obvious was that most of the temp readings were well within ideal operating temps for the engine. The exception was right around the sending unit, which sits roughly on the first piston on the passenger's side of the engine. That area was notably hotter than everything else, though still not overheating hot. + +Despite the heat I made it Amarillo without overtaxing the engine. And just for fun, since I have the digital thermometer anyway, I started taking readings in cab of the bus... about 122 degrees on the dashboard (direct sun), about 108 on most other surfaces and 115 by my right foot where a bit of engine air still leaks out. Hot. Damn hot. + +That night I sat out sweating in the Amarillo night talking with my uncle Ron who serves as official bus mechanical repair consultant. He walked me through a few scenarios/possibilities, but in the end the most likely fix will probably involve flushing the engine block. In the mean time, the temp readings stayed pretty constant and within operating params for the engine so we decided to push on out of Texas, out of the heat wave and into the mountains where the bus, and we, would be much cooler and happier. + +That meant bypassing one of my favorite places in this region, [Comanche National Grassland](https://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2010/07/comanche-national-grasslands), but with a forecast temp in the mid 90s and not a hookup for three hundred miles, we were hesitant to push it. We still hadn't actually camped without hookups in the bus so we didn't know what sort of temperature would be comfortable and what would be miserable. 93 degrees sounded miserable so we decided to skip it (turns out it's not bad at all if you have a breeze, but oh well). + + + +I left Amarillo at 5AM, well ahead of Corrinne and kids, trying to push through to the mountains before the heat of the day kicked in. I was halfway out of Texas when the sun finally did start to glow on the eastern horizon of the vast nothingness that is the western Texas desert. This is part of Texas I know reasonably well and happen to really like, the wide open, barren land, parched badlands of windswept sand and nearly endless grass and creosote. But only crazy people come out here in June. Even if you're not crazy when you get here, you will be soon, the heat bakes you until you come unglued. The day we passed through the forecasted temp was 112. + + + +I was well into New Mexico long before the sun got high enough for those temps. + +When I stopped to take this photo: + + + +This train honked and I looked over to see the engineer waving and giving me the thumbs up: + + + +I've driven a lot of miles in this country, seen a lot of trains, but I've never seen or heard of train honking and waving at a car. The bus is like that though, it extracts the extraordinary from the ordinary. + + + + + +The bus struggled to get over Ratan pass, which is just shy of 8000 feet. It made it, the engine wasn't overheating even, but I didn't have much power. I was doing about 35 by the time the road finally started down again. From there I coasted on down to Trinidad Lake State Park, which has two campgrounds, one with full hookups and one totally dry with nothing save a communal water spigot and some pit toilets. We grabbed a site in the latter area, filled our new water tank and settled in to enjoy an afternoon at the lake. + +Unfortunately I made the mistake of asking the ranger if there were any good sandy, beach-like areas further down the road. I was prompted informed that there was no swimming in the lake. Say what? The ranger was unable to provide any reason for the no swimming, but I'd already blown it -- there's no plausible deniability after you ask. Never ask permission, just do and play dumb when you need to. Sometimes my mouth gets ahead of my brain. + + + +We ended up just sitting around the camp, which was nice enough, if a little warm. The heatwave was still too much on us, so we hatched a plan to head higher into the mountains the next day. + + + +That night was the first in the wide open big sky of the west. The sunset reflected on the clouds for hours. I let the fire burn down and watched the sky instead. Later on thunderheads rolled in over the peaks of the Sangre de Christo range. Arcing flashes of lightening bounced around the clouds like streaking silver pinballs. Just as the last light faded away coyotes began to bark and sing. Finally, the west. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/high-country.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/high-country.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..77eac17 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/high-country.html @@ -0,0 +1,473 @@ + + + + + The High Country - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The High Country

    + +
    +
    +

    Trinidad, Colorado, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    After one night at Trinidad State Park we had to leave. The weekend thing. Saturday night even the “walk up” dry camping sites were booked, because in Colorado state parks “walk up” means whatever hasn’t been reserved online. It’s a crazy, chaotic system that makes no sense at all. All I know is that we had leave on Saturday because there were no campsites.

    +

    We decided, since it was still a little warm at bedtime for the kids, that we’d head higher into the mountains. There were a couple of National Forest campgrounds up higher in the mountains above Trinidad so we booked one and set out.

    +
    + + Heading up into the Sangre de Christo mountains photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Inside my head there are tons of voices, but one dominates the rest most of the time, it’s the voice that always says, sure, let’s try it, what’s the worst that could happen?

    +

    Most of the time the answer to that question is very tame. Once you get past your prejudices and irrational fears and give some serious thought to, well, what is the worst thing that could happen and how likely is it to occur, you find that it’s really not that bad and it’s pretty unlikely. The simple truth of life is that most of what you fear is very unlikely to occur. For example, could you fall to your death while hiking a mountain trail? Well, technically yes, but millions of people go hiking in mountains around the world everyday and don’t fall to their death, so there’s a very good chance you won’t either. And so on.

    +

    That’s just to preface this adventure slightly, or rather to explain my thinking when I tell you that the campground we were headed to was at 10,500 feet.

    +

    Did I really think the bus would make it to 10,500 ft? Honestly? No. But I was damn sure going to try. And so we did.

    +

    As per our usual these days I left early, around seven, though once I got a few thousand feet I knew air temperature wasn’t going to be the problem. The problem was even simpler — air, or the lack thereof. Internal combustion engines need three basic things — fuel, fire and compression. The higher you go the less compression. The less compression, the less power. The less power the less a roughly 8000lb 1969 Dodge Travco goes forward.

    +

    The drive started well, the bus breezed on up to about 8500 ft like it was nothing, and it was, the grade was mild, the air cool and traffic almost non-existent. I stopped at a tiny store and let the engine rest a while. There were rocking chairs on a nice wooden porch lined with hummingbird feeders. I listen to two locals talk about how they spent the winter, and got the impression that, despite living less than 10 miles apart they hadn’t seen each other in months thanks to the snow. As I keep telling Corrinne, it’s beautiful here, but if want to know the truth about Colorado mountain towns, check how far up the stovepipes extend. Now you know how much snow sits on your roof all winter.

    +

    I enjoyed the country store porch so much I went back to the bus and pulled out a 100-300 zoom lens I bought off eBay back when we were in Dallas. Producing an decent image of a hummingbird hand-holding a massive, heavy, manual focus 100-300 zoom from the early 1980s turns out to be as difficult as it sounds.

    +
    + + hummingbird photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    But photography is a lot like fishing in that the fish aren’t really that important sometimes, sometimes it’s all in the trying. I discovered an interesting thing that happens with digital viewfinders — the screen refresh rate is far slower than a hummingbird’s wings beating, which means that through the viewfinder you get a live-action, slow motion movie of a hummingbird’s wings beating. It’s gorgeous, but it’s only in the viewfinder.

    +

    I was about to go dig out my tripod and get serious about taking a hummingbird picture when Corrinne and kids caught up and we all set out up the mountain again. The next 1500 vertical feet happened much faster than the first 1500. I didn’t track the mileage, but I doubt it was more than ten. It was hard climbing. The bus just didn’t have the power (I was also carrying about 35 gallons of water since it was unclear from our research whether there would be any water at the campground, that added about 300lbs, which I could definitely feel dragging in the rear).

    +
    + + 1969 dodge travco, pull out, somewhere in the Sangre de Christo mountains photographed by luxagraf + +
    Taking a break before trying the final climb to the pass.
    +
    + +

    The final grade up to the pass was a long, winding, steady climb with no breaks. It was too much. I dropped to about ten miles an hour and then five and then I felt the transmission slip. Because I am an extremely luck person, the only pull out on the entire grade was about 50 feet back from where I was and so I gave up.

    +

    I cut the engine and rolled back down, backing into the turnout (a private dirt road really) and shut the bus down. I probably could have sat there, let the engine rest and cool for a while and the given it another try. But I knew from the maps that the pass wasn’t the end of the climbing. After the pass the road went down about 1000 feet and then back up 1500 more to the campground. It just wasn’t going to happen.

    +

    Like Kenny Rogers’ said, you got know when to fold ‘em.

    +

    I let the engine rest a bit, called Corrinne back and then we started back down. We made it down to a lower, larger pullout and parked the bus so we could scout around and maybe find somewhere to boondock for a few nights. We headed up into some National Forest land on a dirt road that eventually led to a campground, but had plenty of boondocking spots on the way. We know this because they were all full of happy looking van dwellers and RVers. Damn you Colorado in the summer time.

    +

    Eventually we made to all the way up to the lower campground, which was still at 9500 ft. It was beautiful, tucked in an aspen grove on the edge of an alpine meadow with crystalline, wildflower-lined streams cascading down the mountainside seemingly everywhere. There aren’t many places where you can drive to scenery like that, usually you have to strap on boots and hump it over the mountains on foot to see alpine meadows.

    +

    We sat there for a while and debated whether or not the bus could get up the road. I still don’t know, it might have. But it turns out there are some consequences to driving, rather than walking, to an elevation like that.

    +

    I’ve never really suffered much from altitude sickness, I get it a little bit, dizziness usually, but I’ve seen more acute symptoms in plenty of hiking companions — dizziness, nausea, disorientation, confusion. It’s rather difficult to describe if you haven’t experienced it. Usually you can just sleep it off and be fine the next morning, but with everyone a little off, and the bus not running as well as I’d like, it was an easy call. We headed back down to Trinidad. If we want to camp in an alpine meadow we’ll do it the right way — by hiking to it.

    +

    Getting down the mountain was nerve wracking for me, not because of the drive, but because I was unsure what kind of gas mileage I had been getting on the way up and I had calculated the gas such that we’d just make it to the gas station on the other side (I was trying to keep weight down). Going back the way we came meant adding 20 miles to the drive, which eliminated the 2-3 gallon cushion I’d calculated. I was sweating by the time we neared Trinidad, not entirely from the heat, but I did make it to a gas station. I paid mountain gas prices and was happy to do so.

    +

    By then it was near dinner time and everyone was tired, frustrated, hangry and cranky. We grabbed one of the last hotel rooms in Trinidad, took some showers and headed out for burgers. Really good burgers as it turned out, bison burgers and fries at the What A Grind Cafe, which also served up a proper pour of Guinness, something that goes a long way to getting your tail out from between your legs at the end of a long frustrating day.

    +
    + + Room with a view photographed by luxagraf + +
    The view from our door.
    +
    + +

    The next morning we decided to go ahead and stay in the Trinidad area for a while. It was sunday so there were campsites available again. And it was warm, about the mid 90s during the day, but it wasn’t too bad because there was a reliable breeze to keep things bearable. At night the temperature dropped quickly in the evenings so putting the kids to bed was fine and we could always use the van to head up into the mountains if we really needed to get away from the heat.

    +

    We managed to get a campsite with a view at the far end of the campground. We went hiking, I made a few repairs to the bus, I got some work done to pay the bills and just generally relaxed.

    +
    + + Breakfast with a view photographed by luxagraf + +
    Breakfast with a view
    +
    + +
    + + hiking photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Sangre de Christo mountains photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Butterfly photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Coloring photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The water pump that came with the bus — which sounded a bit like a jet engine when it was running — gave out one day and so we drove out to an RV supply shop to get another one and discovered an abandoned mining town on the way.

    +
    + + Driving near trinidad photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Old coal mining town photographed by luxagraf + +
    Old coal mining town.
    +
    + +

    Our friend Mike was headed from Paonia, CO to Texas and since Trinidad wasn’t far out of the way he stopped by and camped with us for a night. He happened to have some Elk antlers, which entertained the kids for a good solid 6 hours or so.

    +
    + + Mike photographed by luxagraf + +
    Our friend mike was passing through the area so he stopped by for a night.
    +
    + +
    + + Elk Antlers photographed by luxagraf + +
    Mike travels with elk antlers. And now, so do we. The antler Elliott is holding is part of our traveling bric-à-brac show now.
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    1 Comment

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    + Prashanth + December 07, 2018 at 9:26 a.m. +
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    Nice pictures :)

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/high-country.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/high-country.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..03348eb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/high-country.txt @@ -0,0 +1,74 @@ +The High Country +================ + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 18 June 2017 + +After one night at Trinidad State Park we had to leave. The weekend thing. Saturday night even the "walk up" dry camping sites were booked, because in Colorado state parks "walk up" means whatever hasn't been reserved online. It's a crazy, chaotic system that makes no sense at all. All I know is that we had leave on Saturday because there were no campsites. + +We decided, since it was still a little warm at bedtime for the kids, that we'd head higher into the mountains. There were a couple of National Forest campgrounds up higher in the mountains above Trinidad so we booked one and set out. + + + +Inside my head there are tons of voices, but one dominates the rest most of the time, it's the voice that always says, sure, let's try it, what's the worst that could happen? + +Most of the time the answer to that question is very tame. Once you get past your prejudices and irrational fears and give some serious thought to, well, what *is* the worst thing that could happen and how likely is it to occur, you find that it's really not that bad and it's pretty unlikely. The simple truth of life is that most of what you fear is very unlikely to occur. For example, could you fall to your death while hiking a mountain trail? Well, technically yes, but millions of people go hiking in mountains around the world everyday and don't fall to their death, so there's a very good chance you won't either. And so on. + +That's just to preface this adventure slightly, or rather to explain my thinking when I tell you that the campground we were headed to was at 10,500 feet. + +Did I really think the bus would make it to 10,500 ft? Honestly? No. But I was damn sure going to try. And so we did. + +As per our usual these days I left early, around seven, though once I got a few thousand feet I knew air temperature wasn't going to be the problem. The problem was even simpler -- air, or the lack thereof. Internal combustion engines need three basic things -- fuel, fire and compression. The higher you go the less compression. The less compression, the less power. The less power the less a roughly 8000lb 1969 Dodge Travco goes forward. + +The drive started well, the bus breezed on up to about 8500 ft like it was nothing, and it was, the grade was mild, the air cool and traffic almost non-existent. I stopped at a tiny store and let the engine rest a while. There were rocking chairs on a nice wooden porch lined with hummingbird feeders. I listen to two locals talk about how they spent the winter, and got the impression that, despite living less than 10 miles apart they hadn't seen each other in months thanks to the snow. As I keep telling Corrinne, it's beautiful here, but if want to know the truth about Colorado mountain towns, check how far up the stovepipes extend. Now you know how much snow sits on your roof all winter. + +I enjoyed the country store porch so much I went back to the bus and pulled out a 100-300 zoom lens I bought off eBay back when we were in Dallas. Producing an decent image of a hummingbird hand-holding a massive, heavy, manual focus 100-300 zoom from the early 1980s turns out to be as difficult as it sounds. + + + +But photography is a lot like fishing in that the fish aren't really that important sometimes, sometimes it's all in the trying. I discovered an interesting thing that happens with digital viewfinders -- the screen refresh rate is far slower than a hummingbird's wings beating, which means that through the viewfinder you get a live-action, slow motion movie of a hummingbird's wings beating. It's gorgeous, but it's only in the viewfinder. + +I was about to go dig out my tripod and get serious about taking a hummingbird picture when Corrinne and kids caught up and we all set out up the mountain again. The next 1500 vertical feet happened much faster than the first 1500. I didn't track the mileage, but I doubt it was more than ten. It was hard climbing. The bus just didn't have the power (I was also carrying about 35 gallons of water since it was unclear from our research whether there would be any water at the campground, that added about 300lbs, which I could definitely feel dragging in the rear). + + + +The final grade up to the pass was a long, winding, steady climb with no breaks. It was too much. I dropped to about ten miles an hour and then five and then I felt the transmission slip. Because I am an extremely luck person, the only pull out on the entire grade was about 50 feet back from where I was and so I gave up. + +I cut the engine and rolled back down, backing into the turnout (a private dirt road really) and shut the bus down. I probably could have sat there, let the engine rest and cool for a while and the given it another try. But I knew from the maps that the pass wasn't the end of the climbing. After the pass the road went down about 1000 feet and then back up 1500 more to the campground. It just wasn't going to happen. + +Like Kenny Rogers' said, you got know when to fold 'em. + +I let the engine rest a bit, called Corrinne back and then we started back down. We made it down to a lower, larger pullout and parked the bus so we could scout around and maybe find somewhere to boondock for a few nights. We headed up into some National Forest land on a dirt road that eventually led to a campground, but had plenty of boondocking spots on the way. We know this because they were all full of happy looking van dwellers and RVers. Damn you Colorado in the summer time. + +Eventually we made to all the way up to the lower campground, which was still at 9500 ft. It was beautiful, tucked in an aspen grove on the edge of an alpine meadow with crystalline, wildflower-lined streams cascading down the mountainside seemingly everywhere. There aren't many places where you can drive to scenery like that, usually you have to strap on boots and hump it over the mountains on foot to see alpine meadows. + +We sat there for a while and debated whether or not the bus could get up the road. I still don't know, it might have. But it turns out there are some consequences to driving, rather than walking, to an elevation like that. + +I've never really suffered much from altitude sickness, I get it a little bit, dizziness usually, but I've seen more acute symptoms in plenty of hiking companions -- dizziness, nausea, disorientation, confusion. It's rather difficult to describe if you haven't experienced it. Usually you can just sleep it off and be fine the next morning, but with everyone a little off, and the bus not running as well as I'd like, it was an easy call. We headed back down to Trinidad. If we want to camp in an alpine meadow we'll do it the right way -- by hiking to it. + +Getting down the mountain was nerve wracking for me, not because of the drive, but because I was unsure what kind of gas mileage I had been getting on the way up and I had calculated the gas such that we'd just make it to the gas station on the other side (I was trying to keep weight down). Going back the way we came meant adding 20 miles to the drive, which eliminated the 2-3 gallon cushion I'd calculated. I was sweating by the time we neared Trinidad, not entirely from the heat, but I did make it to a gas station. I paid mountain gas prices and was happy to do so. + +By then it was near dinner time and everyone was tired, frustrated, hangry and cranky. We grabbed one of the last hotel rooms in Trinidad, took some showers and headed out for burgers. Really good burgers as it turned out, bison burgers and fries at the What A Grind Cafe, which also served up a proper pour of Guinness, something that goes a long way to getting your tail out from between your legs at the end of a long frustrating day. + + + +The next morning we decided to go ahead and stay in the Trinidad area for a while. It was sunday so there were campsites available again. And it was warm, about the mid 90s during the day, but it wasn't too bad because there was a reliable breeze to keep things bearable. At night the temperature dropped quickly in the evenings so putting the kids to bed was fine and we could always use the van to head up into the mountains if we really needed to get away from the heat. + +We managed to get a campsite with a view at the far end of the campground. We went hiking, I made a few repairs to the bus, I got some work done to pay the bills and just generally relaxed. + + + + + + + +The water pump that came with the bus -- which sounded a bit like a jet engine when it was running -- gave out one day and so we drove out to an RV supply shop to get another one and discovered an abandoned mining town on the way. + + + + +Our friend Mike was headed from Paonia, CO to Texas and since Trinidad wasn't far out of the way he stopped by and camped with us for a night. He happened to have some Elk antlers, which entertained the kids for a good solid 6 hours or so. + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..eb548b2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,119 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Archive: June 2017

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    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/solstice.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/solstice.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ddd1bb8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/solstice.html @@ -0,0 +1,485 @@ + + + + + Solstice - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Solstice

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    Sangre de Christo Mountains, Colorado, U.S.

    + – Map +
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    The fire exhales in soft gasps and whispers, occasionally snapping a shot of sparks into the air. It’s the longest day of the year, well past 9pm and the last reddish glow of twilight is still clinging to the high mountains of the Spanish Peaks wilderness, a good thirty miles west from our camp here at Trinidad Lake.

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    + + Sunset over the lake, trinidad, co photographed by luxagraf + +
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    We celebrated the Solstice by heading back up into the Sangre de Christo Mountains, to Bear Lake. We had to see it, even if we couldn’t get the bus to it. It turned out to be a wonderful little glacial lake at the base of Teddy’s Peak1, with a good view of the Culebra Range.

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    + + + bear lake, sangre de christo mountains photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + sangre de christo mountains photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + bear lake, sangre de christo mountains photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + snow on bear lake, sangre de christo mountains photographed by luxagraf + + + +
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    The name comes from a large black bear that was causing a lot of havoc back in the early 1900s. An early forest ranger set a trap for it and the next day he went to retrieve the trap but it was gone. He tracked the bear and trap to the middle of the lake. The bear was so big that it had dragged the trap cross-country several miles before dying in the lake. The story serves as a reminder that the pre-Aldo Leopold forest service was not noted for it’s ecological outlook. Arguably, neither is the post-Aldo Leopold forest service.

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    + + bear lake, sangre de christo mountains photographed by luxagraf + +
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    A mostly spruce forest, with glades of aspen here and there surround the Bear Lake. A tributary of the Cuchara River runs down the hill and feeds snow melt into Bear Lake. The water is freezing. Even near the end of June there’s still a patch of now and ice lingering in the cool shade of the north shore.

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    + + snow on bear lake, sangre de christo mountains photographed by luxagraf + +
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    It was way too cold for any of us to give it a try. The kids contented themselves with throwing rocks in the shallow water.

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    + + bear lake, sangre de christo mountains photographed by luxagraf + +
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    I’m late getting this up, I’m running about a month behind right now, bit longer than the week I aim for, but I hope wherever you were, whatever you did, you had a good solstice.

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    + + Sunset over the lake, trinidad, co photographed by luxagraf + +
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      Yes, that Teddy. ↩

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    2 Comments

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    + Patsy Wall + July 17, 2017 at 8:52 a.m. +
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    Love your stories and the pictures are beautiful. +You guys are making precious memories.

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    + Scott + July 24, 2017 at 5:04 p.m. +
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    Thanks Patsy, glad you’re liking it.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/solstice.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/solstice.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..12c5751 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/solstice.txt @@ -0,0 +1,47 @@ +Solstice +======== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 21 June 2017 + +The fire exhales in soft gasps and whispers, occasionally snapping a shot of sparks into the air. It's the longest day of the year, well past 9pm and the last reddish glow of twilight is still clinging to the high mountains of the Spanish Peaks wilderness, a good thirty miles west from our camp here at Trinidad Lake. + + + +We celebrated the Solstice by heading back up into the Sangre de Christo Mountains, to Bear Lake. We had to see it, even if we couldn't get the bus to it. It turned out to be a wonderful little glacial lake at the base of Teddy's Peak[^1], with a good view of the Culebra Range. + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +The name comes from a large black bear that was causing a lot of havoc back in the early 1900s. An early forest ranger set a trap for it and the next day he went to retrieve the trap but it was gone. He tracked the bear and trap to the middle of the lake. The bear was so big that it had dragged the trap cross-country several miles before dying in the lake. The story serves as a reminder that the pre-Aldo Leopold forest service was not noted for it's ecological outlook. Arguably, neither is the post-Aldo Leopold forest service. + + + +A mostly spruce forest, with glades of aspen here and there surround the Bear Lake. A tributary of the Cuchara River runs down the hill and feeds snow melt into Bear Lake. The water is freezing. Even near the end of June there's still a patch of now and ice lingering in the cool shade of the north shore. + + + +It was way too cold for any of us to give it a try. The kids contented themselves with throwing rocks in the shallow water. + + + + + + + + +I'm late getting this up, I'm running about a month behind right now, bit longer than the week I aim for, but I hope wherever you were, whatever you did, you had a good solstice. + + + + +[^1]: Yes, [that][1] Teddy. + +[1]: https://luxagraf.net/media/images/original/2017/theodore-roosevelt_3QXvPHn.jpg diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/sprawl-austin-part-deux.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/sprawl-austin-part-deux.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..15f6531 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/sprawl-austin-part-deux.html @@ -0,0 +1,481 @@ + + + + + Sprawl (Austin, Part Deux) - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Sprawl (Austin, part deux)

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    Austin, Texas, U.S.

    + – Map +
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    We eventually managed to book a campsite at McKinney Falls State Park, which is just a few miles from downtown Austin.

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    + + 1969 dodge travco, mckinney falls campground photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + 1969 dodge travco, mckinney falls campground photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + chocolate ice creem photographed by luxagraf + +
    Making chocolate ice cream
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    Hummus
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    + + dancing, mckinney falls campground photographed by luxagraf + +
    Peacocks dancing.
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    This is an animated gif, if you click it and are patient, it’ll load. I should learn how to compress them, but meh.
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    + + interior, 1969 dodge travco photographed by luxagraf + +
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    It’s a short drive from the campground into Austin, but it’s not exactly a pretty one, it winds through the massive sprawling suburbs that encircle Austin.

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    + + sprawl, austin photographed by luxagraf + +
    Little boxes on the hillside, / Little boxes made of ticky tack / Little boxes on the hillside, / Little boxes all the same,
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    Corrinne grew up here, before all the sprawl, or perhaps in the first round of sprawl. This round of sprawl has happened shockingly fast. The difference just in the six years since we were last here is astounding. One of the blacksmiths we spoke with at Pioneer Farm had a son in a high school where the freshman class is three times the size of the graduating class.

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    + + live action ed ruscha photographed by luxagraf + +
    Live action Ed Ruscha. From one of the many, many planned and half executed subdivisions around Austin.
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    Driving in we got an interesting tour of what’s drawing people to town — mostly high tech companies, particularly hardware makers — and then the suburban sprawl where the employees live. It’s easy to mock that sprawl, it’s pretty ugly, but what other answer is there? Completely change your culture to embrace real, functioning cities? Probably not going to work. Until there’s no other choice.

    +

    Athens has had some pretty intense growth as well, and the city tried to combat sprawl by encouraging development downtown, but all that did was bring in a bunch of huge generic high rises that turned downtown into, well, it could be anywhere — there’s nothing left of the downtown Athens I knew and loved. So Austin has sprawl, but still has its downtown. I think that’s the way to do actually because downtown Austin feels and looks about the same as it did when I first drove through a decade ago.

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    The traffic is crazy though. Our running joke was that nothing was less than a 25 minute drive away. Grocery is four miles? Twenty five minutes. Didn’t matter what time of day it was, traffic was constant. In fact I passed on buying our house batteries because the shop was 15 miles away, but that 15 mile drive was never less than a 1 hour drive (according to Google Maps anyway).

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    I do still like Austin though. It’s a little hip for its own good, but it has some fabulous food, great camping close to town and tons of stuff to do. It’s hard to beat in that regard. The kids got to see their Gmommy, we took a trip to the coolest swimming pool ever, Barton Springs, and ate at quite a few food trucks.

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    2 Comments

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    + Gwen + June 10, 2017 at 2:07 p.m. +
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    Wondering if you’re headed to Dallas? I am considering going to a conference there this fall and wondering if it’s an interesting city to visit. I think I would enjoy seeing downtown Austin from reading your post. If you are headed to Dallas, there is a state park nearby where you can see dinosaur footprints. I think your kids would enjoy that.

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    + Scott + June 10, 2017 at 9:55 p.m. +
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    @Gwen-

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    We’re actually in Dallas right now, or just north of it in the city of Plano. We’re mostly here to visit family and make some repairs to the bus though so we haven’t explored too much.

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    It’s my second time here, but I’ve never really done anything more than drive through downtown Dallas. It seems pretty cool though. There’s a lot of great sounding restaurants anyway. I’d say go. But I’d almost always say that.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/sprawl-austin-part-deux.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/sprawl-austin-part-deux.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0d816f2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/06/sprawl-austin-part-deux.txt @@ -0,0 +1,38 @@ +Sprawl (Austin, part deux) +========================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 01 June 2017 + +We eventually managed to book a campsite at McKinney Falls State Park, which is just a few miles from downtown Austin. + + + + + + + + + + +It's a short drive from the campground into Austin, but it's not exactly a pretty one, it winds through the massive sprawling suburbs that encircle Austin. + + + +Corrinne grew up here, before all the sprawl, or perhaps in the first round of sprawl. This round of sprawl has happened shockingly fast. The difference just in the six years since we were last here is astounding. One of the blacksmiths we spoke with at Pioneer Farm had a son in a high school where the freshman class is three times the size of the graduating class. + + + +Driving in we got an interesting tour of what's drawing people to town -- mostly high tech companies, particularly hardware makers -- and then the suburban sprawl where the employees live. It's easy to mock that sprawl, it's pretty ugly, but what other answer is there? Completely change your culture to embrace real, functioning cities? Probably not going to work. Until there's no other choice. + +Athens has had some pretty intense growth as well, and the city tried to combat sprawl by encouraging development downtown, but all that did was bring in a bunch of huge generic high rises that turned downtown into, well, it could be anywhere -- there's nothing left of the downtown Athens I knew and loved. So Austin has sprawl, but still has its downtown. I think that's the way to do actually because downtown Austin feels and looks about the same as it did when I first drove through a decade ago. + +The traffic is crazy though. Our running joke was that nothing was less than a 25 minute drive away. Grocery is four miles? Twenty five minutes. Didn't matter what time of day it was, traffic was constant. In fact I passed on buying our house batteries because the shop was 15 miles away, but that 15 mile drive was never less than a 1 hour drive (according to Google Maps anyway). + +I do still like Austin though. It's a little hip for its own good, but it has some fabulous food, great camping close to town and tons of stuff to do. It's hard to beat in that regard. The kids got to see their Gmommy, we took a trip to the coolest swimming pool ever, Barton Springs, and ate at quite a few food trucks. + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/happy-5th-birthday.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/happy-5th-birthday.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..47397c4 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/happy-5th-birthday.html @@ -0,0 +1,570 @@ + + + + + Happy 5th Birthday - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Happy 5th Birthday

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    Durango, Colorado, U.S.

    + – Map +
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    This story is hard to tell because I am not going to tell all of it. The part you get to hear is that we took the girls for a ride on a narrow gauge steam train for their birthday. There’s some backstory as to why, which involves a very long and, while they don’t know it yet, probably never-ending, story about two girls not unlike them. But also not entirely like them. Suffice to say that the train fits into that story in ways that I will not go into here.

    +

    I suppose I could just be like most people, and just tell you we went on the narrow gauge railway from Durango to Silverton. It’s a common enough thing to do around these parts. It draws tourists from all over (one of whom I watched doing their YouTube review right after they got of the train which, while I know is a thing some travelers do, is still so weird to me that I can’t help staring — why are you talking to your phone?) and I still remember it from when I did it as a kid.

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    + + Silverton, co photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Steam train to Silverton photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Silverton, co photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Since we didn’t want them to spend their whole birthday stuck on a train, we rode it the day before. Their actual birthday they got up early and pretty much fell over each other in a rush to give each other the gifts they had picked out.

    +

    Their birthday was a little bittersweet because our friends whom the kids had been playing with pretty much every day for two weeks, had to leave. They stayed long enough to have birthday breakfast and then hit the road. I’m pretty sure our paths will probably cross again, that tends to happen when you travel, but in the mean time it was suddenly strangely quiet, and a little bit lonely, around camp.

    +
    + + 5th birthday photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + 5th birthday photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + 5th birthday photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Elliott was fine for 99 percent of the day, but when there were presents for his sisters and not for him, he lost it for a minute.

    +
    + + 5th birthday photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    But a little while later they were sharing all their new things with him and everything was fine again.

    +
    + + 5th birthday photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + 5th birthday photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Every since we invented chocolate waffle cake the girls have been asking for it for their birthday. The only problem was that we don’t have hookups here and we don’t have an inverter. About 99 percent of the time that doesn’t matter, but today it did. Fortunately the camp hosts, whom we’d made friends with, offered to let us make waffles at their RV. Thank you Tim and Zaida.

    +
    + + chocolate waffle cake photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    And then, new friends gone, birthday over, it was back to what they do every day, running around, playing in the forest. It never ceases to amaze me how well all three of them get along. They have their moments of course, but by and large they play together all day every day.

    +
    + + playing photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + playing photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + 1969 dodge travco photographed by luxagraf + +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +

    4 Comments

    + + + + + + +
    + +
    + +
    + Arva C Weinstein + August 06, 2017 at 8:13 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Love the look on Elliot’s face on the train, such a look of wonder. And the girls, hanging their heads out of the windows. I want MY next b’day celebration in the big blue bus!!! +Love and hugs, +Arva

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + August 06, 2017 at 9:13 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Arva-

    +

    Come meet us somewhere. Mexico.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Denise Meyers + August 07, 2017 at 6:18 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    I am so insanely proud of you for following your dream. The bus looks AMAZING. Every time I read about where you have been in that Dodge Travco, a piece of me is with you. What an outstanding gift to have given yourself, and your children. Thank you for being someone who does, not someone who talks about what they would do, if only. You are my hero…..

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + August 15, 2017 at 8:00 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Denise-

    +

    Wow, thank you, that’s a very nice thing to say.

    +

    (Just so everyone else knows, Denise was the previous owner of the big blue bus)

    + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    + + + +
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    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/happy-5th-birthday.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/happy-5th-birthday.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bcfe5be --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/happy-5th-birthday.txt @@ -0,0 +1,48 @@ +Happy 5th Birthday +================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Tuesday, 11 July 2017 + +This story is hard to tell because I am not going to tell all of it. The part you get to hear is that we took the girls for a ride on a narrow gauge steam train for their birthday. There's some backstory as to why, which involves a very long and, while they don't know it yet, probably never-ending, story about two girls not unlike them. But also not entirely like them. Suffice to say that the train fits into that story in ways that I will not go into here. + +I suppose I could just be like most people, and just tell you we went on the narrow gauge railway from Durango to Silverton. It's a common enough thing to do around these parts. It draws tourists from all over (one of whom I watched doing their YouTube review right after they got of the train which, while I know is a thing some travelers do, is still so weird to me that I can't help staring -- why are you talking to your phone?) and I still remember it from when I did it as a kid. + + + + + + + + + + + + +Since we didn't want them to spend their whole birthday stuck on a train, we rode it the day before. Their actual birthday they got up early and pretty much fell over each other in a rush to give each other the gifts they had picked out. + +Their birthday was a little bittersweet because our friends whom the kids had been playing with pretty much every day for two weeks, had to leave. They stayed long enough to have birthday breakfast and then hit the road. I'm pretty sure our paths will probably cross again, that tends to happen when you travel, but in the mean time it was suddenly strangely quiet, and a little bit lonely, around camp. + + + + + +Elliott was fine for 99 percent of the day, but when there were presents for his sisters and not for him, he lost it for a minute. + + + +But a little while later they were sharing all their new things with him and everything was fine again. + + + + +Every since we invented chocolate waffle cake the girls have been asking for it for their birthday. The only problem was that we don't have hookups here and we don't have an inverter. About 99 percent of the time that doesn't matter, but today it did. Fortunately the camp hosts, whom we'd made friends with, offered to let us make waffles at their RV. Thank you Tim and Zaida. + + + +And then, new friends gone, birthday over, it was back to what they do every day, running around, playing in the forest. It never ceases to amaze me how well all three of them get along. They have their moments of course, but by and large they play together all day every day. + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b5306f6 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,116 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: July 2017

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/junction-creek.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/junction-creek.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bd367ee --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/junction-creek.html @@ -0,0 +1,426 @@ + + + + + Junction Creek - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Junction Creek

    + +
    +
    +

    Durango, Colorado, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    If you hang your head back over the edge of the chair you can stare straight up at the pine needles overhead, which form a great canopy of thin black fingers reaching into the soft glow of the new moon, which just rose up from behind the western ridge.

    +
    + + view from the pass photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    That was what I was doing when Corrinne and I decided that Junction Creek would be a good place to pass the month of July. The campground was nice and spread out, with relatively secluded sites tucked in among a forest of towering Ponderosa pines with a few gambel oaks in the understory. across the dirt road from our site was an open field, something of the meadow that was home to endless flutter of flycatchers and vireos snatching up insects and retreating back to their trees.

    +

    Back down the road, which starts paved and ends up dirt here in the National Forest, is Durango. While tourist-filled and mountain-kitschy to some degree, it nevertheless has some cool stuff to do — a wonderful public library where the kids got to see the U.S. National Yoyo champion (yes, really), a really cool indoor water park masquerading as a rec center, complete with a three story water slide, a science museum, and a host of other fun stuff — as one of the camp hosts we befriended put it, in Durango they really know how to do it.

    +
    + + science museum photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + dodge van photographed by luxagraf + +
    Some really nice people we met. Not a travco, but same engine and a surprisingly roomy interior.
    +
    + +

    We also needed to have a semi-plan for the near future because my parents were coming to visit us, somewhere in Colorado (thanks for being flexible), and to be honest we were all feeling like we’d been moving a bit faster than we like. It’s always enticing to see what’s around the next bend, as it were, but sometimes you want to stop somewhere and just sink into the soil a bit. Junction Creek seemed like a good place to do that.

    +
    + +
    + + wading in junction creek photographed by luxagraf +
    There’s spigots, but no other water at the campground. Bathing in the river was cold, but it got the dust off and left you refreshed at least.
    +
    + + + + + + + wading in junction creek photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + wading in junction creek photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + wading in junction creek photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    A good part of the reason it seemed that way was because we met some really great people camped next to us. You meet a lot of people traveling, especially if you have a vintage motorhome that draws people to your door on a daily basis (just last night we had dinner with a really great couple who first stopped to admire the bus). Every so often though you run across fellow travelers whom you immediately click with and we were fortunate enough to have that happened at Junction Creek.

    +

    What I enjoy about these friendships is that long term travel1 acts as a kind of crucible in which the mundane is quickly melted away, you can skip past that and get straight to the really fun part where you’re all sharing a room with a bathroom that has no door and everyone has dysentery. Wait, no. That’s not it. Or it is, but not this time. That was last time.

    +

    I can say though that if Kate and Josh and their family and ours ever find ourselves in say, El Salvador, and we all have some sort of intestinal parasite it will just make for a lot of laughter. Because that’s how it goes when you’re traveling. Travelers above all seem to just not care about the proprieties of life and get straight to what Thoreau, dramatic man that we was, called the marrow. Still, it’s an apt metaphor though. It helps that our kids were fast friends almost instantly. Kids know what’s what.

    +
    + + my crayons photographed by luxagraf + +
    “My crayons”
    +
    + +

    There’s something more grounded in the here and now about these friendships born of the road. We’re all a little more like children perhaps, exploring the world and knowing a little bit more what’s what. It’s rare to have a conversation like you have when you meet strangers in your home town. There’s very little of the “what do you do?” sort of thing because out here no one cares what you do. We tend to talk about that things around us right now. The forest, for instance. The dead pine full of fledgling pygmy chickadees. Our plans for the next few weeks, what we’re doing for dinner, should we hike to the swimming hole, should we check out the rec center, could we live here, for a year, for two, forever, not at all.

    +

    I have a few of these friendships nurtured over the years and I feel lucky to have them, I want more, but these things, you cannot seek them. Maybe they come, maybe they do not. It is not for us to say. But when you find them, stop what you’re doing, even if you’re in Vang Vieng, and enjoy them.

    +

    So we did, for two weeks, which is the longest you can stay in any one campsite in America’s national forests (or anywhere really). We went to the rec center, we rode the water slide, we drove up and down the mountain, we watched birds, we swam in the ice cold creek for a bath and we had a blast, doing nothing and everything.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      To me long term travel is really more a mindset of “I don’t know when I’m going ‘home’” than any length of time. ↩

      +
      2. +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/junction-creek.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/junction-creek.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e117a72 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/junction-creek.txt @@ -0,0 +1,44 @@ +Junction Creek +============== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 06 July 2017 + +If you hang your head back over the edge of the chair you can stare straight up at the pine needles overhead, which form a great canopy of thin black fingers reaching into the soft glow of the new moon, which just rose up from behind the western ridge. + + + +That was what I was doing when Corrinne and I decided that Junction Creek would be a good place to pass the month of July. The campground was nice and spread out, with relatively secluded sites tucked in among a forest of towering Ponderosa pines with a few gambel oaks in the understory. across the dirt road from our site was an open field, something of the meadow that was home to endless flutter of flycatchers and vireos snatching up insects and retreating back to their trees. + +Back down the road, which starts paved and ends up dirt here in the National Forest, is Durango. While tourist-filled and mountain-kitschy to some degree, it nevertheless has some cool stuff to do -- a wonderful public library where the kids got to see the U.S. National Yoyo champion (yes, really), a really cool indoor water park masquerading as a rec center, complete with a three story water slide, a science museum, and a host of other fun stuff -- as one of the camp hosts we befriended put it, in Durango they really know how to do it. + + + + +We also needed to have a semi-plan for the near future because my parents were coming to visit us, somewhere in Colorado (thanks for being flexible), and to be honest we were all feeling like we'd been moving a bit faster than we like. It's always enticing to see what's around the next bend, as it were, but sometimes you want to stop somewhere and just sink into the soil a bit. Junction Creek seemed like a good place to do that. + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +A good part of the reason it seemed that way was because we met some really great people camped next to us. You meet a lot of people traveling, especially if you have a vintage motorhome that draws people to your door on a daily basis (just last night we had dinner with a really great couple who first stopped to admire the bus). Every so often though you run across fellow travelers whom you immediately click with and we were fortunate enough to have that happened at Junction Creek. + +What I enjoy about these friendships is that long term travel[^1] acts as a kind of crucible in which the mundane is quickly melted away, you can skip past that and get straight to the really fun part where you're all sharing a room with a bathroom that has no door and everyone has dysentery. Wait, no. That's not it. Or it is, but not this time. That was last time. + +I can say though that if Kate and Josh and their family and ours ever find ourselves in say, El Salvador, and we all have some sort of intestinal parasite it will just make for a lot of laughter. Because that's how it goes when you're traveling. Travelers above all seem to just not care about the proprieties of life and get straight to what Thoreau, dramatic man that we was, called the marrow. Still, it's an apt metaphor though. It helps that our kids were fast friends almost instantly. Kids know what's what. + + + +There's something more grounded in the here and now about these friendships born of the road. We're all a little more like children perhaps, exploring the world and knowing a little bit more what's what. It's rare to have a conversation like you have when you meet strangers in your home town. There's very little of the "what do you do?" sort of thing because out here no one cares what you do. We tend to talk about that things around us right now. The forest, for instance. The dead pine full of fledgling pygmy chickadees. Our plans for the next few weeks, what we're doing for dinner, should we hike to the swimming hole, should we check out the rec center, could we live here, for a year, for two, forever, not at all. + +I have a few of these friendships nurtured over the years and I feel lucky to have them, I want more, but these things, you cannot seek them. Maybe they come, maybe they do not. It is not for us to say. But when you find them, stop what you're doing, even if you're in Vang Vieng, and enjoy them. + +So we did, for two weeks, which is the longest you can stay in any one campsite in America's national forests (or anywhere really). We went to the rec center, we rode the water slide, we drove up and down the mountain, we watched birds, we swam in the ice cold creek for a bath and we had a blast, doing nothing and everything. + +[^1]: To me long term travel is really more a mindset of "I don't know when I'm going 'home'" than any length of time. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/mancos-and-mesa-verde.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/mancos-and-mesa-verde.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..909f5c7 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/mancos-and-mesa-verde.html @@ -0,0 +1,404 @@ + + + + + Mancos And Mesa Verde - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Mancos and Mesa Verde

    + +
    +
    +

    Mancos Camp, Colorado, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Stay anywhere to long and things start to settle in too much. The bus was made to move, its fluids pool, metal rusts, wood decays, the windows smear with dirt and rain, as Chinua Achebe put it, things fall apart. Everything. All the time. Stay too long and the world will settle down on you. The tires will lose air, the chipmunks will come for the avocados. I’m from California, messing with my avocados is messing with my emotions, I don’t care if you’re cute and striped.

    +

    So we shook off the cobwebs, pulled out of Junction Creek for a few days, and headed up over the pass to the west, to Mancos and points beyond.

    +
    + + mancos valley photographed by luxagraf + +
    View from the top, looking out over the Mancos river valley.
    +
    + +

    We found a nice enough campground, nearly deserted. The only downside was a little road noise — it was up on a hill above the highway and the sound of truck engine brakes was at times annoying. Aside from that though it was much better than Junction Creek. Fewer people and Mancos was much more my speed than Durango.

    +

    Mancos consists of one stop light and two paved roads. Or partly paved roads. The rest is dirt and hardly even a stop sign to be found. Still, there’s a decent grocery store, a pretty good sandwich shop and a coffee roaster with the best double espresso I’ve had since we left Athens. There’s also a library with passable internet speeds that I could work at.

    +

    Mancos is also only about 20 minutes from the entrance to Mesa Verde National Park.

    +

    I knew that after Chaco Canyon Mesa Verde was going to be a let down. You just can’t have crowds and retain the stillness and mystery that Chaco has. I feel strange criticizing a place for it’s crowds because on the one hand if no one is going to our National Parks no one is going to fight for them to continue existing. Still, I did not enjoy Mesa Verde. I am glad that it draws crowds, glad that people are out there visiting natinal parks and I’m glad they aren’t going to Chaco.

    +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    If you know me you know I’d sooner chew my leg off than go on a guided tour. And Mesa Verde is all guided tours, you don’t go into the big ruins by yourself anymore. You get a nanny. That’s not for us really so we skipped that part and went to the one smaller ruin you can still explore (somewhat) on your own.

    +
    + + mesa verde photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + mesa verde photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It was a nice stroll. It was funny to hear the rangers questioning whether our kids could do it, it was less than a mile and only 300 feet elevation change. The trail was paved. It’s sad that we’ve created a world where it’s considered amazing for five year olds to walk a mile on asphalt.

    +

    We left after lunch.

    +

    Just hanging around camp was more to our liking. The kids built obstacle courses, made bees out of pine cones and looked up whenever the thunder rumbled up above, somewhere high in the San Juans because after a month here they’ve learned that the storms come out of the high country.

    +
    + + 1969 dodge travco photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + bee cones photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + fortress of magnatiles photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + bedtime photographed by luxagraf + +
    Bedtime
    +
    + +

    In the evenings we sat around the fire and listened to the nighthawks darting after food between the pines overhead. This is the Western slope of the Rockies, less water, fewer pines, more oaks, more stars to backlight the silhouettes of Ponderosa needles scratching at the wind.

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/mancos-and-mesa-verde.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/mancos-and-mesa-verde.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3fc8b33 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/mancos-and-mesa-verde.txt @@ -0,0 +1,43 @@ +Mancos and Mesa Verde +===================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 17 July 2017 + +Stay anywhere to long and things start to settle in too much. The bus was made to move, its fluids pool, metal rusts, wood decays, the windows smear with dirt and rain, as Chinua Achebe put it, things fall apart. Everything. All the time. Stay too long and the world will settle down on you. The tires will lose air, the chipmunks will come for the avocados. I'm from California, messing with my avocados is messing with my emotions, I don't care if you're cute and striped. + +So we shook off the cobwebs, pulled out of Junction Creek for a few days, and headed up over the pass to the west, to Mancos and points beyond. + + + +We found a nice enough campground, nearly deserted. The only downside was a little road noise -- it was up on a hill above the highway and the sound of truck engine brakes was at times annoying. Aside from that though it was much better than Junction Creek. Fewer people and Mancos was much more my speed than Durango. + +Mancos consists of one stop light and two paved roads. Or partly paved roads. The rest is dirt and hardly even a stop sign to be found. Still, there's a decent grocery store, a pretty good sandwich shop and a coffee roaster with the best double espresso I've had since we left Athens. There's also a library with passable internet speeds that I could work at. + +Mancos is also only about 20 minutes from the entrance to Mesa Verde National Park. + +I knew that after Chaco Canyon Mesa Verde was going to be a let down. You just can't have crowds and retain the stillness and mystery that Chaco has. I feel strange criticizing a place for it's crowds because on the one hand if no one is going to our National Parks no one is going to fight for them to continue existing. Still, I did not enjoy Mesa Verde. I am glad that it draws crowds, glad that people are out there visiting natinal parks and I'm glad they aren't going to Chaco. + + + + +If you know me you know I'd sooner chew my leg off than go on a guided tour. And Mesa Verde is all guided tours, you don't go into the big ruins by yourself anymore. You get a nanny. That's not for us really so we skipped that part and went to the one smaller ruin you can still explore (somewhat) on your own. + + + + +It was a nice stroll. It was funny to hear the rangers questioning whether our kids could do it, it was less than a mile and only 300 feet elevation change. The trail was paved. It's sad that we've created a world where it's considered amazing for five year olds to walk a mile on asphalt. + +We left after lunch. + +Just hanging around camp was more to our liking. The kids built obstacle courses, made bees out of pine cones and looked up whenever the thunder rumbled up above, somewhere high in the San Juans because after a month here they've learned that the storms come out of the high country. + + + + + + + + +In the evenings we sat around the fire and listened to the nighthawks darting after food between the pines overhead. This is the Western slope of the Rockies, less water, fewer pines, more oaks, more stars to backlight the silhouettes of Ponderosa needles scratching at the wind. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/mancos-days.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/mancos-days.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a823a2b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/mancos-days.html @@ -0,0 +1,506 @@ + + + + + Mancos Days - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Mancos Days

    + +
    +
    +

    Mancos Camp, Colorado, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    After my parents headed back home we said goodbye to Durango — for good this time — and headed back over the pass to Mancos.

    +

    Our plan was to spend the weekend there and then head on, but one day I drove down to the coffee shop and instead of the quiet little town I’d been expecting, streets were shut down and there were cars and people everywhere. It turned out to be something called Mancos Days. Naturally we couldn’t miss that, so we ended up staying a week longer than we intended and we got to see the Mancos Days parade.

    +
    + + Mancos days fire dept photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + mancos days grand marshall photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Mancos days photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Hydrolics photographed by luxagraf + +
    Part of the parade was a classic car show, this hydrolic setup was by far the best thing.
    +
    + +

    One day I trekked up past Mancos to Cortez to do some laundry and discovered a really good Thai restuarant. The next day we all went for Thai food and on the way back we noticed that the Montezuma County Fair started that weekend. This is how we end up spending weeks in the same place, things slowly unfold and there’s always more to see and do.

    +

    You can’t miss the fair. I love the fair, especially fairs that aren’t all rides and entertainment, which this one was definitely not. Most of it was devoted to the display and sale of livestock.

    +
    + + goat photographed by luxagraf + +
    The kids never believe me when I tell them that goats will eat anything. This is the prize winning market goat trying to eat the bars of its cage.
    +
    + +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    This sheep was extemely fond of Lilah.
    +
    + +

    The fair also had a corn shucking contest which I really think we should have entered. Next time.

    +
    + + waiting on the corn shucking contest photographed by luxagraf + +
    Waiting on the corn shucking contest.
    +
    + +
    + + corn shucking contest photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + antique trackers photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The girls were really excited about something that I admit did sound fun: the chicken chase. After about 10 seconds in a ring with a bunch of chickens though it was painfully obvious that our kids had no idea what to do with a chicken when the chicken chase turned to the chicken caught.

    +
    + + Chicken chase photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Just to make sure they girls weren’t the only ones with a moment of awkwardness at the fair, I got picked to join in the Ute tribe’s Bear Dance. I thought I held it together okay, but when I was done Corrinne was shaking her head. “You look nothing like a bear,” she said.

    +
    + + Ute tribe bear dance photographed by luxagraf + +
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    4 Comments

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    + Susan + August 15, 2017 at 10:43 p.m. +
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    + +

    I wish there were videos of the chicken chase and the bear dance! I am really enjoying reading about your adventures!

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    + Jane Sanders + August 16, 2017 at 8:54 a.m. +
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    + +

    Would have loved to see chicken and bear dance events! True memories to keep!

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    + Scott + August 17, 2017 at 7:03 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    I wish I had some video, but I don’t. Never occurs to be to shoot video. I need to work on that. I don’t know though, I see people holding out cameras and talking to them and it just seems so weird to me.

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    + Drew Eldridge + September 01, 2017 at 12:56 p.m. +
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    + +

    That green car looks like it belongs in “Friday” with Big Perm driving more than in that town.

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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/mancos-days.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/mancos-days.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f4c3347 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/mancos-days.txt @@ -0,0 +1,37 @@ +Mancos Days +=========== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 30 July 2017 + +After my parents headed back home we said goodbye to Durango -- for good this time -- and headed back over the pass to Mancos. + +Our plan was to spend the weekend there and then head on, but one day I drove down to the coffee shop and instead of the quiet little town I'd been expecting, streets were shut down and there were cars and people everywhere. It turned out to be something called Mancos Days. Naturally we couldn't miss that, so we ended up staying a week longer than we intended and we got to see the Mancos Days parade. + + + + + + +One day I trekked up past Mancos to Cortez to do some laundry and discovered a really good Thai restuarant. The next day we all went for Thai food and on the way back we noticed that the Montezuma County Fair started that weekend. This is how we end up spending weeks in the same place, things slowly unfold and there's always more to see and do. + +You can't miss the fair. I love the fair, especially fairs that aren't all rides and entertainment, which this one was definitely not. Most of it was devoted to the display and sale of livestock. + + + + + +The fair also had a corn shucking contest which I really think we should have entered. Next time. + + + + + +The girls were really excited about something that I admit did sound fun: the chicken chase. After about 10 seconds in a ring with a bunch of chickens though it was painfully obvious that our kids had no idea what to do with a chicken when the chicken chase turned to the chicken caught. + + + +Just to make sure they girls weren't the only ones with a moment of awkwardness at the fair, I got picked to join in the Ute tribe's Bear Dance. I thought I held it together okay, but when I was done Corrinne was shaking her head. "You look nothing like a bear," she said. + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/time-and-placement.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/time-and-placement.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f84bef1 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/time-and-placement.html @@ -0,0 +1,537 @@ + + + + + Time And Placement - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Time and Placement

    + +
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    +

    Durango, Colorado, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Every evening around 5 the thunder starts in. You could set your watch by it. Except that there’s no need for a watch up here.

    +
    + + forest, junction creek, co photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The way it cracks high and seems to cascade down the mountains reminds me of Greek or Norse stories, the sound feels thrown by some unseen thing. This evening those thunder gods, whomever they may be, have conspired to produce something a little extra. Thor is pounding a little harder, Zeus throwing a little more than usual. A flash and then seconds later a rolling peel of sound the echoes off to the east, down the mountain side.

    +

    Around here they call this the start of the monsoon season1. The rain comes soft and steady, the kind that leaves no puddles here in the forest, much to my children’s disappointment. Here all the water is captured by something, held in a bed of rotting needles, leaves, and the roots of rice grass, false oats and mountain parsley. What little makes it lower ends up in the roots of gambel oak and snow willows, and finally somewhere deeper still, up to 12 meters down, the ponderosa pine roots and their attendant webs of fungi get what’s left.

    +

    Nothing remains on the surface of things.

    +

    It is easy here to sink into the soil and disappear for a while, everything here is doing it, you are too.

    +
    + + forest, junction creek, co photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The valley wall opposite our camp has disappeared in a rainy mist of blue gray nothingness. The light is fading prematurely, leaving a shadowless forest where darkness fades in rather than falling as it does when the sun ducks behind the ridge.

    +

    It is silence save the soft pelting of rain and the call and response of two hardy wood peewees, seemingly unfazed by the storm. And then some storm god throws another bolt and the silence is blasted apart.

    +

    I am sitting here listening to the rain, feeling the pace of my chair sinking into the soil. It is a slow but steady rain, a slow but steady sinking.

    +

    I am listening to the rain because that is what you do when it rains.

    +

    In every place the rain sounds different.

    +

    Here the rain has a soft and spread out sound. The rain that reaches down here does not do so directly, not much of it anyway. Most of it has hit at least one, probably hundreds, of pine needles on its way to the earth. These drops are small and soft because they have been broken up on their way down. By the time they hit the ground they are more alike than different, every drop having been similarly, but differently bounced through the pine canopy. The result is a steady even sound, occassionally broken up by the rougher splatter of rain coming through a gap in the canopy to land on oak leaves, or the split wood of the picnic table, or the roof of the bus.

    +

    Somewhere out there is a forest. It’s too dark now to see more than a few feet in front of me. There are two trees at the edge of what faint light the rising moon offers tonight, locked away as it is, somewhere behind a veil of cloud. There’s just enough glow that I can still make out the roughness of the tree bark. The curve of their trunks hint at the vastness of space behind them. Despite the rain it is dry here next to the trunks of the pines, whatever water has made it through the canopy is already down below the surface of the needles I’m lying on, staring up, trying to see the branches coming together above me.

    +

    One of the more remarkable things about lying on your back in the forest is that you can stare up at the trees running together up into the vastness of space and you can feel the planet spinning through the heavens, but at the same time you can smell the warm fecundity of the soil, all the billions of microbes you’re lying on churning their way through the seemingly endless supply of organic material of the forest, one day you. You can feel for fleeting moments the vastness of existence and the minute intimacy of existence at the same time. You find yourself in a web of life and energy that is flowing all around and through you.

    +

    It is impossible to tease apart all the links between everything micro and macro, do not even try. In one way you are you, the you you experience, in another you are the joining together of cells of that found it advantageous to become parts of a whole rather than go it alone — which one is you? That’s the wrong question. Know that all of this is you. All those solitary cells within you are now too specialized to survive without the rest of you, they gave up their individuality to all you to exist. As has already been pointed out, hundreds if not thousands of years before we had the language of microbes and devil of the details by the tail, the wiser among realized that the biggest thing is in the smallest thing.

    +

    John Muir, who spent his fair share of time lying on his back in pine forests, captures this feeling better than I can when he wrote, “When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe.”

    +

    I think this is one of the principle realizations travel unpacks for you — that there is no other. You are a part of a whole, interconnected system and joined far more intimately to everything around you than you could ever hope to understand, though attempting to understand it is worth the effort, even if it’s impossible. Travel doesn’t make it any easier to understand it, but sometimes when you travel you can feel it all around you, moving and flowing through you like an invisible wind.

    +
    + + campground, junction creek, co photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + campground, junction creek, co photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + 1969 dodge travco, junction creek, co photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      I can only assume no one around here has ever been in a real monsoon, because while it does rain a little more, it’s hardly what most of the world would call a monsoon. ↩

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    6 Comments

    + + + + + + +
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    + classical_liberal + August 13, 2017 at 2:42 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Just commenting to let you know I’m still following your adventures every week. Your writing continues to impress. Thanks for taking the effort.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + August 15, 2017 at 7:58 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @classical_liberal-

    +

    Glad you’re enjoying it. I think I might actually get caught up one of these days.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Drew Eldridge + August 15, 2017 at 2:36 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    We were just discussing this on our way to Pink Floyd concert this weekend……

    +

    Is this reincarnation?

    +

    “microbes you’re lying on churning their way through the seemingly endless supply of organic material of the forest, one day you.”

    +

    If so, I guess I believe in it.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + August 17, 2017 at 7:09 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Drew- You guys were discussing luxagraf on your way to the Floyd show? I should probably just drop the mic and walk away. ;-)

    +

    I do have some thoughts on reincarnation that I consider publishing from time to time, but that was really more just thinking about the lifecycle of all things, and that the boundary between life and what we call death seems maybe not as hard and fast as we (in the west) have been trained to think.

    +

    I’ve been reading several ecology books lately, which have influenced my thinking considerably. I almost added a note to this post crediting David George Haskell’s The Songs of Trees (library link) for some of the ideas. So I’ll add it here, if you like this post or are intruiged by the ideas, I highly recommend his book. It’s a great, very lyrical, not at all technical or dry intro to ecology.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Drew Eldridge + August 18, 2017 at 9:55 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Im too lazy to read- I bought it on audible and will listen to it with Sam on the way to school. Lets see how fast I can make him fall asleep at 630AM… Right now we are listening to Tommy Caldwells “The Push” which is fantastic!

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + August 21, 2017 at 12:55 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Drew-

    +

    Nice. I’m the opposite, I can’t handle audiobooks.

    + +
    +
    + +
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    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
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    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/time-and-placement.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/time-and-placement.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2bd4f13 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/07/time-and-placement.txt @@ -0,0 +1,49 @@ +Time and Placement +================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 24 July 2017 + +Every evening around 5 the thunder starts in. You could set your watch by it. Except that there's no need for a watch up here. + + + +The way it cracks high and seems to cascade down the mountains reminds me of Greek or Norse stories, the sound feels thrown by some unseen thing. This evening those thunder gods, whomever they may be, have conspired to produce something a little extra. Thor is pounding a little harder, Zeus throwing a little more than usual. A flash and then seconds later a rolling peel of sound the echoes off to the east, down the mountain side. + +Around here they call this the start of the monsoon season[^1]. The rain comes soft and steady, the kind that leaves no puddles here in the forest, much to my children's disappointment. Here all the water is captured by something, held in a bed of rotting needles, leaves, and the roots of rice grass, false oats and mountain parsley. What little makes it lower ends up in the roots of gambel oak and snow willows, and finally somewhere deeper still, up to 12 meters down, the ponderosa pine roots and their attendant webs of fungi get what's left. + +Nothing remains on the surface of things. + +It is easy here to sink into the soil and disappear for a while, everything here is doing it, you are too. + + + +The valley wall opposite our camp has disappeared in a rainy mist of blue gray nothingness. The light is fading prematurely, leaving a shadowless forest where darkness fades in rather than falling as it does when the sun ducks behind the ridge. + +It is silence save the soft pelting of rain and the call and response of two hardy wood peewees, seemingly unfazed by the storm. And then some storm god throws another bolt and the silence is blasted apart. + +I am sitting here listening to the rain, feeling the pace of my chair sinking into the soil. It is a slow but steady rain, a slow but steady sinking. + +I am listening to the rain because that is what you do when it rains. + +In every place the rain sounds different. + +Here the rain has a soft and spread out sound. The rain that reaches down here does not do so directly, not much of it anyway. Most of it has hit at least one, probably hundreds, of pine needles on its way to the earth. These drops are small and soft because they have been broken up on their way down. By the time they hit the ground they are more alike than different, every drop having been similarly, but differently bounced through the pine canopy. The result is a steady even sound, occassionally broken up by the rougher splatter of rain coming through a gap in the canopy to land on oak leaves, or the split wood of the picnic table, or the roof of the bus. + +Somewhere out there is a forest. It's too dark now to see more than a few feet in front of me. There are two trees at the edge of what faint light the rising moon offers tonight, locked away as it is, somewhere behind a veil of cloud. There's just enough glow that I can still make out the roughness of the tree bark. The curve of their trunks hint at the vastness of space behind them. Despite the rain it is dry here next to the trunks of the pines, whatever water has made it through the canopy is already down below the surface of the needles I'm lying on, staring up, trying to see the branches coming together above me. + +One of the more remarkable things about lying on your back in the forest is that you can stare up at the trees running together up into the vastness of space and you can feel the planet spinning through the heavens, but at the same time you can smell the warm fecundity of the soil, all the billions of microbes you're lying on churning their way through the seemingly endless supply of organic material of the forest, one day you. You can feel for fleeting moments the vastness of existence and the minute intimacy of existence at the same time. You find yourself in a web of life and energy that is flowing all around and through you. + +It is impossible to tease apart all the links between everything micro and macro, do not even try. In one way you are you, the you you experience, in another you are the joining together of cells of that found it advantageous to become parts of a whole rather than go it alone -- which one is you? That's the wrong question. Know that all of this is you. All those solitary cells within you are now too specialized to survive without the rest of you, they gave up their individuality to all you to exist. As has already been pointed out, hundreds if not thousands of years before we had the language of microbes and devil of the details by the tail, the wiser among realized that the biggest thing is in the smallest thing. + +John Muir, who spent his fair share of time lying on his back in pine forests, captures this feeling better than I can when he wrote, "When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe." + +I think this is one of the principle realizations travel unpacks for you -- that there is no other. You are a part of a whole, interconnected system and joined far more intimately to everything around you than you could ever hope to understand, though attempting to understand it is worth the effort, even if it's impossible. Travel doesn't make it any easier to understand it, but sometimes when you travel you can *feel* it all around you, moving and flowing through you like an invisible wind. + + + + + + +[^1]: I can only assume no one around here has ever been in a real monsoon, because while it does rain a little more, it's hardly what most of the world would call a monsoon. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/canyon-ancients.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/canyon-ancients.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ca6c3d5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/canyon-ancients.html @@ -0,0 +1,384 @@ + + + + + Canyon Of The Ancients - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Canyon of the Ancients

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    Canyon of the Ancients, Colorado, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    I spend more time than is strictly necessary staring at maps. I have since I was a kid. I used to drag my dad to a map store just to buy 7.5 topo sheets of the High Sierras and desert around southern California.

    +

    I like maps, especially blank spots on maps and in the United States there are very few places with as many blank spots as the Four Corners region of Utah, Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona. One of the relative blank spots I kept staring at was something called Canyon of the Ancients. After our disappoint experience with Mesa Verde we were anxious to get back to some ruins that were less crowded and I felt like Canyon of the Ancients was a good place to start. Looking up reviews on the web got me tons of negative reviews from people complaining about the lack of signage, getting lost and never seeing anything but private farmland. Perfect.

    +

    We started at a museum up in Dolores CO, which exists mostly because in the mid 1980s this area decided it need a reservoir. The problem with filling in a canyon around here is that you’re filling in 2000 years of archaeological treasures. They found so much pottery here that (according to some locals we talked to) the museum put most of it in burlap sacks and smashed them to fit in drawers. Keep that in mind next time you think archaeologists are the best preservers of the past. Personally I’d rather have those pots on someone’s mantel than smashed in a drawer. The rest of us will never see it either way, might as well let at least one person enjoy it.

    +

    I didn’t actually know this tidbit when we were at the museum so I was able to enjoy it. It had a good bit of interactive stuff. The kids got to grind some corn, which made me incredibly happy we don’t have to do that these days. Though of course, at the rate we’re going I would not at all be surprised if we’re back to grinding corn before my grandchildren grow old.

    +
    + + grinding corn photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The main purpose of stopping at the museum though was to get some better maps of the area, which we did. We decided to go to the best preserved ruin first, which was nice enough, but metal reinforcements and the rest of the modern structural work necessary to stabilize an excavated ruin are, to my mind, distracting (but necessary, I get it).

    +
    + + kiva photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    After that the kids were tired of driving around so we headed back to Mancos.

    +
    + + 1950s Chevrolet Apache Wagon photographed by luxagraf + +
    1950s Chevrolet Apache wagon. You don’t see these much. We’re on the hunt for something better than a minivan, I’d love for it to be one of these but I don’t really have a way to fab parts in the bus :)
    +
    + +

    But then Corrinne and I changed our minds and decided we’d go see one other pueblo, known as Sand Canyon.

    +

    After winding through a bizarre patchwork of private and public lands we finally found a tiny turnout with an even tinier sign. We tucked some water in our packs and hit the short trail. Unlike most ruins we’d been to, Sand Canyon was reburied after it was excavated back in the 1960s (if you want something to last out here, you don’t leave it exposed to the elements, you rebury it and leave it like you found it). Instead of walking through buildings and rooms as we did in Chaco, in Sand Canyon you step over vaguely defined walls and crumbs of stones, a bit like my favorite ruin in southeast asia — Beng Melea, which is about two hours north of the rest of Angkor Wat and still mostly just a bunch of stone in the jungle. There’s no jungle in Sand Canyon, but the juniper, prickly pear and rice grass — all of which the kids pointed out, unprompted, as we hiked, so perhaps Mesa Verde was not a total loss — fill the same roll.

    +

    Sand Canyon sits on the edge of a juniper strewn mesa with a short trail that winds through it and eventually down that canyon. The pueblo itself was one of the largest in the area, bigger than anything in Mesa Verde. Just about 800 years ago roughly 725 people lived on the edge of this mesa in a singular walled structure. There were 420 rooms, 90 kivas and 14 towers. A spring used to run right through the middle of it, though it didn’t have any water when we were there. There were roofed plazas, kivas connected to towers and some other oddities. Although it doesn’t fit with the park service narrative and therefore wasn’t on any of the signs, in 1290 41 women men and children were massacred here and if anyone survived they moved on. No one has lived here since.

    +
    + + ruins photographed by luxagraf + +
    See the tower that dates from 900AD?
    +
    + +

    We wandered around, trying to piece together the structure of things based on the shape of rocks piled here in there in might have been patterns. It’s tough to trust your brain when it comes to patterns though, it’ll see patterns where there are none. Or perhaps patters that aren’t the ones you’re looking for. Still, we picked out a few kivas and what a sign said was the outer wall. We found potsherds. And then we put them back in the ground.

    +

    Unlike Chaco this location made sense — there was a commanding view of the canyon and a spring running right through the middle of what became the city. Anyone passing through the area would want to stay here. And a lot of people did pass through here. Over 6,000 sites have been recorded in the area Canyon of the Ancients covers and the best guess is that there are plenty more out there waiting to be found.

    +

    Even if you don’t head off into the desert in search of some new ruin — it’s worth bearing in mind that not officially recorded is very different than undiscovered — there’s plenty to find here. All the kids found their own potsherds, including the biggest piece we’ve found yet.

    +
    + + Potsherds photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Potsherds photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Eventually the heat and the stillness got to us and we headed back to the car for more water. One the way we detoured up to the high point of the mesa overlooking the canyon. We made a stab at a group picture, but mostly we just sat there awhile, listening to the silence of the desert and ruins.

    +
    + + 4 months photographed by luxagraf + +
    Our trip to the Canyon of the Ancients happened to take place exactly four months after we left Athens. Honestly though, Athens feels a lot farther in the rearview mirror than that to me.
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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/canyon-ancients.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/canyon-ancients.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a9b2ba8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/canyon-ancients.txt @@ -0,0 +1,45 @@ +Canyon of the Ancients +====================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Tuesday, 01 August 2017 + +I spend more time than is strictly necessary staring at maps. I have since I was a kid. I used to drag my dad to a map store just to buy 7.5 topo sheets of the High Sierras and desert around southern California. + +I like maps, especially blank spots on maps and in the United States there are very few places with as many blank spots as the Four Corners region of Utah, Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona. One of the relative blank spots I kept staring at was something called Canyon of the Ancients. After our disappoint experience with Mesa Verde we were anxious to get back to some ruins that were less crowded and I felt like Canyon of the Ancients was a good place to start. Looking up reviews on the web got me tons of negative reviews from people complaining about the lack of signage, getting lost and never seeing anything but private farmland. Perfect. + +We started at a museum up in Dolores CO, which exists mostly because in the mid 1980s this area decided it need a reservoir. The problem with filling in a canyon around here is that you're filling in 2000 years of archaeological treasures. They found so much pottery here that (according to some locals we talked to) the museum put most of it in burlap sacks and smashed them to fit in drawers. Keep that in mind next time you think archaeologists are the best preservers of the past. Personally I'd rather have those pots on someone's mantel than smashed in a drawer. The rest of us will never see it either way, might as well let at least one person enjoy it. + +I didn't actually know this tidbit when we were at the museum so I was able to enjoy it. It had a good bit of interactive stuff. The kids got to grind some corn, which made me incredibly happy we don't have to do that these days. Though of course, at the rate we're going I would not at all be surprised if we're back to grinding corn before my grandchildren grow old. + + + +The main purpose of stopping at the museum though was to get some better maps of the area, which we did. We decided to go to the best preserved ruin first, which was nice enough, but metal reinforcements and the rest of the modern structural work necessary to stabilize an excavated ruin are, to my mind, distracting (but necessary, I get it). + + + +After that the kids were tired of driving around so we headed back to Mancos. + + + +But then Corrinne and I changed our minds and decided we'd go see one other pueblo, known as Sand Canyon. + +After winding through a bizarre patchwork of private and public lands we finally found a tiny turnout with an even tinier sign. We tucked some water in our packs and hit the short trail. Unlike most ruins we'd been to, Sand Canyon was reburied after it was excavated back in the 1960s (if you want something to last out here, you don't leave it exposed to the elements, you rebury it and leave it like you found it). Instead of walking through buildings and rooms as we did in Chaco, in Sand Canyon you step over vaguely defined walls and crumbs of stones, a bit like my favorite ruin in southeast asia -- Beng Melea, which is about two hours north of the rest of Angkor Wat and still mostly just a bunch of stone in the jungle. There's no jungle in Sand Canyon, but the juniper, prickly pear and rice grass -- all of which the kids pointed out, unprompted, as we hiked, so perhaps Mesa Verde was not a total loss -- fill the same roll. + +Sand Canyon sits on the edge of a juniper strewn mesa with a short trail that winds through it and eventually down that canyon. The pueblo itself was one of the largest in the area, bigger than anything in Mesa Verde. Just about 800 years ago roughly 725 people lived on the edge of this mesa in a singular walled structure. There were 420 rooms, 90 kivas and 14 towers. A spring used to run right through the middle of it, though it didn't have any water when we were there. There were roofed plazas, kivas connected to towers and some other oddities. Although it doesn't fit with the park service narrative and therefore wasn't on any of the signs, in 1290 41 women men and children were massacred here and if anyone survived they moved on. No one has lived here since. + + + +We wandered around, trying to piece together the structure of things based on the shape of rocks piled here in there in might have been patterns. It's tough to trust your brain when it comes to patterns though, it'll see patterns where there are none. Or perhaps patters that aren't the ones you're looking for. Still, we picked out a few kivas and what a sign said was the outer wall. We found potsherds. And then we put them back in the ground. + +Unlike Chaco this location made sense -- there was a commanding view of the canyon and a spring running right through the middle of what became the city. Anyone passing through the area would want to stay here. And a lot of people did pass through here. Over 6,000 sites have been recorded in the area Canyon of the Ancients covers and the best guess is that there are plenty more out there waiting to be found. + +Even if you don't head off into the desert in search of some new ruin -- it's worth bearing in mind that not officially recorded is very different than undiscovered -- there's plenty to find here. All the kids found their own potsherds, including the biggest piece we've found yet. + + + + +Eventually the heat and the stillness got to us and we headed back to the car for more water. One the way we detoured up to the high point of the mesa overlooking the canyon. We made a stab at a group picture, but mostly we just sat there awhile, listening to the silence of the desert and ruins. + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/canyoneering.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/canyoneering.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cb73542 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/canyoneering.html @@ -0,0 +1,508 @@ + + + + + Canyoneering - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Canyoneering

    + +
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    Nowhere, Utah, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    From the Dolores River we headed west into Utah in search of the canyon that the women we met down by the river had told us about. It’s not easy to find. The road is unmarked (at least the north end) and there are a series of roads that all basically look the same. After driving back and forth a few times I finally gave up and stopped at the nearest town and asked a woman at chamber of commerce how to get there. I was given some very vague directions with one particular thing to look for, which eventually proved to be the missing piece of information we needed.

    +

    Once we found it there was no trouble with getting lost, there was only one road running down a long canyon filled with petrogylphs and ruins that were, for the most part open to the world at large. There was also a fully restored kiva that we went down inside.

    +

    In a day’s worth of driving we saw only one other car. It was just about the best canyon exploring I’ve ever done by car (hiking, that’s another story) and the best ruins and petrogylphs we’ve seen. There were even modern houses with people living in them, rock caves used as barns, and enough other oddities to feel a bit like you were on another planet. There were no signs, no fences and no rules. Thank you very much to the women who pointed us here.

    +

    In the spirit of this place I do not want to ruin your chance for serendipitous discovery so I have stripped all the geodata from the images and I’m not publishing the name. If you’re headed to the area and you want to be pointed in the right direction, email me.

    +
    + + entrance to the canyon photographed by luxagraf + +
    The entrance to the canyon.
    +
    + +
    + + ancient house in rock cave photographed by luxagraf + +
    There are ancient dwellings…
    +
    + +
    + + house in rock cave photographed by luxagraf + +
    …and modern ones too.
    +
    + +
    + + vintage trailer in rock cave photographed by luxagraf + +
    Even some that look a little like our home.
    +
    + +
    + + ancient handholds photographed by luxagraf + +
    Ever since I was a kid exploring the west with my parents I’ve wanted to climb up some ancient handholds, but for one reason or another I never have. Until now.
    +
    + +
    + + graineries high on the canyon wall photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + graineries high on the canyon wall photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + petrogylphs photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + petrogylphs photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + petrogylphs photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + petrogylphs photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    By far the highlight of the day for me was getting to go down inside a kiva. I can’t properly convey what it was like to go down there, but what made it really special was that there was no one else around but us.

    +
    + + inside kiva photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + inside kiva photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Self portrait in kiva photographed by luxagraf + +
    Self portrait in kiva
    +
    + +

    Back at camp the kids wasted no time in finding a nice rock outcropping under which to play ancient puebloans, hunting, grinding corn, building with rocks, even attempting to weave grass sandals.

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    + + playing ancient puebloans photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + weaving sandels photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + inside cave photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + playing ancient puebloans photographed by luxagraf + +
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    2 Comments

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    + Drew Eldridge + September 01, 2017 at 1:12 p.m. +
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    Those Kiva pictures are frame worthy! Im going to have to get that location from you if im ever out that way- Thats amazing. Without me googling it, do you have any clue how they made petroglyphs? Its almost like they bleached the rock. Surely its not just a carving or scrape technique is it?

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    + Scott + September 03, 2017 at 5:57 p.m. +
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    @drew- I emailed you some info on the canyon.

    +

    As for petroglyphs, yup they’re carved, the hard way. Pictographs, which will be in a post soon, are drawn.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/canyoneering.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/canyoneering.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..66a0ef0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/canyoneering.txt @@ -0,0 +1,49 @@ +Canyoneering +============ + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 12 August 2017 + +From the Dolores River we headed west into Utah in search of the canyon that the women we met down by the river had told us about. It's not easy to find. The road is unmarked (at least the north end) and there are a series of roads that all basically look the same. After driving back and forth a few times I finally gave up and stopped at the nearest town and asked a woman at chamber of commerce how to get there. I was given some very vague directions with one particular thing to look for, which eventually proved to be the missing piece of information we needed. + +Once we found it there was no trouble with getting lost, there was only one road running down a long canyon filled with petrogylphs and ruins that were, for the most part open to the world at large. There was also a fully restored kiva that we went down inside. + +In a day's worth of driving we saw only one other car. It was just about the best canyon exploring I've ever done by car (hiking, that's another story) and the best ruins and petrogylphs we've seen. There were even modern houses with people living in them, rock caves used as barns, and enough other oddities to feel a bit like you were on another planet. There were no signs, no fences and no rules. Thank you very much to the women who pointed us here. + +In the spirit of this place I do not want to ruin your chance for serendipitous discovery so I have stripped all the geodata from the images and I'm not publishing the name. If you're headed to the area and you want to be pointed in the right direction, [email me][1]. + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +By far the highlight of the day for me was getting to go down inside a kiva. I can't properly convey what it was like to go down there, but what made it really special was that there was no one else around but us. + + + + + + +Back at camp the kids wasted no time in finding a nice rock outcropping under which to play ancient puebloans, hunting, grinding corn, building with rocks, even attempting to weave grass sandals. + + + + + + + + + + + +[1]: /contact/ diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/dolores-river.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/dolores-river.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..89bfacb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/dolores-river.html @@ -0,0 +1,483 @@ + + + + + Dolores River - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Dolores River

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    Dolores River, Colorado, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
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    +

    After two weeks in the Mancos area we decided it was time to move on, to see what’s over the next hill — where hill means 9,000 ft pass.

    +

    We set out early from the campground and stopped in Mancos to get some gas and grab a last couple of espressos from Fahrenheit coffee roasters. But, when I walked out of the gas station after paying, I noticed a puddle of liquid under the bus. Crap. There are only two liquids in the back of the bus, water and gas. I crawled under the bus and unfortunately, this was not water.

    +

    In fact I could see the gas dripping out of a T-valve that would send gas up to the generator, if we had one. Leaking gas is always bad, but this was leaking gas that was dripping down about four inches from the tailpipe. I have no idea how hot the tail pipe is 20 feet from the engine, but I’d guess it’s hot enough to ignite gasoline vapors.

    +

    The gas station had a repair shop attached, though it seemed to mainly do tires. I wandered over and started talking to a couple of the kids that worked there and got their permission to pull the bus over, off to the side so I work under it. They even gave me a couple rags. I got under and decided to start with the rubber hose, which I figured was the most likely candidate to have cracked. Certainly the easiest fix, which is my own personal version of Occam’s razor — start with the easiest possible fix.

    +

    I clamped the rubber hose coming out of the tank and cut it lose from the joint, trimmed a couple of inches and stuck it back on with two new hose clamps. The dripping stopped. I went up and started the engine and went back to have a look. Still dripping. Damn. I turned it off and crawled back under to take apart the joint and get some pipe dope in there. I put a good amount of pipe dope on all three pieces, but as I was tightening it I was causing gas to come dripping out. I spun around a connector piece that seemed weak and realized it was cracked, bingo. Bought a new piece from the shop, which had some brass fittings, for $3, doped it all out and tightened everything back up. Started the engine and no leaks. A little over an hour and only $3 — if only all the bus problems were that easily solved.

    +

    I took the long way out of Mancos, but we were back on the road by noon.

    +
    + + 1960s International Harvester Travelall photographed by luxagraf + +
    Part of the reason I took the long way out was the photograph a couple cool old cars. I’m not sure what year this is, but we’d love to have a mid-1960s International Harvester Travelall like this.
    +
    + +
    + + 1970s dodge Xplorer photographed by luxagraf + +
    Ray Frank, who designed the Travco, sold the Travco company in the late 1970s or so. He went on to create some really cool Dodge-based van/rvs call Xplorers, this is the second one I’ve seen.
    +
    + +

    Needless to say hitting the road at the crack of noon, while pretty good considering, was not good when we had about four hours to go. We’ve adopted what some fulltimers call the 2, 2, 2 policy (never drive more than two hours, never get there later than 2 o’clock and never stay less than two days). There was no way we were going to make it by two and in this case it was more than arbitrary, we knew a big storm was supposed to roll in to where we were headed that evening. And let’s just say that spending my morning under rather than in the bus took some of my enthusiasm for further struggles away.

    +

    By two o’clock we were well on our way to Naturita, but it was hard to tell where Naturita was because a massive and very nasty looking storm had swallowed the horizon. We stopped at the side of the road to regroup and rethink our options. We talked over a couple different plans and ended up deciding to backtrack a few miles to a sign we’d both noticed that said national forest access. Signs like that are all over the place around here, sometimes the national forest ends up being a couple miles, sometimes it’s twenty or thirty. It’s always a gamble, but gambling beats a certain storm so we headed off down a dirt road that, as they tend to do, got progressively worse until it practically dove off a cliff down to the banks of the Dolores river.

    +
    + + Dolores River photographed by luxagraf + +
    Storm.
    +
    + +

    At the bottom of the canyon was the most decayed, ramshackle national campground I’ve ever encountered. Perfect. Even the signs were falling apart.

    +
    + + signs, dolores river photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + +
    image by Corrinne Gilbertson
    +
    + +
    + + Dolores River photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We found a site way off by itself — not that there was anyone around, in all our time down by the river we only had two other people in the campground — about 30 feet from the water and headed down to the river for a swim.

    +
    + + + Dolores River photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Dolores River photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Dolores River photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + 1969 dodge travco photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + + + + swimming, dolores river photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + +
    + +

    Hot days, cold water. Just about perfect. There was even a field of sunflowers next to our campsite.

    +
    + + Dolores River photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We liked it so much in fact that we stayed four days. We might have stayed longer, but one afternoon a couple of women foraging for herbs stopped by and we got to talking about the area and eventually we ended up talking archeology sites and potsherds. These were the women who told the story about the museum smashing pots to fit them in a drawer. But they told us about a place they said we’d have to ourselves that was full of pictographs and houses built into a rock, both new and old. Naturally we had to go so we packed up and left the next day.

    +

    I’ll write about that adventure next time, but I’ve been thinking ever since about how if it weren’t for the bus’s fuel line cracking we’d have never seen the Dolores river, and never made it to one of the best canyons we’ve explored in this area. Some people call this coincidence, but those people lack perception. Coincidence only exists when you’re not paying attention. There are no coincidences, just massively complicated intricate patterns we can’t begin to comprehend. At best you can feel them moving around you, moving through you, you can reach out and touch them, bounce from node to node for a while. It’s a bit like lying in a river, everything flowing around, over and through you.

    +

    One of the things about living on the road is that the highs tend to be higher and the lows correspondingly lower, which produces an odd kind of balance and has a lot to teach about the center, but you also learn that the highs and lows are not separate things, they’re interrelated and connected in all kinds of interesting and malleable ways. There are not hard and fast lines between high and low moments like our brains would have us pretend there are. Each point in the pattern, each node in the network gets information from all the other. Everything needs everything else. Everything feeds back through to everything else. No broken fuel line, no Dolores river. It just wouldn’t be as fun any other way.

    +
    + + Dolores River Sunrise photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Dolores River photographed by luxagraf + +
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    2 Comments

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    + Lou + August 23, 2017 at 12:28 p.m. +
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    Every summer we used to camp all over TX, NM and CO when i was growing up. We had an old station wagon and a pop-up camper, and it was the best. This brings back so many great memories! Hope y’all continue to have a wonderful trip, i enjoy reading your blog posts :)

    +

    & say hi to Corrinne for me!

    +

    ~Lou

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    + Scott + August 23, 2017 at 1:04 p.m. +
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    + +

    Thanks Lou, and Corrinne says hi.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/dolores-river.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/dolores-river.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4341f49 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/dolores-river.txt @@ -0,0 +1,58 @@ +Dolores River +============= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 10 August 2017 + +After two weeks in the Mancos area we decided it was time to move on, to see what's over the next hill -- where hill means 9,000 ft pass. + +We set out early from the campground and stopped in Mancos to get some gas and grab a last couple of espressos from Fahrenheit coffee roasters. But, when I walked out of the gas station after paying, I noticed a puddle of liquid under the bus. Crap. There are only two liquids in the back of the bus, water and gas. I crawled under the bus and unfortunately, this was not water. + +In fact I could see the gas dripping out of a T-valve that would send gas up to the generator, if we had one. Leaking gas is always bad, but this was leaking gas that was dripping down about four inches from the tailpipe. I have no idea how hot the tail pipe is 20 feet from the engine, but I'd guess it's hot enough to ignite gasoline vapors. + +The gas station had a repair shop attached, though it seemed to mainly do tires. I wandered over and started talking to a couple of the kids that worked there and got their permission to pull the bus over, off to the side so I work under it. They even gave me a couple rags. I got under and decided to start with the rubber hose, which I figured was the most likely candidate to have cracked. Certainly the easiest fix, which is my own personal version of Occam's razor -- start with the easiest possible fix. + +I clamped the rubber hose coming out of the tank and cut it lose from the joint, trimmed a couple of inches and stuck it back on with two new hose clamps. The dripping stopped. I went up and started the engine and went back to have a look. Still dripping. Damn. I turned it off and crawled back under to take apart the joint and get some pipe dope in there. I put a good amount of pipe dope on all three pieces, but as I was tightening it I was causing gas to come dripping out. I spun around a connector piece that seemed weak and realized it was cracked, bingo. Bought a new piece from the shop, which had some brass fittings, for $3, doped it all out and tightened everything back up. Started the engine and no leaks. A little over an hour and only $3 -- if only all the bus problems were that easily solved. + +I took the long way out of Mancos, but we were back on the road by noon. + + + + +Needless to say hitting the road at the crack of noon, while pretty good considering, was not good when we had about four hours to go. We've adopted what some fulltimers call the 2, 2, 2 policy (never drive more than two hours, never get there later than 2 o'clock and never stay less than two days). There was no way we were going to make it by two and in this case it was more than arbitrary, we knew a big storm was supposed to roll in to where we were headed that evening. And let's just say that spending my morning under rather than in the bus took some of my enthusiasm for further struggles away. + +By two o'clock we were well on our way to Naturita, but it was hard to tell where Naturita was because a massive and very nasty looking storm had swallowed the horizon. We stopped at the side of the road to regroup and rethink our options. We talked over a couple different plans and ended up deciding to backtrack a few miles to a sign we'd both noticed that said national forest access. Signs like that are all over the place around here, sometimes the national forest ends up being a couple miles, sometimes it's twenty or thirty. It's always a gamble, but gambling beats a certain storm so we headed off down a dirt road that, as they tend to do, got progressively worse until it practically dove off a cliff down to the banks of the Dolores river. + + + +At the bottom of the canyon was the most decayed, ramshackle national campground I've ever encountered. Perfect. Even the signs were falling apart. + + + + + +We found a site way off by itself -- not that there was anyone around, in all our time down by the river we only had two other people in the campground -- about 30 feet from the water and headed down to the river for a swim. + +
    + + + + + + + +
    + +Hot days, cold water. Just about perfect. There was even a field of sunflowers next to our campsite. + + + +We liked it so much in fact that we stayed four days. We might have stayed longer, but one afternoon a couple of women foraging for herbs stopped by and we got to talking about the area and eventually we ended up talking archeology sites and potsherds. These were the women who told the story about the museum smashing pots to fit them in a drawer. But they told us about a place they said we'd have to ourselves that was full of pictographs and houses built into a rock, both new and old. Naturally we had to go so we packed up and left the next day. + +I'll write about that adventure next time, but I've been thinking ever since about how if it weren't for the bus's fuel line cracking we'd have never seen the Dolores river, and never made it to one of the best canyons we've explored in this area. Some people call this coincidence, but those people lack perception. Coincidence only exists when you're not paying attention. There are no coincidences, just massively complicated intricate patterns we can't begin to comprehend. At best you can feel them moving around you, moving through you, you can reach out and touch them, bounce from node to node for a while. It's a bit like lying in a river, everything flowing around, over and through you. + +One of the things about living on the road is that the highs tend to be higher and the lows correspondingly lower, which produces an odd kind of balance and has a lot to teach about the center, but you also learn that the highs and lows are not separate things, they're interrelated and connected in all kinds of interesting and malleable ways. There are not hard and fast lines between high and low moments like our brains would have us pretend there are. Each point in the pattern, each node in the network gets information from all the other. Everything needs everything else. Everything feeds back through to everything else. No broken fuel line, no Dolores river. It just wouldn't be as fun any other way. + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f9f5e5e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,113 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    Walk Slowly

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    Archive: August 2017

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    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/ridgway-state-park.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/ridgway-state-park.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2f96210 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/ridgway-state-park.html @@ -0,0 +1,442 @@ + + + + + Ridgway State Park - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Ridgway State Park

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    Ridgway State Park, Colorado, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    After our adventures in the canyon country we headed north, through the hordes of Moab and back east toward Grand Junction, where we did a bit of resupplying. Around these parts Grand Junction qualifies as a big city and it had some things we needed so we stopped off and ran errands for a day.

    +
    + + Arches NP entrance photographed by luxagraf + +
    The entrance to Arches National Park. No idea how long it takes to wade through that line.
    +
    + +

    After that we headed up the valley toward Montrose with the vague idea that we’d spend a night at Ridgway State Park and then find some boondocking spot after that.

    +

    As sometimes happens with us, one night turned into a week and then nearly two. It wasn’t that Ridgway State Park was phenomenally nice or anything, it wasn’t at all. Like most Colorado state parks it packs a ton of people in a small space, but it did have a lake with a nice swimming beach beach for the kids and quick access to the town of Ridgway where some people we knew from our old neighborhood had moved last year. The kids hit it off and the adults too so we ended up hanging around almost two weeks.

    +

    And one thing Ridgway State Park did have was some amazing views of the Cimmarron Range and the back side of the San Juans (if we didn’t have an ancient, somewhat underpowered Dodge Travco we could have just driven here from Durango in about five hours instead of three weeks, but where’s the fun in that?

    +
    + + The Cimmaron range over Ridgeway state park photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    One day we attempted the drive up to Owl Creek Pass. We didn’t make it all the way, but the kids did have one of their rare, please take our picture, moments.

    +
    + + The Cimmaron range from owl creek pass road photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + on the drive to owl creek pass photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    When I walked back to get the car Elliott chased after me so I could take a picture of “just me, no one else, just me”.
    +
    + +

    I spent the mornings working, sometimes on the kind of work that pays the bills, sometimes on the bus, which has been plagued by a string of small, but irritating problems that were no fun at all. Like a leaking black tank. Happy to say that that one seems solved. The others will rear their head in the next post.

    +

    The afternoons were spent by the lake, swimming, digging in the sand, catching strange stomach viruses, all the good things you get from reservoirs.

    +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I took one afternoon off to scout the road to Dallas divide. The car did fine, the views of the San Juans were beautiful, but the bus… probably not.

    +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The high point of the area for us — aside from visiting with friends — was the town of Ridgway. It’s small, about 1100 I believe, but has a surprisingly diverse collection of people and views packed into it. It’s the sort of place we could pass a few years I suspect.

    +

    Just north of it is Ouray, which, while admittedly very pretty and a bit higher in the mountains, was a little touristy for our tastes. We had a fun afternoon, ate some ice cream, people watched and bought some fuses for a bus project, but were never compelled to return.

    +
    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + photographed by luxagraf + +
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/ridgway-state-park.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/ridgway-state-park.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8ebd02e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/08/ridgway-state-park.txt @@ -0,0 +1,48 @@ +Ridgway State Park +================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 24 August 2017 + +After our [adventures in the canyon country][1] we headed north, through the hordes of Moab and back east toward Grand Junction, where we did a bit of resupplying. Around these parts Grand Junction qualifies as a big city and it had some things we needed so we stopped off and ran errands for a day. + + + +After that we headed up the valley toward Montrose with the vague idea that we'd spend a night at Ridgway State Park and then find some boondocking spot after that. + +As sometimes happens with us, one night turned into a week and then nearly two. It wasn't that Ridgway State Park was phenomenally nice or anything, it wasn't at all. Like most Colorado state parks it packs a ton of people in a small space, but it did have a lake with a nice swimming beach beach for the kids and quick access to the town of Ridgway where some people we knew from our old neighborhood had moved last year. The kids hit it off and the adults too so we ended up hanging around almost two weeks. + +And one thing Ridgway State Park did have was some amazing views of the Cimmarron Range and the back side of the San Juans (if we didn't have an ancient, somewhat underpowered Dodge Travco we could have just driven here from Durango in about five hours instead of three weeks, but where's the fun in that? + + + + +One day we attempted the drive up to Owl Creek Pass. We didn't make it all the way, but the kids did have one of their rare, please take our picture, moments. + + + + + +I spent the mornings working, sometimes on the kind of work that pays the bills, sometimes on the bus, which has been plagued by a string of small, but irritating problems that were no fun at all. Like a leaking black tank. Happy to say that that one seems solved. The others will rear their head in the next post. + +The afternoons were spent by the lake, swimming, digging in the sand, catching strange stomach viruses, all the good things you get from reservoirs. + + + +I took one afternoon off to scout the road to Dallas divide. The car did fine, the views of the San Juans were beautiful, but the bus... probably not. + + + +The high point of the area for us -- aside from visiting with friends -- was the town of Ridgway. It's small, about 1100 I believe, but has a surprisingly diverse collection of people and views packed into it. It's the sort of place we could pass a few years I suspect. + +Just north of it is Ouray, which, while admittedly very pretty and a bit higher in the mountains, was a little touristy for our tastes. We had a fun afternoon, ate some ice cream, people watched and bought some fuses for a bus project, but were never compelled to return. + + + + + + + + +[1]: /jrnl/2017/08/canyoneering diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/aspen.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/aspen.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..809ec68 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/aspen.html @@ -0,0 +1,462 @@ + + + + + Aspens - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Aspens

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    Abajo (Blue) Mountains, Utah, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Our forest has eyes.

    +

    All forests have eyes, really, but this one shows them off more than most.

    +
    + + camping in aspen grove photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + tree eye photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Aspens have always fascinated me. I’m not alone in that. The Greeks obsessed over them as well, probably because they used Aspen to make shields. The tree owes its name to them, Aspis translates roughly as “shield.” Shields that watch you. Watch over you perhaps. There are three species of shields left in the North America. Around us are Quaking Aspen. The distinctive eyes are places where branches have dropped from the trunk.

    +

    These days Aspen grow mainly in the north — Montana, Idaho, Colorado and especially as one of the early succession species in the north arboreal forests of Canada. Some, like the stand we’re camped in here, still manage to succeed as far south as Southern Utah. Aspens have suffered over the last century or so, as humans have greatly decreased the number and size of forest fires. Aspens thrive after a burn and are later crowded out by pines, spruce and fir, which all outstretch the Aspens and steal their light. Aspens have only one real requirement — sunlight, lots of sunlight.

    +
    + + Aspen grove midday light photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Aspens are part of the forest succession cycle, not the beginning or the end, but somewhere in the middle. Interestingly though, Aspens don’t really go away even after they’ve been crowded out by the taller species like spruce and fir. They just stop existing above the soil.

    +

    A stand of Aspen is considerably different than most trees in a forest. Aspens are rarely individual trees. Instead they grow like rhizomes, like giant white asparagus. Aspens are not really trees, the trunks we see are not the soul of the plant. The truth of Aspens is under the ground. They are massive root systems, some as large as twenty acres, that send up white trunks, which then sprout leaves. But even the leaves aren’t necessary. Beneath the striking white bark is a there’s a thin photosynthetic green layer that allows the plant to continue synthesizing sugars even without leaves. Winter means little to an Aspen grove.

    +
    + + Aspen grove evening light photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Aspen sky photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    All of this means that some Aspen groves have been around a very long time. I have no idea how long this one has been here, clinging to a remaining belt of land in the Abajo Mountains above Monticello Utah, but I do know that a few hundred miles west of here there is a stand of Aspens known as “Pando” in the Fishlake National Forest, just north of Bryce National Park that’s said to be 80,000 years old. This stand, being at the southern edge of the current range of Aspens, likely very old as well, Probably in the 10-20,000 thousand year old range. Possibly older. Either way that’s older than Sequoias, older than Bristlecone Pines, possibly older even than Creosote Bushes, which grow in a similar manner.

    +

    These eyes have been watching the world for longer than recorded human history, which is why I spent most of our days up in the Abajo mountains watching them back. I don’t know what Aspens are saying exactly, but I know that they talk in the wind. I know their song is different than most trees, their leaves move more, shimmering and quivering in breezes so slight you wouldn’t otherwise notice them. And I know that they stare in the night, in the day. I know that I have never felt an affinity of any plant like what I feel for the Aspen grove.

    +
    + + hiking photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + watching the sunrise photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We passed the better part of a week up here, watching the aspens, playing in the forest and getting a little work done. There was no bus to mess with, which, I’ll be honest, was a bit of a relief. The kids loved being a tent for a while and having some time to play in a forest wonderland.

    +
    + + playing in the tent photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + pose photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + playing house photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + playing house photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + + Sunset through the trees photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + sitting around the fire photographed by luxagraf + + + + +
    + + grab the rainbow photographed by luxagraf +
    +
    + + +     + + + + full moon photographed by luxagraf + + +
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/aspen.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/aspen.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..de1fcd5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/aspen.txt @@ -0,0 +1,51 @@ +Aspens +====== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 06 September 2017 + +Our forest has eyes. + +All forests have eyes, really, but this one shows them off more than most. + + + + + +Aspens have always fascinated me. I'm not alone in that. The Greeks obsessed over them as well, probably because they used Aspen to make shields. The tree owes its name to them, *Aspis* translates roughly as "shield." Shields that watch you. Watch over you perhaps. There are three species of shields left in the North America. Around us are Quaking Aspen. The distinctive eyes are places where branches have dropped from the trunk. + +These days Aspen grow mainly in the north -- Montana, Idaho, Colorado and especially as one of the early succession species in the north arboreal forests of Canada. Some, like the stand we're camped in here, still manage to succeed as far south as Southern Utah. Aspens have suffered over the last century or so, as humans have greatly decreased the number and size of forest fires. Aspens thrive after a burn and are later crowded out by pines, spruce and fir, which all outstretch the Aspens and steal their light. Aspens have only one real requirement -- sunlight, lots of sunlight. + + + +Aspens are part of the forest succession cycle, not the beginning or the end, but somewhere in the middle. Interestingly though, Aspens don't really go away even after they've been crowded out by the taller species like spruce and fir. They just stop existing above the soil. + +A stand of Aspen is considerably different than most trees in a forest. Aspens are rarely individual trees. Instead they grow like rhizomes, like giant white asparagus. Aspens are not really trees, the trunks we see are not the soul of the plant. The truth of Aspens is under the ground. They are massive root systems, some as large as twenty acres, that send up white trunks, which then sprout leaves. But even the leaves aren't necessary. Beneath the striking white bark is a there's a thin photosynthetic green layer that allows the plant to continue synthesizing sugars even without leaves. Winter means little to an Aspen grove. + + + + +All of this means that some Aspen groves have been around a very long time. I have no idea how long this one has been here, clinging to a remaining belt of land in the Abajo Mountains above Monticello Utah, but I do know that a few hundred miles west of here there is a stand of Aspens known as "Pando" in the Fishlake National Forest, just north of Bryce National Park that's said to be 80,000 years old. This stand, being at the southern edge of the current range of Aspens, likely very old as well, Probably in the 10-20,000 thousand year old range. Possibly older. Either way that's older than Sequoias, older than Bristlecone Pines, possibly older even than Creosote Bushes, which grow in a similar manner. + +These eyes have been watching the world for longer than recorded human history, which is why I spent most of our days up in the Abajo mountains watching them back. I don't know what Aspens are saying exactly, but I know that they talk in the wind. I know their song is different than most trees, their leaves move more, shimmering and quivering in breezes so slight you wouldn't otherwise notice them. And I know that they stare in the night, in the day. I know that I have never felt an affinity of any plant like what I feel for the Aspen grove. + + + + +We passed the better part of a week up here, watching the aspens, playing in the forest and getting a little work done. There was no bus to mess with, which, I'll be honest, was a bit of a relief. The kids loved being a tent for a while and having some time to play in a forest wonderland. + + + + + + + +
    + + + + + + +
    diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/breakdown.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/breakdown.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..94fa7c8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/breakdown.html @@ -0,0 +1,404 @@ + + + + + Breakdown - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Breakdown

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    Ridgway State Park, Colorado, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    We planned to leave Ridgway and head back to Utah by going over the Dallas Divide, which, while somewhat high, was within what the bus had done previously. Alas it was one of those days that did not start well and then got worse from there. I was feeling a bit dizzy all morning, not bad really, just slightly off. Corrinne wanted to stay and leave the next day but I really wanted to go. I should have listened to her, but when I get it in my head to go I tend to plow forward like a tank, come hell or high water.

    +

    Things started to really go south when I got the dump station. I was emptying the tank when I noticed fluid leaking out the front of the bus. Quite a lot of fluid. I crawled under to investigate. Transmission fluid. Lots of transmission fluid. Leaking. Again. I had noticed a bit a transmission fluid leaking over the last few weeks, but it wasn’t leaking enough to even hit the ground, just a bit would dribble out on the suspension from time to time. This, however, was something else.

    +

    I finished up dumping and pulled over to the day use area to get a closer look. After a bit of digging around I found the problem — a flared compression fitting had cracked. It’s worth here noting that someone had already done a considerable amount of surgery and patching to the transmission cooler lines, which were not single tubes but several connected together, three different diameters and types of hose in fact, all cobbled together. It was a crap job, but it was working. Until now.

    +

    It so happens that I installed our propane system on the road, so I have flaring tools. What I needed was 5/8in tubing, but of course that’s pretty much impossible to find outside an auto supply store, which Ridgway lacks. So I rigged up a standard fuel hose with overtightened clamps that seemed like it would hold about five miles into town. And it did. Sort of. I managed to get to the one mechanic shop in town. I explained the situation and the mechanic was nice enough to just give me some 5/8in tubing.

    +

    Corrinne took the kids to the playground in the center of Ridgway and I sat down on the curb outside the shop and got to work with the flaring tools. About half an hour later I had it sealed up again. By now it was well past noon and I was hungry and the dizziness, which I attributed to not eating, was much worse. I decided to limp back to Ridgway State Park and try again the next day. Corrinne being right.

    +

    I made it back, found a site and parked. I wanted to see how my handiwork was holding up so I crawled under and goddamnit there was transmission fluid pouring out of the hose behind where I had fixed, which was some kind of bizarre flexible hose with a flare at one end and screw fitting at the other. I kicked the tailpipe in anger, while wearing flipflops, which as you can imagine was not a good idea. I instinctively tried to grab my foot where it was burned and sat up, hitting my head on the floor of the bus above me. This would probably have all been hilarious to watch.

    +

    Finally I rolled out from under the bus, staggered inside for some water, staggered back outside and lay down on the concrete around the picnic table. I was pretty much over it. I lay there waiting for Corrinne and the kids to be done at the park scheming ways to sell the bus, use the money to by plane tickets and just disappear into the far east somewhere to hide from my failure and shame. Eventually I fell asleep and that’s where I was when Corrinne and kids finally found me.

    +

    That’s when Corrinne took my temperature and I realized I was quite sick, with a fever of 103. I stumbled back in the bus, put up my bunk and was pretty much incoherent for the next 18 hours or so.

    +
    + + fever photographed by luxagraf + +
    About 10 seconds after this was taken I fell asleep for about 18 hours.
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + + washing dishes photographed by luxagraf +
    Much to my wife’s chagrin, when I am sick the kids are helpful and let me sleep.
    +
    + + + + + + washing dishes photographed by luxagraf + + +     +
    + +

    When I finally felt up to it — two days later — I did a bit of research and discovered that the only place with the transmission cooler lines I needed was Summit Racing1, which I needed to have shipped somewhere, which is one of the challenges of living on the road2. I’ve also been wanting to put on shocks for about, oh, five thousand miles now.

    +

    A while back the speedometer and odometer broke and I tried putting in a new cable but that promptly got chewed up just like the first one. I pulled the speedometer and took it to a shop down in Montrose that was recommended by some friends. They weren’t able to tell me much, other than recommended a speedometer shop in Denver, but I liked the two mechanics I talked to so when the fever broke and I decided I was tried of spending my days under the bus I called the shop to see about fixing the transmission cooler lines, new shocks, and some other odds and ends I’d been wanting to do, but hadn’t had the time.

    +

    Unlike a lot of places I’ve called on this trip, Diamond G repair in Montrose was unfazed by the size of the bus and could start in on it the next day. The only question was — should I tow it or could I rig something up to get it twenty miles down the road?

    +

    I’d spent some time patching the black tank a week prior and had discovered this interesting a pretty cool stuff that starts as a flexible tap type material but dries hard as a rock. It gets sold to fix everything from leaky pipes to broken rake handles and in my experience it actually works pretty well. I went back to the hardware store in Ridgway. Again. And grabbed another roll to see what would happen on a flexible hose. I put it on and let it harden for a while. I fired it up and check underneath, no leaks.

    +

    I drove down to the dump station, still no leaks. I hit the road. I stopped to check the engine temps — no leaks doesn’t mean tightly sealed vacuum — but, while hot, nothing was over 200 degrees. I kept going and eventually made it to Diamond G without further incident.

    +

    We grabbed what we needed for a week’s worth of tent camping, somehow packed it all in the minivan and hit the road. We had mail waiting in Monticello, UT and wanted to get up in the high mountains, to some places the bus couldn’t go. I left a laundry list of fixes for the mechanic and we hit the road, Beverly hillbilly style in a packed-to-the-gills van.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      Could I have used some brake lines instead? Probably. A couple people on Facebook suggested that, but honestly I was tired of rigging things, I wanted the right parts and I wanted them installed properly. More than that, think less of my mechanical abilities if you will, but I wanted to spend time with my family, get some paying work done and not spend my days under the bus. ↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      Some companies are fine with what’s called General Delivery, but far more online companies can’t make heads or tails of it. I never wrote about it, but getting our Engle fridge was a two week long exercise in frustration. Amazon is hit or miss, really depends on what you’re ordering. If it’s Amazon fulfillment you’re usually fine, if it’s not, anybody’s guess. ↩

      +
      3. +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/breakdown.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/breakdown.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a5ca94e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/breakdown.txt @@ -0,0 +1,47 @@ +Breakdown +========= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Friday, 01 September 2017 + +We planned to leave Ridgway and head back to Utah by going over the Dallas Divide, which, while somewhat high, was within what the bus had done previously. Alas it was one of those days that did not start well and then got worse from there. I was feeling a bit dizzy all morning, not bad really, just slightly off. Corrinne wanted to stay and leave the next day but I really wanted to go. I should have listened to her, but when I get it in my head to go I tend to plow forward like a tank, come hell or high water. + +Things started to really go south when I got the dump station. I was emptying the tank when I noticed fluid leaking out the front of the bus. Quite a lot of fluid. I crawled under to investigate. Transmission fluid. Lots of transmission fluid. Leaking. Again. I had noticed a bit a transmission fluid leaking over the last few weeks, but it wasn't leaking enough to even hit the ground, just a bit would dribble out on the suspension from time to time. This, however, was something else. + +I finished up dumping and pulled over to the day use area to get a closer look. After a bit of digging around I found the problem -- a flared compression fitting had cracked. It's worth here noting that someone had already done a considerable amount of surgery and patching to the transmission cooler lines, which were not single tubes but several connected together, three different diameters and types of hose in fact, all cobbled together. It was a crap job, but it was working. Until now. + +It so happens that I installed our propane system on the road, so I have flaring tools. What I needed was 5/8in tubing, but of course that's pretty much impossible to find outside an auto supply store, which Ridgway lacks. So I rigged up a standard fuel hose with overtightened clamps that seemed like it would hold about five miles into town. And it did. Sort of. I managed to get to the one mechanic shop in town. I explained the situation and the mechanic was nice enough to just give me some 5/8in tubing. + +Corrinne took the kids to the playground in the center of Ridgway and I sat down on the curb outside the shop and got to work with the flaring tools. About half an hour later I had it sealed up again. By now it was well past noon and I was hungry and the dizziness, which I attributed to not eating, was much worse. I decided to limp back to Ridgway State Park and try again the next day. Corrinne being right. + +I made it back, found a site and parked. I wanted to see how my handiwork was holding up so I crawled under and goddamnit there was transmission fluid pouring out of the hose behind where I had fixed, which was some kind of bizarre flexible hose with a flare at one end and screw fitting at the other. I kicked the tailpipe in anger, while wearing flipflops, which as you can imagine was not a good idea. I instinctively tried to grab my foot where it was burned and sat up, hitting my head on the floor of the bus above me. This would probably have all been hilarious to watch. + +Finally I rolled out from under the bus, staggered inside for some water, staggered back outside and lay down on the concrete around the picnic table. I was pretty much over it. I lay there waiting for Corrinne and the kids to be done at the park scheming ways to sell the bus, use the money to by plane tickets and just disappear into the far east somewhere to hide from my failure and shame. Eventually I fell asleep and that's where I was when Corrinne and kids finally found me. + +That's when Corrinne took my temperature and I realized I was quite sick, with a fever of 103. I stumbled back in the bus, put up my bunk and was pretty much incoherent for the next 18 hours or so. + + + +
    + + + + +
    + + +When I finally felt up to it -- two days later -- I did a bit of research and discovered that the only place with the transmission cooler lines I needed was Summit Racing[^1], which I needed to have shipped somewhere, which is one of the challenges of living on the road[^2]. I've also been wanting to put on shocks for about, oh, five thousand miles now. + +A while back the speedometer and odometer broke and I tried putting in a new cable but that promptly got chewed up just like the first one. I pulled the speedometer and took it to a shop down in Montrose that was recommended by some friends. They weren't able to tell me much, other than recommended a speedometer shop in Denver, but I liked the two mechanics I talked to so when the fever broke and I decided I was tried of spending my days under the bus I called the shop to see about fixing the transmission cooler lines, new shocks, and some other odds and ends I'd been wanting to do, but hadn't had the time. + +Unlike a lot of places I've called on this trip, Diamond G repair in Montrose was unfazed by the size of the bus and could start in on it the next day. The only question was -- should I tow it or could I rig something up to get it twenty miles down the road? + +I'd spent some time patching the black tank a week prior and had discovered this interesting a pretty cool stuff that starts as a flexible tap type material but dries hard as a rock. It gets sold to fix everything from leaky pipes to broken rake handles and in my experience it actually works pretty well. I went back to the hardware store in Ridgway. Again. And grabbed another roll to see what would happen on a flexible hose. I put it on and let it harden for a while. I fired it up and check underneath, no leaks. + +I drove down to the dump station, still no leaks. I hit the road. I stopped to check the engine temps -- no leaks doesn't mean tightly sealed vacuum -- but, while hot, nothing was over 200 degrees. I kept going and eventually made it to Diamond G without further incident. + +We grabbed what we needed for a week's worth of tent camping, somehow packed it all in the minivan and hit the road. We had mail waiting in Monticello, UT and wanted to get up in the high mountains, to some places the bus couldn't go. I left a laundry list of fixes for the mechanic and we hit the road, Beverly hillbilly style in a packed-to-the-gills van. + +[^1]: Could I have used some brake lines instead? Probably. A couple people on Facebook suggested that, but honestly I was tired of rigging things, I wanted the right parts and I wanted them installed properly. More than that, think less of my mechanical abilities if you will, but I wanted to spend time with my family, get some *paying* work done and not spend my days under the bus. +[^2]: Some companies are fine with what's called General Delivery, but far more online companies can't make heads or tails of it. I never wrote about it, but getting our Engle fridge was a two week long exercise in frustration. Amazon is hit or miss, really depends on what you're ordering. If it's Amazon fulfillment you're usually fine, if it's not, anybody's guess. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/canyonlands.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/canyonlands.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..685d05f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/canyonlands.html @@ -0,0 +1,436 @@ + + + + + Canyonlands - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Canyonlands

    + +
    +
    +

    Needles District, Canyonlands National Park, Utah, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Our camp in the Aspen trees was not far from one of my favorite national parks, Canyonlands. The portion near us is known as the Needles District is home to, among other things, Newspaper Rock, a huge collection of Petrogylphs. The somewhat better name is the direct translation of the Navajo name — rock that tells a story. It’s not a story that I understand exactly, but if you stare at it long enough you can get some it.

    +
    + + newspaper rock photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + newspaper rock photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    From there it was a couple miles further into the Needles district. It was hot, in the mid 90s I believe, but not unbearable so we decided to do a short hike out to see some springs, because nothing is quite so satisfying as walking through to hot dry sand and coming on a nice cool, shaded overhang with actual water running out of the rock.

    +
    + + canyonlands, needles district photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + canyonlands, needles district photographed by luxagraf + +
    An old cattle drive stopover, still furnished.
    +
    + +
    + + canyonlands, needles district photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    There were quite a few pictographs back near the springs as well, especially hand prints which the kids were big fans of.

    +
    + + canyonlands, needles district photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Ancient hands photographed by luxagraf + +
    Ancient hands…
    +
    + +
    + + modern hands photographed by luxagraf + +
    …modern hands.
    +
    + +
    + + canyonlands, needles district photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + canyonlands, needles district photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Olivia is still a little disturbed that we only hike in the desert, but she came around at the memtion of ladders.

    +
    + + + + canyonlands, needles district photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + canyonlands, needles district photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + + canyonlands, needles district photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + canyonlands, needles district photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    The other best part of hiking through the hot dry desert all day is driving half and hour and ending up back, high in the cool depths on an Aspen grove.

    +
    + + camping in aspen grove photographed by luxagraf + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/canyonlands.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/canyonlands.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..54a4996 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/canyonlands.txt @@ -0,0 +1,43 @@ +Canyonlands +=========== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Friday, 08 September 2017 + +Our camp in the [Aspen trees](/jrnl/2017/09/aspen) was not far from one of my favorite national parks, Canyonlands. The portion near us is known as the Needles District is home to, among other things, Newspaper Rock, a huge collection of Petrogylphs. The somewhat better name is the direct translation of the Navajo name -- rock that tells a story. It's not a story that I understand exactly, but if you stare at it long enough you can get some it. + + + + +From there it was a couple miles further into the Needles district. It was hot, in the mid 90s I believe, but not unbearable so we decided to do a short hike out to see some springs, because nothing is quite so satisfying as walking through to hot dry sand and coming on a nice cool, shaded overhang with actual water running out of the rock. + + + + + + +There were quite a few pictographs back near the springs as well, especially hand prints which the kids were big fans of. + + + + + + + +Olivia is still a little disturbed that we only hike in the desert, but she came around at the memtion of ladders. + +
    + + + + + + + + +
    + +The other best part of hiking through the hot dry desert all day is driving half and hour and ending up back, high in the cool depths on an Aspen grove. + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/ghost-town.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/ghost-town.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..87aed6d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/ghost-town.html @@ -0,0 +1,448 @@ + + + + + Ghost Town - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Ghost Town

    + +
    +
    +

    Gold Point, Nevada, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    We were a wreck by the time we reached Las Vegas. And not in a good Hunter S. Thompson sort of way.

    +

    We’d somehow become a bus full of snot, Olivia and I being the primary sources, but Lilah and Elliott were contributing as well. At one point I don’t think we went more than five minutes without a sneeze. Except for Corrinne who somehow managed to avoid the head cold we all acquired, I think, on the trams of Zion. Our immune systems have been isolated for quite a while, going from that to international public transportation did not work out well.

    +

    In the end we went right through Vegas, spending one night in the city to say goodbye to Corrinne’s parents before moving on to Red Rock Canyon where we stopped to contemplate our next move and maybe try to drain our noses. We had talked about heading out to Death Valley, but temperatures there were in the triple digits and neither of us were that moved by Death Valley in the first place. Instead, for the first time in a long time, we decided to just drift for a while. North was about the most detailed plan we could commit to.

    +
    + + great basin desert photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + +
    image by Corrinne Gilbertson
    +
    + +

    We took 95 north, out of Las Vegas and up through the Great Basin Desert. While we did not have any specific destination in mind, we did have some things we wanted to do in the desert. Like spend a night in a ghost town. Back at Valley Fire the ranger had given me a little map of Nevada and a couple brochures about stuff to do. Several things jumped out at us, like the creepy clown motel located right next to a graveyard in Tonopah, NV. Fun for the whole family. But the thing that really stuck with us, especially my wife, was the idea of camping in an abandoned town.

    +

    We hit the road on a Tuesday, not to early, not too late, heads still stuffed full of snot, pushing our way through a howling head wind, with no particular destination in mind other than North.

    +

    The Great Basin is an empty, desolate place just north of Vegas. I was driving through a fog of a cold and boredom and honestly I spent a good portion of the drive dreaming of trading the bus for the sunny beaches of Thailand. Or Mexico. Or really anywhere my head wasn’t full of snot. Corrinne on the other hand was researching ghost towns via the occasional pockets of 4G connection we’d pass through. One of the other things I noticed in the Nevada promotion brochure was that the Nevada State promo app for your phone works offline — this is telling you something about the area it covers. The Great Basic Desert is big and wild and empty, so empty telecom companies can’t be bothered to build towers.

    +

    It’s my kind of place really.

    +
    + + gold point ghost town, nevada photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Somewhere on the drive Corrinne started talking about some place called Gold Point, which was a ghost town but somehow also had a campground. Ordinarily we’re fine dry camping, boondocking, whatever you want to call it, but we had not filled our water tank in nearly a week so the campground part was compelling. The drive in was compelling too, the roads kept getting narrower and rougher, always a good sign, and they appeared to lead off into nothing but sagebrush and rabbit bush as far at the eye could see. And around here it can see quite a ways. But then you climb a little rise and next thing you know you’re in the middle of the ramshackle, broken down, mostly abandoned town of Gold Point, Nevada.

    +

    While not actually a ghost town in the traditional sense of the word — a dozen or some people do live somewhere around here — it’s sufficiently abandoned to make you feel like you’re in the ruins of the past century. We parked the bus amidst a wreckage of old cars and old fire engines (a couple of which were working and really used for fire fighting).

    +
    + + gold point ghost town, nevada photographed by luxagraf + +
    For once the bus pretty much fit right in.
    +
    + +
    + + gold point ghost town, nevada photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + gold point ghost town, nevada photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Probably the best part of Gold Point is that it’s not “protected” so the kids could climb on things, explore and pick up stuff without fear of someone telling them to stop. That said, it was slightly confusing at times which building were occupied and which were abandoned. We saw some clueless people abuse the hospitality of the residents to the point that it would not surprise me to find quite a few more restriction a few years from now. For now though we had the run of the place.

    +

    We spent the afternoon wandering the abandoned streets, exploring the riding bikes and generally enjoying the absolute silence of the desert.

    +

    Gold Point has been through quite a few boom and bust cycles, since it was first settled in the 1880s. The initial round only last a couple years and it was abandoned for the better part of a decade. Then in 1908 there was a second round that saw it grow to house some 800 residents, which necessitated 11 saloons. but only lasted two years after which the silver was gone, or rather there wasn’t enough left to sustain 11 saloons. There was a third round in the 1930s that lasted a bit longer and even saw the Post Office show up. That lasted until 1968 after which the town was more or less abandoned for good until stabilization and restoration began in the 1980s.

    +
    + + gold point ghost town, nevada photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + gold point ghost town, nevada photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + gold point ghost town, nevada photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The result is a mishmash of artifacts spanning decades, building styles and what I would call differing views on just how permanent various structures were intended to be. We found glass in varying degrees of purple, most clearly from the more recent 1930s settlement, but a few pieces that were deep enough purple to probably date from the original 1880s settlement (for a while glass was made with manganese which causes the glass to turn a lavender color when exposed sunlight.) We also found quite a few bits of rock with various fossils in them.

    +
    + + + + gold point ghost town, nevada photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + + + + gold point ghost town, nevada photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + + + +
    + + gold point ghost town, nevada photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson +
    The kids have a book called Stella’s Starliner which has a trailer that looks a lot like this one.
    +
    + + + + + + + gold point ghost town, nevada photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + gold point ghost town, nevada photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + gold point ghost town, nevada photographed by luxagraf + + +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/ghost-town.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/ghost-town.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fa01937 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/ghost-town.txt @@ -0,0 +1,61 @@ +Ghost Town +========== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 30 September 2017 + +We were a wreck by the time we reached Las Vegas. And not in a good Hunter S. Thompson sort of way. + +We'd somehow become a bus full of snot, Olivia and I being the primary sources, but Lilah and Elliott were contributing as well. At one point I don't think we went more than five minutes without a sneeze. Except for Corrinne who somehow managed to avoid the head cold we all acquired, I think, on the trams of Zion. Our immune systems have been isolated for quite a while, going from that to international public transportation did not work out well. + +In the end we went right through Vegas, spending one night in the city to say goodbye to Corrinne's parents before moving on to Red Rock Canyon where we stopped to contemplate our next move and maybe try to drain our noses. We had talked about heading out to Death Valley, but temperatures there were in the triple digits and neither of us were that moved by Death Valley in the first place. Instead, for the first time in a long time, we decided to just drift for a while. North was about the most detailed plan we could commit to. + + + +We took 95 north, out of Las Vegas and up through the Great Basin Desert. While we did not have any specific destination in mind, we did have some things we wanted to do in the desert. Like spend a night in a ghost town. Back at Valley Fire the ranger had given me a little map of Nevada and a couple brochures about stuff to do. Several things jumped out at us, like the [creepy clown motel](https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/clown-motel) located right next to a graveyard in Tonopah, NV. Fun for the whole family. But the thing that really stuck with us, especially my wife, was the idea of camping in an abandoned town. + +We hit the road on a Tuesday, not to early, not too late, heads still stuffed full of snot, pushing our way through a howling head wind, with no particular destination in mind other than North. + +The Great Basin is an empty, desolate place just north of Vegas. I was driving through a fog of a cold and boredom and honestly I spent a good portion of the drive dreaming of trading the bus for the sunny beaches of Thailand. Or Mexico. Or really anywhere my head wasn't full of snot. Corrinne on the other hand was researching ghost towns via the occasional pockets of 4G connection we'd pass through. One of the other things I noticed in the Nevada promotion brochure was that the Nevada State promo app for your phone works offline -- this is telling you something about the area it covers. The Great Basic Desert is big and wild and empty, so empty telecom companies can't be bothered to build towers. + +It's my kind of place really. + + + +Somewhere on the drive Corrinne started talking about some place called Gold Point, which was a ghost town but somehow also had a campground. Ordinarily we're fine dry camping, boondocking, whatever you want to call it, but we had not filled our water tank in nearly a week so the campground part was compelling. The drive in was compelling too, the roads kept getting narrower and rougher, always a good sign, and they appeared to lead off into nothing but sagebrush and rabbit bush as far at the eye could see. And around here it can see quite a ways. But then you climb a little rise and next thing you know you're in the middle of the ramshackle, broken down, mostly abandoned town of Gold Point, Nevada. + +While not actually a ghost town in the traditional sense of the word -- a dozen or some people do live somewhere around here -- it's sufficiently abandoned to make you feel like you're in the ruins of the past century. We parked the bus amidst a wreckage of old cars and old fire engines (a couple of which were working and really used for fire fighting). + + + + + +Probably the best part of Gold Point is that it's not "protected" so the kids could climb on things, explore and pick up stuff without fear of someone telling them to stop. That said, it was slightly confusing at times which building were occupied and which were abandoned. We saw some clueless people abuse the hospitality of the residents to the point that it would not surprise me to find quite a few more restriction a few years from now. For now though we had the run of the place. + + +We spent the afternoon wandering the abandoned streets, exploring the riding bikes and generally enjoying the absolute silence of the desert. + +Gold Point has been through quite a few boom and bust cycles, since it was first settled in the 1880s. The initial round only last a couple years and it was abandoned for the better part of a decade. Then in 1908 there was a second round that saw it grow to house some 800 residents, which necessitated 11 saloons. but only lasted two years after which the silver was gone, or rather there wasn't enough left to sustain 11 saloons. There was a third round in the 1930s that lasted a bit longer and even saw the Post Office show up. That lasted until 1968 after which the town was more or less abandoned for good until stabilization and restoration began in the 1980s. + + + + + + + +The result is a mishmash of artifacts spanning decades, building styles and what I would call differing views on just how permanent various structures were intended to be. We found glass in varying degrees of purple, most clearly from the more recent 1930s settlement, but a few pieces that were deep enough purple to probably date from the original 1880s settlement (for a while glass was made with manganese which causes the glass to turn a lavender color when exposed sunlight.) We also found quite a few bits of rock with various fossils in them. + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + +
    diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..77eb87f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,122 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: September 2017

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/on-the-road-again.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/on-the-road-again.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f2b65a1 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/on-the-road-again.html @@ -0,0 +1,383 @@ + + + + + On The Road, Again - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    On The Road, Again

    + +
    +
    +

    Castle Rock, Utah, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    From the Abajo Mountains we headed back across the high desert plateau, up into the mountains, over Dallas divide and down the canyon to Montrose where the bus was nearly ready. We got back a day before it was done and stopped by to drop a few things off and… the car died on us in the parking lot. And from the minute it happened I knew exactly what was wrong — the transmission was dead. I knew this because the Honda’s transmission had died two years earlier and we put a new one in.

    +

    The techs were less convinced and I can’t say I blame them — what kind of transmission doesn’t last two years? I’ll tell you want kind the piece of crap transmissions they sell at James’ transmission in Athens GA. You know what else you won’t get with the worst transmission you can buy, at James’s transmission in Athens GA? A warranty that works anywhere outside of Athens. He actually said to me on the phone after I told him I was in Colorado, “well, even if you got it here, warranty is only a two years.”

    +

    So yeah, me being cheap and going with the worst transmission you can buy (at James’s transmission in Athens GA) eventually came back to haunt me. And yes, in addition to those inbound links, I left some reviews on Google.

    +
    + + eating peanut butter photographed by luxagraf + +
    Eating peanut butter and wondering, is the bus ready yet?
    +
    + +

    Since the techs weren’t convinced it was actually the transmission we decided to hang around for the weekend so they could give it through going over the following Monday. We rented a car to run some errands and moved everything into the bus because I already knew and, come Monday, I was right. We left the van in Montrose to donate to a charity and hit the road with everyone and everything in the bus, which was running better than it had in a long time and, get ready for this head scratcher — the new transmission cooler lines have largely solved our overheating problems. Yeah I don’t really get it either.

    +

    Once we hit the road we put in some serious miles, much more than we normally do. Towns flew by, Grand Junction, Fruita, Green River and finally, our only two night stop in a place called Castle Rock that’s really just a little canyon off I-70, but was nice enough that we stayed to check out the nearby state park’s petrogylphs.

    +
    + + san rafeal swell photographed by luxagraf + +
    San Rafeal Swell. Wish we could have stayed a while out here.
    +
    + +
    + + san rafeal swell photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + window, rain photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + castle rock photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Castle Rock was also where I got to meet and talk to the Lonesome Hillbilly, a motorcycle traveler who wrote a book on it, called, naturally, The Book On Motorcycle Camping. And yes, he goes by Lonesome Hillbilly. Before I knew who he was, when we were talking, he left and I told him my name was Scott and he said his was Lone. Which made sense after a little Googling. Unfortunately, while I wanted to chat more with Lone I never got a chance to, but we did take one piece of advice from him that has already, and will more so in the future, work out well for us.

    +

    The next day we did a little hiking, saw some petrogylphs, learned how to roast pine nuts from some Paiute volunteers and the kids got to play in a little pithouse. Not bad for a random, let’s stop here, destination.

    +
    + + pithouse photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + pithouse photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + petrogylphs photographed by luxagraf + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/on-the-road-again.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/on-the-road-again.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7882ec0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/on-the-road-again.txt @@ -0,0 +1,34 @@ +On The Road, Again +================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 16 September 2017 + +From the Abajo Mountains we headed back across the high desert plateau, up into the mountains, over Dallas divide and down the canyon to Montrose where the bus was nearly ready. We got back a day before it was done and stopped by to drop a few things off and... the car died on us in the parking lot. And from the minute it happened I knew exactly what was wrong -- the transmission was dead. I knew this because the Honda's transmission had died two years earlier and we put a new one in. + +The techs were less convinced and I can't say I blame them -- what kind of transmission doesn't last two years? I'll tell you want kind the [piece of crap transmissions they sell at James' transmission in Athens GA][1]. You know what else you won't get with [the worst transmission you can buy, at James's transmission in Athens GA][1]? A warranty that works anywhere outside of Athens. He actually said to me on the phone after I told him I was in Colorado, "well, even if you got it here, warranty is only a two years." + +So yeah, me being cheap and going with [the worst transmission you can buy (at James's transmission in Athens GA)][1] eventually came back to haunt me. And yes, in addition to those inbound links, I left some reviews on Google. + + + +Since the techs weren't convinced it was actually the transmission we decided to hang around for the weekend so they could give it through going over the following Monday. We rented a car to run some errands and moved everything into the bus because I already knew and, come Monday, I was right. We left the van in Montrose to donate to a charity and hit the road with everyone and everything in the bus, which was running better than it had in a long time and, get ready for this head scratcher -- the new transmission cooler lines have largely solved our overheating problems. Yeah I don't really get it either. + +Once we hit the road we put in some serious miles, much more than we normally do. Towns flew by, Grand Junction, Fruita, Green River and finally, our only two night stop in a place called Castle Rock that's really just a little canyon off I-70, but was nice enough that we stayed to check out the nearby state park's petrogylphs. + + + + + + +Castle Rock was also where I got to meet and talk to the Lonesome Hillbilly, a motorcycle traveler who wrote a book on it, called, naturally, [The Book On Motorcycle Camping][2]. And yes, he goes by Lonesome Hillbilly. Before I knew who he was, when we were talking, he left and I told him my name was Scott and he said his was Lone. Which made sense after a little Googling. Unfortunately, while I wanted to chat more with Lone I never got a chance to, but we did take one piece of advice from him that has already, and will more so in the future, work out well for us. + +The next day we did a little hiking, saw some petrogylphs, learned how to roast pine nuts from some Paiute volunteers and the kids got to play in a little pithouse. Not bad for a random, let's stop here, destination. + + + + + +[1]: http://jamestransmission.com/ +[2]: https://www.amazon.com/Book-Motorcycle-Camping-Lonesome-Hillbilly/dp/1545062897 diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/valley-fire.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/valley-fire.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..db303fe --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/valley-fire.html @@ -0,0 +1,578 @@ + + + + + Valley Of Fire - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Valley of Fire

    + +
    +
    +

    Valley of Fire, Nevada, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The forecast for Zion turned cold about half way through Corrinne’s parents visit. Since our guest room is a tent, and since Zion wasn’t to our taste anyway, we decamped for Valley of Fire, a strange collection of red rock piles an hour outside of Las Vegas. A few thousand feet lower Valley of Fire was warmer and, as it turned out, a whole lot more fun.

    +

    Valley of Fire is basically the largest playground we’ve been to. Wind and occasional water have combined forces with time to produce piles of red orange rock pocked with holes perfect for climbing. We found a great couple of sites tucked back in the rocks and made ourselves at home.

    +
    + + Valley of Fire State Park photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + + + climbing, valley of fire photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + + + + climbing, valley of fire photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + + + + + hole in the rocks, valley of fire photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + + + + + In the rocks, valley of fire photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + + + + reading, valley of fire photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + +
    + +
    + + tent, Valley of Fire State Park photographed by luxagraf + +
    If you plan to visit us, this is the guest house.
    +
    + +
    + + snack time photographed by luxagraf + +
    Snack time.
    +
    + +
    + + Valley of Fire State Park photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Valley of Fire is perhaps best known for something called the wave, or the wave or fire, something like that. It looks far better in postcards than it does in person, but the hike out to it was nice and in keeping with our running joke — we only hike in deserts.

    +
    + + The Wave, Valley of Fire State Park photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + The Wave, Valley of Fire State Park photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    John is up on that rock trying to find the desert bighorn sheep we thought we’d seen. Eventually he did find them in the maze of rock, shrub and canyons.

    +

    The next day we saw them again right next to the road (naturally we saw them the day I decided, the 300mm zoom is too heavy, not bringing it). I’ve spent a lot of time in the desert and never caught much more than a glimpse of these creatures, which are far smaller and more secretive than their mountain cousins.

    +
    + + Desert Big Horn Sheep, Valley of Fire State Park photographed by luxagraf + +
    Desert Big Horn Sheep are relatively rare and elusive, except apparently in Valley of Fire.
    +
    + +

    A couple of days later we did another hike down a canyon filled with petroglyphs that eventually led to one of the most important things in the desert — a natural water tank. I had a renewed interest in petroglyphs thanks to a book I’d been reading which suggests they might be mnemonic devices used as part of what Australian Aborigine tribes call songlines and what Giordano Bruno famously called Ars Memorative.

    +

    If you don’t have writing to store data, your memory has to be much better. That’s why, for instance, many oral cultures can sing songs that race genealogical lines through centuries, sometimes millennia.

    +

    It’s not just oral cultures though, both the Greeks and Roman schools taught some forms of it. The most common techniques in western traditions is to memorize the insides of large buildings according to certain rules, dividing the space into specific loci or “places” and then using those as triggers for whatever information you want to remember. Then you take a mental tour of the place and recall whatever information you need. First nations tend to use outdoor spaces rather than indoor and may in fact be some of the driving force behind many of the roads that used to criss cross the Americas.

    +

    In the case of petroglyphs one theory is that they are markers of both the physical — water tank this way, ten people live down that canyon, and so on — and those directions or stories (or song, or dance) have another layer that encodes some very important knowledge that helps cultures survive in environments like this, for example, where the bighorn go to feed in the evenings. In other words, petroglyphs probably have several layers of function and meaning, most of which — without knowing the story or song — is gone forever. Whatever the case the canyon in Valley of Fire was filled with petroglyphs, far more than we’ve seen anywhere else.

    +
    + + Petroglyphs, Valley of Fire State Park photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Petroglyphs, Valley of Fire State Park photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Valley of Fire State Park photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Lizard, Valley of Fire State Park photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Petroglyphs, Valley of Fire State Park photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Petroglyphs, Valley of Fire State Park photographed by luxagraf + +
    When you get really close to petroglyphs they lose definition. Making these was probably much harder than we suspect.
    +
    + +
    + + textures, Valley of Fire photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Cholla cactus, Valley of Fire photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We also spent plenty of time just climbing and exploring the rocks around the campground. I’m pretty sure you could spend your entire life in this campground and not explore all the gulleys, holes and side canyons in these rocks. It really was a kind of wonderland for kids, young and older.

    +
    + + camp, valley of fire photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Valley of Fire State Park photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Valley of Fire State Park photographed by luxagraf + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +

    4 Comments

    + + + + + + +
    + +
    + +
    + Gwen + October 16, 2017 at 8:14 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Wow! This place looks amazing! Love all the pics of your cute little people in the holes in the rocks.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Drew + October 16, 2017 at 9:07 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    That last photo is so good. My only question is who hit the timer button and had to run to their spot?

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Mikeandpatsywall + October 16, 2017 at 9:33 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Love it❤️

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + October 16, 2017 at 11:48 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Drew-

    +

    I have a timer app on my phone, but of course it didn’t work so Corrinne hit the button and ran.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/valley-fire.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/valley-fire.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cccc221 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/valley-fire.txt @@ -0,0 +1,63 @@ +Valley of Fire +============== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 25 September 2017 + +The forecast for Zion turned cold about half way through Corrinne's parents visit. Since our guest room is a tent, and since Zion wasn't to our taste anyway, we decamped for Valley of Fire, a strange collection of red rock piles an hour outside of Las Vegas. A few thousand feet lower Valley of Fire was warmer and, as it turned out, a whole lot more fun. + +Valley of Fire is basically the largest playground we've been to. Wind and occasional water have combined forces with time to produce piles of red orange rock pocked with holes perfect for climbing. We found a great couple of sites tucked back in the rocks and made ourselves at home. + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + +
    + + + + + +Valley of Fire is perhaps best known for something called the wave, or the wave or fire, something like that. It looks far better in postcards than it does in person, but the hike out to it was nice and in keeping with our running joke -- we only hike in deserts. + + + + +John is up on that rock trying to find the desert bighorn sheep we thought we'd seen. Eventually he did find them in the maze of rock, shrub and canyons. + +The next day we saw them again right next to the road (naturally we saw them the day I decided, the 300mm zoom is too heavy, not bringing it). I've spent a lot of time in the desert and never caught much more than a glimpse of these creatures, which are far smaller and more secretive than their mountain cousins. + + + +A couple of days later we did another hike down a canyon filled with petroglyphs that eventually led to one of the most important things in the desert -- a natural water tank. I had a renewed interest in petroglyphs thanks to a book I'd been reading which suggests they might be mnemonic devices used as part of what Australian Aborigine tribes call songlines and what Giordano Bruno famously called *Ars Memorative*. + +If you don't have writing to store data, your memory has to be much better. That's why, for instance, many oral cultures can sing songs that race genealogical lines through centuries, sometimes millennia. + +It's not just oral cultures though, both the Greeks and Roman schools taught some forms of it. The most common techniques in western traditions is to memorize the insides of large buildings according to certain rules, dividing the space into specific loci or "places" and then using those as triggers for whatever information you want to remember. Then you take a mental tour of the place and recall whatever information you need. First nations tend to use outdoor spaces rather than indoor and may in fact be some of the driving force behind many of the roads that used to criss cross the Americas. + +In the case of petroglyphs one theory is that they are markers of both the physical -- water tank this way, ten people live down that canyon, and so on -- and those directions or stories (or song, or dance) have another layer that encodes some very important knowledge that helps cultures survive in environments like this, for example, where the bighorn go to feed in the evenings. In other words, petroglyphs probably have several layers of function and meaning, most of which -- without knowing the story or song -- is gone forever. Whatever the case the canyon in Valley of Fire was filled with petroglyphs, far more than we've seen anywhere else. + + + + + + + + + + +We also spent plenty of time just climbing and exploring the rocks around the campground. I'm pretty sure you could spend your entire life in this campground and not explore all the gulleys, holes and side canyons in these rocks. It really was a kind of wonderland for kids, young and older. + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/zion.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/zion.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4f14ccd --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/zion.html @@ -0,0 +1,408 @@ + + + + + Zion - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Zion

    + +
    +
    +

    Zion National Park, Utah, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    After moving pretty fast for a few days we were ready for a break. While it’s not exactly secluded, quiet or anything of things we generally like, the logical place to stop in this area is Zion National Park. I have some history in Zion, my family spent many a spring break camping here, hiking up the canyon walls. It, along with Canyonlands and Sequoia, are among the places I remember best.

    +

    The Zion of today is so different from the Zion I grew up with they may as well be entirely different places.

    +
    + + Zion National Park photographed by luxagraf + +
    The view from the Hidden Valley trail.
    +
    + +
    + + Zion National Park photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Zion National Park photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    When my family came here in the 1980s few other people did. We’d leave Los Angeles around noon on the Friday before spring break, drive all afternoon (in a 1969 truck and camper by the way) show up at Zion late in the evening and get a campsite no problem. No one went to Zion.

    +

    Today, everyone goes to Zion. Well, actually Americans don’t from what I could tell, but everyone else does, especially impossibly hip European couples in rental vans. These days not only can you not just show up on a Friday and get a campsite, you’ll need to get in line at about 5:00 AM even in the off season to even think about getting a campsite. Which, after spending a night in the nearby hotel, I did. The longer I sat in line, the more irritated I got. About what I’m not sure — too many people? That’s sort of a strange thing to be irritated about.

    +
    + + Sunrise, Zion National Park photographed by luxagraf + +
    Sunrise from the campground line.
    +
    + +

    Perhaps it was the lines I thought. Lines are degrading to the human spirit, they ask that we do something totally counter to all of biology, which freely mingles, exchanges information and materials. Lines are a purely economic performance, an adherence to an outdated idea of how the world works, an idea that no longer matches the facts on the ground, so to speak. This is perhaps why the entire concept of waiting in line, or queueing as the British would have it, is a purely western phenomena. Travel anywhere in Asia and you find that things get done, tickets are sold, events entered into, all without anyone lining up.

    +

    Still, that’s probably not what was irritating me. In the end I decided that what was irritating to me was that the Zion of my childhood is gone and no one can get it back. It’s just gone. Forever. So for that matter are the bluffs along the bay where I grew up, the hills along the coast and myriad other things that don’t really bother me, for whatever reason Zion does.

    +
    + + Weeping rock, Zion photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The last day we were there I took the bus up to the end of the canyon and speed hiked to the entrance to the narrows (3 miles round trip in 45 minutes, not bad for an old man). On the way back it finally hit me what irritates me about Zion — my kids will never get to experience the place as I did.

    +
    + + Virgin River, Zion photographed by luxagraf + +
    The narrows, just me and 300 of my closest friends.
    +
    + +
    + + Virgin River photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Virgin River, Zion photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It’s too late for my kids to see the Zion I saw. That was then. That is gone. That is past. They will never get to hear the silences up on the rim of the canyon, listen to the strafing whines of Rufus hummingbirds, the wind in the junipers, the quiet thunk of boot soles on sandstone.. Silence in Zion is a thing of the past.

    +

    As Kurt Vonnegut would say, and so it goes.

    +
    + + Zion National Park photographed by luxagraf + +
    Intrepid hikers
    +
    + +

    One afternoon Lilah and Elliott and I hiked part way up the Hidden Valley trail. I would guess that, in the mile and half or so that we hiked, we saw probably 80 people. A steady stream of people in fact, most of them seemingly startled to see a man in flipflops with a boy on his shoulders and girl holding his hand attempting the same trail none of them embarked on without half of REI adorning their persons. The looks made me laugh. As politely and discreetly as I could. I have never seen so much hiking gear in my life. All for people hiking on paved trails. Irony doesn’t even begin to cover it. Several times in Zion I considered buying some stock in REI, before remembering that, as a co-op member, in effect, I already own it.

    +

    It’s too bad Zion isn’t a co-op. But alas, I do not own Zion. I have no more claim to it — or every bit as much depending on how you want to look at it — than anyone else. It’s too bad it has become what it is, and let’s face we’re dancing around the real issue — overpopulation, but whew is that whole other post — but at this point Zion is what it is and it will probably continue to be that for my lifetime. Maybe in my next life, after the oil is used up and things settle back down I can follow some strange, half-remembered dream of red rock canyons and end up here again, alone, in silence and stillness.

    +

    The second day Corrinne’s parents joined us and, despite what the above might sound like, we enjoyed the park. Crowded though it may be, Zion is still a beautiful place. After three nights though, we were definitely ready to move on.

    +
    + + Virgin River, Zion photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Virgin River photographed by luxagraf + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/zion.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/zion.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0aa1b22 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/09/zion.txt @@ -0,0 +1,47 @@ +Zion +==== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Tuesday, 19 September 2017 + +After moving pretty fast for a few days we were ready for a break. While it's not exactly secluded, quiet or anything of things we generally like, the logical place to stop in this area is Zion National Park. I have some history in Zion, my family spent many a spring break camping here, hiking up the canyon walls. It, along with Canyonlands and Sequoia, are among the places I remember best. + +The Zion of today is so different from the Zion I grew up with they may as well be entirely different places. + + + + + +When my family came here in the 1980s few other people did. We'd leave Los Angeles around noon on the Friday before spring break, drive all afternoon (in a 1969 truck and camper by the way) show up at Zion late in the evening and get a campsite no problem. No one went to Zion. + +Today, everyone goes to Zion. Well, actually Americans don't from what I could tell, but everyone else does, especially impossibly hip European couples in rental vans. These days not only can you not just show up on a Friday and get a campsite, you'll need to get in line at about 5:00 AM even in the off season to even think about getting a campsite. Which, after spending a night in the nearby hotel, I did. The longer I sat in line, the more irritated I got. About what I'm not sure -- too many people? That's sort of a strange thing to be irritated about. + + + +Perhaps it was the lines I thought. Lines are degrading to the human spirit, they ask that we do something totally counter to all of biology, which freely mingles, exchanges information and materials. Lines are a purely economic performance, an adherence to an outdated idea of how the world works, an idea that no longer matches the facts on the ground, so to speak. This is perhaps why the entire concept of waiting in line, or queueing as the British would have it, is a purely western phenomena. Travel anywhere in Asia and you find that things get done, tickets are sold, events entered into, all without anyone lining up. + +Still, that's probably not what was irritating me. In the end I decided that what was irritating to me was that the Zion of my childhood is gone and no one can get it back. It's just gone. Forever. So for that matter are the bluffs along the bay where I grew up, the hills along the coast and myriad other things that don't really bother me, for whatever reason Zion does. + + + +The last day we were there I took the bus up to the end of the canyon and speed hiked to the entrance to the narrows (3 miles round trip in 45 minutes, not bad for an old man). On the way back it finally hit me what irritates me about Zion -- my kids will never get to experience the place as I did. + + + + + +It's too late for my kids to see the Zion I saw. That was then. That is gone. That is past. They will never get to hear the silences up on the rim of the canyon, listen to the strafing whines of Rufus hummingbirds, the wind in the junipers, the quiet thunk of boot soles on sandstone.. Silence in Zion is a thing of the past. + +As Kurt Vonnegut would say, *and so it goes*. + + + +One afternoon Lilah and Elliott and I hiked part way up the Hidden Valley trail. I would guess that, in the mile and half or so that we hiked, we saw probably 80 people. A steady stream of people in fact, most of them seemingly startled to see a man in flipflops with a boy on his shoulders and girl holding his hand attempting the same trail none of them embarked on without half of REI adorning their persons. The looks made me laugh. As politely and discreetly as I could. I have never seen so much hiking gear in my life. All for people hiking on paved trails. Irony doesn't even begin to cover it. Several times in Zion I considered buying some stock in REI, before remembering that, as a co-op member, in effect, I already own it. + +It's too bad Zion isn't a co-op. But alas, I do not own Zion. I have no more claim to it -- or every bit as much depending on how you want to look at it -- than anyone else. It's too bad it has become what it is, and let's face we're dancing around the real issue -- overpopulation, but whew is that whole other post -- but at this point Zion is what it is and it will probably continue to be that for my lifetime. Maybe in my next life, after the oil is used up and things settle back down I can follow some strange, half-remembered dream of red rock canyons and end up here again, alone, in silence and stillness. + +The second day Corrinne's parents joined us and, despite what the above might sound like, we enjoyed the park. Crowded though it may be, Zion is still a beautiful place. After three nights though, we were definitely ready to move on. + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/dialed-in.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/dialed-in.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d879e27 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/dialed-in.html @@ -0,0 +1,486 @@ + + + + + Dialed In - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Dialed In

    + +
    +
    +

    Carson City/Washoe Lake, Nevada, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    We headed north from Bishop, up the Owens River Valley, over Montgomery Pass and back into Nevada. We stopped off to briefly see my cousin in Hawthorne before spending a very cold night out at Walker Lake. Walker Lake is one of those places that’s probably not very nice in the high season, but it’s really nice when you have it to yourself. It also has fun conspiracy theories about it which we accidentally discovered why searching for which campground had water (answer to our question: none of them).

    +
    + + walker lake, nevada photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + walker lake, nevada photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We still don’t have a heater in the bus so whatever the outside temp, the inside temp is about the same, maybe five or ten degrees warmer. One of my goals for this trip was for that to never be an issue because we would follow the weather. For the most part that’s been true, but around here, this time of year, warmth is a rapidly fading thought. I even had to put on shoes.

    +
    + + walker lake, nevada photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We’re up here to see my aunt and uncle for the first time in years and for my uncle to help me understand and dial in this engine.

    +

    And that’s exactly what we did for nearly three weeks. He and I pulled out the carburetor and reset the float where it should be. That alone solved about 70 percent of our problems. We were ready to leave with that, but then we got to talking and decided to do a few other things as well. The problem was that my uncle had already planned a trip to the California coast with a friend. So we ordered some parts, said goodbye and he headed west to California and we went north for a week.

    +
    + + Sunrise, my uncle's house photographed by luxagraf + +
    Sunrise over the bus at my uncle’s house.
    +
    + +

    The first night we stopped in Carson City. We spent the night in a Casino parking lot and walked around downtown. Carson City actually has one of those that’s still functional and nice, with parks and business and such, unlike most American cities of its size these days.

    +
    + + The Nugget Casino parking lot. photographed by luxagraf + +
    Good company.
    +
    + +

    The next day we headed north with the vague goal of seeing Reno and maybe checking out Pyramid Lake. That morning we met up with another cousin of mine and took all our kids to the children’s museum in Carson City. After catching up for a couple hours, letting the kids play, we hit the road. But then we were hungry so we stopped at a really good Vietnamese restaurant. And then I spied a Harbor Freight and spent some time replenishing my toolkit with the cheapest, crappiest steel China has to offer.

    +

    By the time we actually made it out of Carson City it was mid afternoon and none of us felt like going far. We made it about ten miles up over the hill to Washoe Lake State Park. It was a nice enough place and it had pretty good cell coverage, which is hard to come by in these parts. We ended up staying all week.

    +
    + + drawing in the bus photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Smoke from the California fires wafting over the Sierra. photographed by luxagraf + +
    Smoke from the California fires wafting over the Sierra.
    +
    + +

    With temps forecast down in the mid 20s we decided to pick up a little propane heater, which helps take the edge off mornings.

    +

    Washoe Lake was host to some of the least appealing neighbors we’ve had — someone stole my hatchet one night, along with beer, a chair and some other stuff from another person. Itried to tell the kids that whomever took it probably needed it more than we did and they seemed okay with that. I also tried to explain methamphetamines and what they do to you, but I don’t think that sunk in as much.

    +

    Despite that we enjoyed Washoe Lake. I got some work done, the kids played and we went for the occasional walk/bike ride to explore the park. Once we were walking over to another side of the lake when we spotted a sign that said, “Beach and Maze” with an arrow point to the shoreline. Maze? Really? Really.

    +
    + + Maze, Washoe Lake photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Maze, Washoe Lake photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Washoe Lake photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Washoe Lake photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Washoe Lake photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + spider eating grub photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + campsite, washoe lake photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Washoe Lake photographed by luxagraf + +
    Not a sign you see very often.
    +
    + +

    After a week at Washoe we went back to my uncle’s house and we got to work on the bus. We replaced the spark plugs, the plug wires and the exhaust manifold gaskets. Then we greased the suspension and I knocked a few interior fixes off my list. I installed an inverter, rehung some molding that had nearly come apart thanks to all the bumpy roads we’ve driven. I even finally got serious about fixing the oven. Unfortunately it does seem to be the thermocoupler and it’s a serious pain to even get to it. I shelved that one again. You can’t do it all.

    +

    One night the sunset looked like this:

    +
    + + snow clouds photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The next morning the mountains were covered in snow, though nothing stayed on the ground where we were.

    +
    + + snow on the mountains photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    When we drove out of my uncle’s house a week later the bus sounded and ran better than it has since I bought it and probably better than it has in decades. It’s not perfect and something will still probably break soon — since I’m writing from the future as it were, I can assure you something will break soon :) — but for now it’s driving better than I ever thought it would. Thanks Ron.

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +

    1 Comment

    + + + + + + +
    + +
    + +
    + Drew + November 15, 2017 at 1:27 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Keep hammering the meth talk and as they get older it will sink in. Sounds like the trip has gotten better and the blood pressure has lowered back to stable. But im worried about the foreshadowing of the time traveler writer.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/dialed-in.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/dialed-in.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..da91819 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/dialed-in.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ +Dialed In +========= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 21 October 2017 + +We headed north from Bishop, up the Owens River Valley, over Montgomery Pass and back into Nevada. We stopped off to briefly see my cousin in Hawthorne before spending a very cold night out at Walker Lake. Walker Lake is one of those places that's probably not very nice in the high season, but it's really nice when you have it to yourself. It also has fun conspiracy theories about it which we accidentally discovered why searching for which campground had water (answer to our question: none of them). + + + + +We still don't have a heater in the bus so whatever the outside temp, the inside temp is about the same, maybe five or ten degrees warmer. One of my goals for this trip was for that to never be an issue because we would follow the weather. For the most part that's been true, but around here, this time of year, warmth is a rapidly fading thought. I even had to put on shoes. + + + +We're up here to see my aunt and uncle for the first time in years and for my uncle to help me understand and dial in this engine. + +And that's exactly what we did for nearly three weeks. He and I pulled out the carburetor and reset the float where it should be. That alone solved about 70 percent of our problems. We were ready to leave with that, but then we got to talking and decided to do a few other things as well. The problem was that my uncle had already planned a trip to the California coast with a friend. So we ordered some parts, said goodbye and he headed west to California and we went north for a week. + + + +The first night we stopped in Carson City. We spent the night in a Casino parking lot and walked around downtown. Carson City actually has one of those that's still functional and nice, with parks and business and such, unlike most American cities of its size these days. + + + +The next day we headed north with the vague goal of seeing Reno and maybe checking out Pyramid Lake. That morning we met up with another cousin of mine and took all our kids to the children's museum in Carson City. After catching up for a couple hours, letting the kids play, we hit the road. But then we were hungry so we stopped at a really good Vietnamese restaurant. And then I spied a Harbor Freight and spent some time replenishing my toolkit with the cheapest, crappiest steel China has to offer. + +By the time we actually made it out of Carson City it was mid afternoon and none of us felt like going far. We made it about ten miles up over the hill to Washoe Lake State Park. It was a nice enough place and it had pretty good cell coverage, which is hard to come by in these parts. We ended up staying all week. + + + + +With temps forecast down in the mid 20s we decided to pick up a little propane heater, which helps take the edge off mornings. + +Washoe Lake was host to some of the least appealing neighbors we've had -- someone stole my hatchet one night, along with beer, a chair and some other stuff from another person. Itried to tell the kids that whomever took it probably needed it more than we did and they seemed okay with that. I also tried to explain methamphetamines and what they do to you, but I don't think that sunk in as much. + +Despite that we enjoyed Washoe Lake. I got some work done, the kids played and we went for the occasional walk/bike ride to explore the park. Once we were walking over to another side of the lake when we spotted a sign that said, "Beach and Maze" with an arrow point to the shoreline. Maze? Really? Really. + + + + + + + + + + +After a week at Washoe we went back to my uncle's house and we got to work on the bus. We replaced the spark plugs, the plug wires and the exhaust manifold gaskets. Then we greased the suspension and I knocked a few interior fixes off my list. I installed an inverter, rehung some molding that had nearly come apart thanks to all the bumpy roads we've driven. I even finally got serious about fixing the oven. Unfortunately it does seem to be the thermocoupler and it's a serious pain to even get to it. I shelved that one again. You can't do it all. + +One night the sunset looked like this: + + + +The next morning the mountains were covered in snow, though nothing stayed on the ground where we were. + + + +When we drove out of my uncle's house a week later the bus sounded and ran better than it has since I bought it and probably better than it has in decades. It's not perfect and something will still probably break soon -- since I'm writing from the future as it were, I can assure you something will break soon :) -- but for now it's driving better than I ever thought it would. Thanks Ron. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3299fea --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,116 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: October 2017

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/pacific.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/pacific.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bbf1cbd --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/pacific.html @@ -0,0 +1,511 @@ + + + + + Pacific Sense - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    + + + +
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    +

    Pacific Sense

    + +
    +
    +

    Patrick’s Point, California, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    I smelled the Pacific way before it was actually possible to have smelled the Pacific. We were climbing one of the five hundred ridges1 we had to climb to get through the Trinity Alps when I swear the air changed, suddenly it was wetter, salty and with a slight hint of fish. Or it was my imagination looking for something other than the endless loop then running through my head: are the house batteries really going to get us there (the alternator was was still dead).

    +
    + + patrick's point, humbolt photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Whatever the case, eventually we made it over the last ridge and then we really could smell the ocean and the Pacific in this region has a very different smell than say, the Atlantic we left eight months ago.

    +

    I didn’t really have any goals or lists of things to do on this trip, but, that said, making it all the way from the Atlantic to the Pacific does have a certain feeling of accomplishment to it.

    +

    Here’s some meaningless stats:

    +
      +
    • Miles driven: 5866 (give or take 50 miles2)
      • +
    • Day on the road: 209
      • +
    • Gallons of gas: I have no idea3
      • +
    +

    The anticlimatic part was that we made it all the way to the Pacific, but when we arrived we couldn’t see it. As is typical up this way, the ocean was wrapped in a blanket of thick fog. After setting up camp we hiked down into the gloom of fog and spent the evening on the beach. The one place that will always feel like home to me.

    +
    + + pacific ocean, patrick's point, humbolt photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + pacific ocean, patrick's point, humbolt photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + pacific ocean, patrick's point, humbolt photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + pacific ocean, patrick's point, humbolt photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + pacific ocean, patrick's point, humbolt photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + pacific ocean, patrick's point, humbolt photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + pacific ocean, patrick's point, humbolt photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + patrick's point, humbolt photographed by luxagraf + +
    This is what it looks like all the time around here.
    +
    + +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      It’s possible there were not that many. ↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      our odometer is currently broken so this is an estimate based on Google Maps, hence the possible variation. ↩

      +
      3. +
    3. +

      I had this in a spreadsheet for a while so I could calculate our MPG, but I haven’t kept up with it. ↩

      +
      4. +
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    5 Comments

    + + + + + + +
    + +
    + +
    + Mary Idiaquez + November 08, 2017 at 11:49 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    What an adventure! Beautiful children!

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + gwen macallister + November 09, 2017 at 1:53 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Beautiful pictures. This is my favorite landscape on the planet— oh, how I love the Pacific. Congrats on the coast to coast journey.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + November 09, 2017 at 5:28 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Mary - Thank you!

    +

    @gwen- I’ve missed the Pacific. I’ve come to really like the gulf though, especially Appalachicola area.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Drew + November 15, 2017 at 2:02 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    I love that Santa Cruz sweatshirt!

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + November 15, 2017 at 2:36 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Drew-

    +

    Corrinne found that back in Athens. I hadn’t seen one since I was a kid.

    + +
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
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    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/pacific.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/pacific.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c3653bb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/pacific.txt @@ -0,0 +1,36 @@ +Pacific Sense +============= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 28 October 2017 + +I smelled the Pacific way before it was actually possible to have smelled the Pacific. We were climbing one of the five hundred ridges[^1] we had to climb to get through the Trinity Alps when I swear the air changed, suddenly it was wetter, salty and with a slight hint of fish. Or it was my imagination looking for something other than the endless loop then running through my head: are the house batteries really going to get us there (the alternator was was still dead). + + + +Whatever the case, eventually we made it over the last ridge and then we really could smell the ocean and the Pacific in this region has a very different smell than say, the Atlantic we left eight months ago. + +I didn't really have any goals or lists of things to do on this trip, but, that said, making it all the way from the Atlantic to the Pacific does have a certain feeling of accomplishment to it. + +Here's some meaningless stats: + +* Miles driven: 5866 (give or take 50 miles[^2]) +* Day on the road: 209 +* Gallons of gas: I have no idea[^3] + +The anticlimatic part was that we made it all the way to the Pacific, but when we arrived we couldn't see it. As is typical up this way, the ocean was wrapped in a blanket of thick fog. After setting up camp we hiked down into the gloom of fog and spent the evening on the beach. The one place that will always feel like home to me. + + + + + + + + + + + +[^1]: It's possible there were not that many. +[^2]: our odometer is currently broken so this is an estimate based on Google Maps, hence the possible variation. +[^3]: I had this in a spreadsheet for a while so I could calculate our MPG, but I haven't kept up with it. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/shadow-lassen.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/shadow-lassen.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5825186 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/shadow-lassen.html @@ -0,0 +1,459 @@ + + + + + The Shadow Of Lassen - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    + + +
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    +

    The Shadow of Lassen

    + +
    +
    +

    Shasta National Forest, California, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    We headed out early but somehow still ended up spending most of the day running errands in Carson City, again. Something about this town seems to suck us in. At least there’s really good tacos at a Mexican market on the north east side of the city, we stopped there again for lunch. By the time we were done eating tacos and stocking up on essentials no one had the will to go past Washoe Lake. We pulled in and relaxed for the remainder of the day.

    +

    The next day we managed to get on the road reasonably early, heading north on 395, bundled up against the increasingly severe cold in these parts. By noon we had made it to Susanville where we left 395 and headed up into the forests surrounding Mount Lassen.

    +
    + + mount lassen photographed by luxagraf + +
    Mount Lassen
    +
    + +
    + + mount shasta photographed by luxagraf + +
    Mount Shasta
    +
    + +

    There’s tons of boondocking spots in this area, all you really need to do is turn on a dirt road and you’ll end up somewhere with some rocks piled in fire rings in the woods. We were actually on our way to a legitimate campground by a lake, but the road was rough enough that we ended up just pulling off at the first flat area we saw.

    +
    + + boondocking in lassen photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + inside the bus photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It was a nice spot n the woods, next to a meadow of sorts with plenty of forest for the kids to explore. It was nice enough that we ended up staying two nights. Why not? It’s not like we have anywhere to be.

    +
    + + guinea pig photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + fisheye forest photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + forest explorers photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + breathing the forest photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + sitting on a log photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + climbing photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    At some point during our stay here a fuse holder that sits between our charge controller and our battery bank broke. At the time I was blissfully unaware anything was wrong. It wasn’t until the second morning when we got up to leave and the inverter started beeping (which it does when the batteries are too low) that I realized something was wrong. I lifted up the couch and discovered our charge controller was dead. That pissed me off since I bought the expensive charger. But then we were about to drive anyway and could charge off the inverter so at least we’d get our batteries back up. Doesn’t that sound simple? Ha.

    +
    + + Driving near mount lassen photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We drive down out of the forests and into the hot hellhole of Redding, which the rest of my family didn’t find nearly as terrible as I did. I’ve never liked Redding. This time through we got stuck in traffic, then we had to climb a good size hill just out of town and ended up overheating. We stopped for bit, let the engine cool and went on without an issue, but it was just one more strike against Redding in my book.

    +

    It was getting late in the day and we spied a sign for a campground off the highway, though it didn’t say how far of the highway. We went for it because we were all sick of being on the road. We ended up driving what seemed like ten miles on a road that kept getting narrower and narrower, weaving through tiny communities until we just about gave up hope of finding anything and then there it was, a really lovely little campground tucked in the woods of the Trinity Alps, right beside the first river we’ve seen that made me really wish I had a fly rod.

    +
    + + trinity river photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + the bus through the trees. photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Long days of driving, sitting at the side of the road, trying to fix electrical problems, all these things take their toll. The best morale booster is good food. One thing I will say for Redding, it had a damn good Thai/Lao restaurant with portions big enough that the kids could have Pad Thai in the middle of the forest, as forest fairies do.

    +
    + + dinner in the trinity alps photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + + + + + +

    1 Comment

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    + Patsy and Mike Wall + November 05, 2017 at 8:15 a.m. +
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    Love reading your blog, seeing the children and seeing your fabulous photos. Your adventures are worthy of a book.

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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/shadow-lassen.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/shadow-lassen.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f6eb063 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/shadow-lassen.txt @@ -0,0 +1,42 @@ +The Shadow of Lassen +==================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 26 October 2017 + +We headed out early but somehow still ended up spending most of the day running errands in Carson City, again. Something about this town seems to suck us in. At least there's really good tacos at a Mexican market on the north east side of the city, we stopped there again for lunch. By the time we were done eating tacos and stocking up on essentials no one had the will to go past Washoe Lake. We pulled in and relaxed for the remainder of the day. + +The next day we managed to get on the road reasonably early, heading north on 395, bundled up against the increasingly severe cold in these parts. By noon we had made it to Susanville where we left 395 and headed up into the forests surrounding Mount Lassen. + + + + +There's tons of boondocking spots in this area, all you really need to do is turn on a dirt road and you'll end up somewhere with some rocks piled in fire rings in the woods. We were actually on our way to a legitimate campground by a lake, but the road was rough enough that we ended up just pulling off at the first flat area we saw. + + + + +It was a nice spot n the woods, next to a meadow of sorts with plenty of forest for the kids to explore. It was nice enough that we ended up staying two nights. Why not? It's not like we have anywhere to be. + + + + + + + + +At some point during our stay here a fuse holder that sits between our charge controller and our battery bank broke. At the time I was blissfully unaware anything was wrong. It wasn't until the second morning when we got up to leave and the inverter started beeping (which it does when the batteries are too low) that I realized something was wrong. I lifted up the couch and discovered our charge controller was dead. That pissed me off since I bought the expensive charger. But then we were about to drive anyway and could charge off the inverter so at least we'd get our batteries back up. Doesn't that sound simple? Ha. + + + +We drive down out of the forests and into the hot hellhole of Redding, which the rest of my family didn't find nearly as terrible as I did. I've never liked Redding. This time through we got stuck in traffic, then we had to climb a good size hill just out of town and ended up overheating. We stopped for bit, let the engine cool and went on without an issue, but it was just one more strike against Redding in my book. + +It was getting late in the day and we spied a sign for a campground off the highway, though it didn't say how far of the highway. We went for it because we were all sick of being on the road. We ended up driving what seemed like ten miles on a road that kept getting narrower and narrower, weaving through tiny communities until we just about gave up hope of finding anything and then there it was, a really lovely little campground tucked in the woods of the Trinity Alps, right beside the first river we've seen that made me really wish I had a fly rod. + + + + +Long days of driving, sitting at the side of the road, trying to fix electrical problems, all these things take their toll. The best morale booster is good food. One thing I will say for Redding, it had a damn good Thai/Lao restaurant with portions big enough that the kids could have Pad Thai in the middle of the forest, as forest fairies do. + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/through.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/through.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..614d310 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/through.html @@ -0,0 +1,458 @@ + + + + + Through - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Through

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    Patrick’s Point, California, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Patrick’s Point is a beautiful place. When you can see it. One evening the setting sun conspired with the fog to let a few rays of light through.

    +
    + + pacific ocean, patrick's point, humbolt photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Most of the time though, it’s enveloped in cloud.

    +
    + + pacific ocean, patrick's point, humbolt photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + pacific ocean, patrick's point, humbolt photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Having driven in on a broken alternator (draining our starting battery to dead and our house batteries way down) we really needed sun. Instead we got not just overcast skies but swirling mists of fog that create an artificial night around the entire point. It was like living in a cloud. Every morning I got up, and, while stowing our bedding under the couch, stared at the ever-dropping voltage readings on our batteries.

    +

    After three days it became apparent that I either had to do something today or we were going to be stuck. The nearest auto parts store with a new alternator in stock was about 35 miles away in Eureka. The nearest bus stop was six miles away but assuming it was even remotely on time I’d be gone about 16 hours round trip. Maybe. U.S. bus systems tables are completely inscrutable1 so it was also possible there was no bus running at all. I could risk driving, but if the battery died the whole family would be stuck.

    +

    I ended up with a compromise. I rented a car from the airport which was only a six mile walk and ten mile bus ride and would, theoretically get me back to the bus by dinner time. I threw on some warm clothes, packed water and, at my daughters’ insistence, some snacks in my backpack, and set off for Trinidad.

    +

    I really did not want to walk to Trinidad. It just wasn’t on my list of things to do when I woke up that morning. A bus or even a really expensive cab ride was much more appealling. At the same time, perverse though this sounds, I like these little breakdowns. I like putting myself in situations where I’m well outside my comfort zone and have the scramble a bit to solve problems. How else do you know what you’re capable of?

    +

    I don’t generally try to teach my kids “life lessons” or any of that crap. Words are cheap. As a professional writer, I can tell you with some authority just how cheap they are. Children learn by watching . They absorb. The world around them gets organized into a patterns right before their eyes. One of them, that I have tried to cultivate to some degree, is that you should meet life head on. Good or bad you have to go through, not around. This is easy when life is good. When there are problems it gets more difficult. But still. The only way out is through.

    +
    + + banana slug photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    You cannot avoid. You can not ignore. You cannot put your head in the ground. The minute you pull it up and look around, there’s everything you were avoiding, waiting for you. Similarly, there are no shortcuts, there are no easy escapes. No one is coming to save you. You have to save yourself. You save yourself by going through. Whether life gives you fear and sadness, or joy and wonder, there’s no escaping it, there’s no way around it, you go through it. You can choose to accept what comes and deal with it accordingly moving through it or you can lay down and die. It’s really that simple.

    +

    And usually what we think is going to be so awful isn’t that bad2. We’re pretty terrible at telling what is good from what is bad in the midst of things. I am anyway. Many of my favorite moments in this life aren’t ones I’m in a hurry to re-live, but doesn’t make them any less wonderful to me. Whatever it is though, these experiences are here for you now. You put them on, you sit with them, so to speak, you live them. And then something else comes along. Some of it will be hard, unpleasant, involuntarily thrust upon you, not really what you wanted to do when you woke up that morning, but you get up and you do it anyway because it is life, whether you want to call it good or bad is up to you, but all of it is life and without it, there’s no reason to be here. The only way out is through.

    +

    That’s what I was thinking about walking through the damp cold dreary world of Patrick’s Point, at least when I wasn’t concentrating on the sound of cars to avoid being run over by insane California drivers. I also thought about the millions of people all over the world (most of them women) who were also at that very moment walking further than me to get water. And they have to do it again tomorrow. I don’t have to walk for water, I don’t have to beg for food. I don’t really have any problems at all, just a burned out coil of wire that needed to be replaced. No big deal.

    +

    I also thought about how if I were in the south someone would have stopped to give me a ride before I made it a mile. Everywhere we’ve been recently has served to reinforce something I already knew: the only place still alive in America is the south.

    +

    I made it to the bus station about half an hour ahead of the bus, time enough to grab some pastor tacos from the gas station, which was way better than you’re thinking. I have my beefs with California — lots of beefs in fact — but damn if you can’t get a decent taco at a gas station. Eventually the bus showed up only ten minutes late, which is almost Germanicly on-time by the LA public transport standards I grew up with. I made it to the airport, picked up the car, drove to Eureka, bought an alternator and drove back in time for dinner.

    +

    The next day I installed the alternator and took the bus for a drive to charge the batteries. It wasn’t enough to stop us from needing to conserve energy, but it kept us afloat a little longer, it got us out of our energy jam. It got us through. And that’s all we really need. Eventually the sun even came out for day.

    +
    + + pacific ocean, patrick's point, humbolt photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + pacific ocean, patrick's point, humbolt photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + pacific ocean, patrick's point, humbolt photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + sunny day, patrick's point, humbolt photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + pacific ocean, patrick's point, humbolt photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + pacific ocean, tinidad, humbolt photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + pacific ocean, patrick's point, humbolt photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
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      +
    1. +

      I have ridden the bus in 16 countries, reading over bus schedules through the fog of half a dozen different language barriers and I’ve never had so difficult at time as I have at every bus stop in the U.S — MTA New York being the notable exception to that rule. ↩

      +
      2. +
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      By the same token, things that seems so great at first often turn out to be downright nasty. ↩

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    1 Comment

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    + Ansley + December 26, 2017 at 9:33 a.m. +
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    Thanks for the inspiring words…. +Beautifully written +Much Love to you guys and hope you all are feeling better!

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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/through.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/through.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cbf5ae1 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/through.txt @@ -0,0 +1,50 @@ +Through +======= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 29 October 2017 + +Patrick's Point is a beautiful place. When you can see it. One evening the setting sun conspired with the fog to let a few rays of light through. + + + +Most of the time though, it's enveloped in cloud. + + + + +Having driven in on a broken alternator (draining our starting battery to dead and our house batteries way down) we really needed sun. Instead we got not just overcast skies but swirling mists of fog that create an artificial night around the entire point. It was like living in a cloud. Every morning I got up, and, while stowing our bedding under the couch, stared at the ever-dropping voltage readings on our batteries. + +After three days it became apparent that I either had to do something today or we were going to be stuck. The nearest auto parts store with a new alternator in stock was about 35 miles away in Eureka. The nearest bus stop was six miles away but assuming it was even remotely on time I'd be gone about 16 hours round trip. Maybe. U.S. bus systems tables are completely inscrutable[^1] so it was also possible there was no bus running at all. I could risk driving, but if the battery died the whole family would be stuck. + +I ended up with a compromise. I rented a car from the airport which was only a six mile walk and ten mile bus ride and would, theoretically get me back to the bus by dinner time. I threw on some warm clothes, packed water and, at my daughters' insistence, some snacks in my backpack, and set off for Trinidad. + +I really did not want to walk to Trinidad. It just wasn't on my list of things to do when I woke up that morning. A bus or even a really expensive cab ride was much more appealling. At the same time, perverse though this sounds, I like these little breakdowns. I like putting myself in situations where I'm well outside my comfort zone and have the scramble a bit to solve problems. How else do you know what you're capable of? + +I don't generally try to teach my kids "life lessons" or any of that crap. Words are cheap. As a professional writer, I can tell you with some authority just how cheap they are. Children learn by watching . They absorb. The world around them gets organized into a patterns right before their eyes. One of them, that I have tried to cultivate to some degree, is that you should meet life head on. Good or bad you have to go through, not around. This is easy when life is good. When there are problems it gets more difficult. But still. The only way out is through. + + + +You cannot avoid. You can not ignore. You cannot put your head in the ground. The minute you pull it up and look around, there's everything you were avoiding, waiting for you. Similarly, there are no shortcuts, there are no easy escapes. No one is coming to save you. You have to save yourself. You save yourself by going through. Whether life gives you fear and sadness, or joy and wonder, there's no escaping it, there's no way around it, you go through it. You can choose to accept what comes and deal with it accordingly moving through it or you can lay down and die. It's really that simple. + +And usually what we think is going to be so awful isn't that bad[^2]. We're pretty terrible at telling what is good from what is bad in the midst of things. I am anyway. Many of my favorite moments in this life aren't ones I'm in a hurry to re-live, but doesn't make them any less wonderful to me. Whatever it is though, these experiences are here for you now. You put them on, you sit with them, so to speak, you live them. And then something else comes along. Some of it will be hard, unpleasant, involuntarily thrust upon you, not really what you wanted to do when you woke up that morning, but you get up and you do it anyway because it is life, whether you want to call it good or bad is up to you, but all of it is life and without it, there's no reason to be here. The only way out is through. + +That's what I was thinking about walking through the damp cold dreary world of Patrick's Point, at least when I wasn't concentrating on the sound of cars to avoid being run over by insane California drivers. I also thought about the millions of people all over the world (most of them women) who were also at that very moment walking further than me to get water. And they have to do it again tomorrow. I don't have to walk for water, I don't have to beg for food. I don't really have any problems at all, just a burned out coil of wire that needed to be replaced. No big deal. + +I also thought about how if I were in the south someone would have stopped to give me a ride before I made it a mile. Everywhere we've been recently has served to reinforce something I already knew: the only place still alive in America is the south. + +I made it to the bus station about half an hour ahead of the bus, time enough to grab some pastor tacos from the gas station, which was way better than you're thinking. I have my beefs with California -- lots of beefs in fact -- but damn if you can't get a decent taco at a gas station. Eventually the bus showed up only ten minutes late, which is almost Germanicly on-time by the LA public transport standards I grew up with. I made it to the airport, picked up the car, drove to Eureka, bought an alternator and drove back in time for dinner. + +The next day I installed the alternator and took the bus for a drive to charge the batteries. It wasn't enough to stop us from needing to conserve energy, but it kept us afloat a little longer, it got us out of our energy jam. It got us through. And that's all we really need. Eventually the sun even came out for day. + + + + + + + + + +[^1]: I have ridden the bus in 16 countries, reading over bus schedules through the fog of half a dozen different language barriers and I've never had so difficult at time as I have at every bus stop in the U.S -- MTA New York being the notable exception to that rule. +[^2]: By the same token, things that seems so great at first often turn out to be downright nasty. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/trains-hot-springs-and-broken-buses.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/trains-hot-springs-and-broken-buses.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d9184e0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/trains-hot-springs-and-broken-buses.html @@ -0,0 +1,557 @@ + + + + + Trains, Hot Springs And Broken Buses - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Trains, Hot Springs and Broken Buses

    + +
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    Bishop, California, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
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    +
    +

    After a night in the middle of Gold Point we hit the road, continuing our somewhat random plan. I came up with something I thought was pretty good: take highway 266 west from Gold Point, grab highway 168, go over the White Mountains, drop down into Big Pine and follow 395 up to my aunt and uncle’s house up in Wellington. It seems simple when you type it out. I bet it made the gods chuckle anyway.

    +
    + + driving in nevada photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Highway 266 was uneventful, a little climb up into the White Mountains, through a ghost town and down into a small town called Oasis. It was when we turned on 168 that we got some hints of what was to come. The signs read steep, winding roads ahead. Okay, no biggie, probably. Then there was a sign that said one lane road ahead, trucks not recommended. But we’re on a two digit state highway in California, those don’t narrow down to one lane. I thought maybe it meant there was no passing lane. It did not mean that.

    +

    Up and over the second pass was not too bad either, though it was the windiest road we’ve been on. Down the back side despite my best efforts at downshifting the brakes started to smell. We took a break to let them rest and enjoy the view. Of absolute nothing. Excepting perhaps some portions of route 50 (the so-called loneliest highway) route 168 is the most remote road I’ve ever been on. There’s no civilization for its entire run over the White Mountains. Just empty desert and one lone building set way back from the road with a huge sign that says “no telephone available.” The only other vehicles we saw were a few empty hay trucks driving way too fast for the road.

    +

    We had snack and a road work crew we’d passed up the mountain came down and pulled into the same turnout we were in. I took the opportunity to ask them about the next pass. They seemed to think we’d be fine, though one of them did say, “there’s one part we call the narrows, it’s only one lane through there.” I just stared at him for a minute. “Seriously?” “Seriously.” “Don’t tell my wife that.”

    +

    We said goodbye and hit the road again. Climbing the third pass I started to smell that sweet smell of radiator fluid and pulled into the next turn out. The bus sat boiling over for a bit, maybe a quart, and then it stopped. We climbed out to sit for a while and consider our options. Except that there weren’t any really. With no cell reception to call a tow truck, no real way to turn around, and no where else to go even if we did, we had to get over the pass. At one point an older gentleman on a Harley stopped at see if we were okay. We chatted for a bit and he told us the top of the pass was only about four or five miles ahead, which was encouraging.

    +
    + + overheated photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + +
    Overheating. Again. | image by Corrinne Gilbertson
    +
    + +

    After an hour or so the bus, and I, had cooled enough to tackle the pass again. And the Harley guy turned out to be right. It wasn’t that bad and we didn’t overheat again. Shortly after the top of Westguard Pass though with very little warning the road did indeed become one lane. It turned out to be less than half a mile, just a stretch where they simply couldn’t blast the cut any wider. Fortunately we didn’t meet any hay trucks going through.

    +

    The downhill grade on the other side of the pass was 10 percent all the way down which had us stopping to rest the brakes four or five times, but eventually, around dinner time, we finally made it to Big Pine.

    +
    + + overheated photographed by luxagraf + +
    Resting the brakes.
    +
    + +

    We grabbed some gas and found a small county park with no one in it. Perfect way to end a long day. We parked for the night in the shadow of the High Sierra and ate dinner looking up at the mountains.

    +
    + + The High Sierrra photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Big Pine high sierra photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Our plan for the next day was to check out the Laws Railroad Museum and then head to a local hot spring. Every morning while the bus warms up I walk around it and check things out, make sure all windows and vents are closed, no fluids are leaking and so on. This morning the rear wheel well caught my eye. It seemed someone closer to the wheels than I’d ever noticed. But that’s virtually impossible, how often do axles move? Has to be my imagination. I walked around the other side. Not my imagination. I crawled under and saw this:

    +
    + + broken bus photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    That’s when I called my uncle. He’s already helped me fix a few thing via the phone. I sent over some pictures and he told me what to do, but I had neither tools nor jack to do it so he offered to come down and help. A couple hours later had some bolts, some beer and something like a plan. Or at least he did. I had hope.

    +

    And the next day we did it. Or my uncle did anyway. We lifted the bus with a grossly underpowered jack, pounded on the spring joint until it slowly slid back into place and then we put new bolts in. It was a long day, but we got it done. Thanks again Ron.

    +

    The kids, generally oblivious to our breakdowns, found plenty of mud to get them through the day.

    +
    + + + playing in the mud photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + playing in campground photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + + + + playing in campground photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + + + + + playing in campground photographed by luxagraf + + + + + +
    + + playing in campground photographed by luxagraf +
    Snorkel costumes. We really need to get back to the beach.
    +
    + + + + + + playing in campground photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + +     + + + + The High Sierrra photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + reading photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    After that adventure we finally made it to the Laws Railroad Museum, which turned out to be a lot of fun for the kids, plenty of stuff to climb on, in and round and no one to tell them not to. Well, except for one old crone volunteering in the station house who proceeded to chastise the children before they were hardly in the door. I turned around and walked out because if I’d stayed I’d have involuntarily backhanded her. I sat on the porch listening to her tell visitors a completely false story about the origin of the Murphy bed. Some people I don’t know, they won’t leave you alone.

    +
    + + laws railroad museum photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + laws railroad museum photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + laws railroad museum photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + laws railroad museum photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + laws railroad museum photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + laws railroad museum photographed by luxagraf + +
    Specialization is for insects.
    +
    + +
    + + The High Sierrra photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    That afternoon we trekked over to Keough Hot Springs. There are a lot of hot springs in this part of the country, but not many of them have a really cool old pool. We ended up spending the night and the kids and I spent all afternoon in the pool.

    +
    + + keough hot springs photographed by luxagraf + +
    Most of the appeal of Keough Hot Springs was this pool, built in 1912.
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    3 Comments

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    + Jeena + October 29, 2017 at 4:02 a.m. +
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    I love your long posts with many pictures. Although I often don’t really read the text because the pictures alone tell a comprehensive story already :)

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    + Drew + November 15, 2017 at 12:57 p.m. +
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    Do you just stay pissed off? That lady would of had it coming.

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    + Scott + November 15, 2017 at 1:07 p.m. +
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    @Drew-

    +

    I walked out because if I’d stayed I’d punched her in the face and we live in times when that is not acceptable. So I walked away and took pictures of the mountains.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/trains-hot-springs-and-broken-buses.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/trains-hot-springs-and-broken-buses.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..67393ca --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/10/trains-hot-springs-and-broken-buses.txt @@ -0,0 +1,72 @@ +Trains, Hot Springs and Broken Buses +==================================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Friday, 06 October 2017 + +After a night in the middle of Gold Point we hit the road, continuing our somewhat random plan. I came up with something I thought was pretty good: take highway 266 west from Gold Point, grab highway 168, go over the White Mountains, drop down into Big Pine and follow 395 up to my aunt and uncle's house up in Wellington. It seems simple when you type it out. I bet it made the gods chuckle anyway. + + + +Highway 266 was uneventful, a little climb up into the White Mountains, through a ghost town and down into a small town called Oasis. It was when we turned on 168 that we got some hints of what was to come. The signs read steep, winding roads ahead. Okay, no biggie, probably. Then there was a sign that said one lane road ahead, trucks not recommended. But we're on a two digit state highway in California, those don't narrow down to one lane. I thought maybe it meant there was no passing lane. It did not mean that. + +Up and over the second pass was not too bad either, though it was the windiest road we've been on. Down the back side despite my best efforts at downshifting the brakes started to smell. We took a break to let them rest and enjoy the view. Of absolute nothing. Excepting perhaps some portions of route 50 (the so-called loneliest highway) route 168 is the most remote road I've ever been on. There's no civilization for its entire run over the White Mountains. Just empty desert and one lone building set way back from the road with a huge sign that says "no telephone available." The only other vehicles we saw were a few empty hay trucks driving way too fast for the road. + +We had snack and a road work crew we'd passed up the mountain came down and pulled into the same turnout we were in. I took the opportunity to ask them about the next pass. They seemed to think we'd be fine, though one of them did say, "there's one part we call the narrows, it's only one lane through there." I just stared at him for a minute. "Seriously?" "Seriously." "Don't tell my wife that." + +We said goodbye and hit the road again. Climbing the third pass I started to smell that sweet smell of radiator fluid and pulled into the next turn out. The bus sat boiling over for a bit, maybe a quart, and then it stopped. We climbed out to sit for a while and consider our options. Except that there weren't any really. With no cell reception to call a tow truck, no real way to turn around, and no where else to go even if we did, we had to get over the pass. At one point an older gentleman on a Harley stopped at see if we were okay. We chatted for a bit and he told us the top of the pass was only about four or five miles ahead, which was encouraging. + + + +After an hour or so the bus, and I, had cooled enough to tackle the pass again. And the Harley guy turned out to be right. It wasn't that bad and we didn't overheat again. Shortly after the top of Westguard Pass though with very little warning the road did indeed become one lane. It turned out to be less than half a mile, just a stretch where they simply couldn't blast the cut any wider. Fortunately we didn't meet any hay trucks going through. + +The downhill grade on the other side of the pass was 10 percent all the way down which had us stopping to rest the brakes four or five times, but eventually, around dinner time, we finally made it to Big Pine. + + + +We grabbed some gas and found a small county park with no one in it. Perfect way to end a long day. We parked for the night in the shadow of the High Sierra and ate dinner looking up at the mountains. + + + + +Our plan for the next day was to check out the Laws Railroad Museum and then head to a local hot spring. Every morning while the bus warms up I walk around it and check things out, make sure all windows and vents are closed, no fluids are leaking and so on. This morning the rear wheel well caught my eye. It seemed someone closer to the wheels than I'd ever noticed. But that's virtually impossible, how often do axles move? Has to be my imagination. I walked around the other side. Not my imagination. I crawled under and saw this: + + + +That's when I called my uncle. He's already helped me fix a few thing via the phone. I sent over some pictures and he told me what to do, but I had neither tools nor jack to do it so he offered to come down and help. A couple hours later had some bolts, some beer and something like a plan. Or at least he did. I had hope. + +And the next day we did it. Or my uncle did anyway. We lifted the bus with a grossly underpowered jack, pounded on the spring joint until it slowly slid back into place and then we put new bolts in. It was a long day, but we got it done. Thanks again Ron. + +The kids, generally oblivious to our breakdowns, found plenty of mud to get them through the day. + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +After that adventure we finally made it to the Laws Railroad Museum, which turned out to be a lot of fun for the kids, plenty of stuff to climb on, in and round and no one to tell them not to. Well, except for one old crone volunteering in the station house who proceeded to chastise the children before they were hardly in the door. I turned around and walked out because if I'd stayed I'd have involuntarily backhanded her. I sat on the porch listening to her tell visitors a completely false story about the origin of the Murphy bed. Some people I don't know, they won't leave you alone. + + + + + + + + + +That afternoon we trekked over to Keough Hot Springs. There are a lot of hot springs in this part of the country, but not many of them have a really cool old pool. We ended up spending the night and the kids and I spent all afternoon in the pool. + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/11/absence-glass-beach.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/11/absence-glass-beach.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6bd14b8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/11/absence-glass-beach.html @@ -0,0 +1,427 @@ + + + + + The Absence Of Glass Beach - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    The Absence of Glass Beach

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    Mendocino Coast, California, U.S.

    + – Map +
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    +

    After Halloween we made our way south, ducking inland and around the Lost Coast, down to Fort Bragg where we finally, for a few days at least got some sunshine. Not that it was warm mind you, but at least we saw the sun for two days in a row.

    +
    + + beach, fort bragg, ca photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + harbor seals photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + beach, fort bragg, ca photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + beach, fort bragg, ca photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + beach, fort bragg, ca photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + beach, fort bragg, ca photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I never wrote about it here, but Corrinne and I visited this area about a decade ago and went to a little, out of the way, somewhat inaccesible beach called Glass Beach. The name refered to the fact that the entire shoreline was glass shards, the soft, sea-polished variety some people call seaglass. If I remember correctly it was there because there used to be a wrecking yard or a garbage dump or some combination of those things on the bluff above. At the time, 2009 , the glass was several feet deep and covered from the low tide line well up past high tide. It looked like this:

    +
    + + glass beach back in the day photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Today it is all gone. People came and carted it home in buckets. We read about the loss of glass beach on the internet, but I confess I didn’t really believe it until I saw it. It really is gone. I even saw two people trying to fill a bucket with the tiny amount of glass that still remains here and there. I have no idea what people do with a bucket of seaglass, presumably it all sits in garages and dens around the country, forgotten. Somehow, to me, this perfectly encapsulates America today: steal what’s everyone’s for yourself and then never even use it.

    +
    + + assholes with buckets. photographed by luxagraf + +
    Assholes with buckets. Greed. This is why we can’t have nice things people.
    +
    + +

    At least there were still tidepools to explore. There wasn’t much life in them, but give a kid some puddles and rocks and they’ll be occupied for hours.

    +
    + + throwing rocks photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + throwing rocks photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Because it’s Northern California in the Autumn the rain inevitably returned. People always ask, what do you do when it rains? Answer: we get wet. If you look closely at the left edge of the image below there’s a deer, also getting wet.

    +
    + + walking in the rain photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Fort Bragg also turned out to be home to the third Travco we’ve run across in our travels. This one, sadly, is unlikely to ever move again.

    +
    + + derelict dodge travco, fort bragg photographed by luxagraf + +
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/11/absence-glass-beach.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/11/absence-glass-beach.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..69891dd --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/11/absence-glass-beach.txt @@ -0,0 +1,37 @@ +The Absence of Glass Beach +========================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 08 November 2017 + +After Halloween we made our way south, ducking inland and around the Lost Coast, down to Fort Bragg where we finally, for a few days at least got some sunshine. Not that it was warm mind you, but at least we saw the sun for two days in a row. + + + + + + + + + +I never wrote about it here, but Corrinne and I visited this area about a decade ago and went to a little, out of the way, somewhat inaccesible beach called Glass Beach. The name refered to the fact that the entire shoreline was glass shards, the soft, sea-polished variety some people call seaglass. If I remember correctly it was there because there used to be a wrecking yard or a garbage dump or some combination of those things on the bluff above. At the time, 2009 , the glass was several feet deep and covered from the low tide line well up past high tide. It looked like this: + + + +Today it is all gone. People came and carted it home in buckets. We read about the loss of glass beach on the internet, but I confess I didn't really believe it until I saw it. It really is gone. I even saw two people trying to fill a bucket with the tiny amount of glass that still remains here and there. I have no idea what people do with a bucket of seaglass, presumably it all sits in garages and dens around the country, forgotten. Somehow, to me, this perfectly encapsulates America today: steal what's everyone's for yourself and then never even use it. + + + +At least there were still tidepools to explore. There wasn't much life in them, but give a kid some puddles and rocks and they'll be occupied for hours. + + + + +Because it's Northern California in the Autumn the rain inevitably returned. People always ask, what do you do when it rains? Answer: we get wet. If you look closely at the left edge of the image below there's a deer, also getting wet. + + + +Fort Bragg also turned out to be home to the third Travco we've run across in our travels. This one, sadly, is unlikely to ever move again. + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/11/halloween-and-big-trees.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/11/halloween-and-big-trees.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..278787b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/11/halloween-and-big-trees.html @@ -0,0 +1,453 @@ + + + + + Halloween And The Big Trees - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Halloween and the Big Trees

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    Patrick’s Point, California, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. It’s got all the good elements of ritual to it, costumes, masks, sounds, night, and obliquely somewhere in there, veneration of the dead. For one moment, one evening, everyone is something they’re not and somehow more themselves for it. The masks of everyday life get replaced with masks of our choosing, if only for one night. Plus, candy.

    +

    Back in Athens the kids really loved going to Boo at the Zoo, the local zoo gets all Halloween fun so it’s like a trip to the zoo plus costumes. Turns out Athens is far from the only place to have one of these so we crashed the Boo and the Zoo festival in Eureka.

    +
    + + fairies photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + fairies and a dragon photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + dragon love photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + otter photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We even managed to get some trick-or-treating in down in nearby Trinidad, which was completely enveloped in fog (natch) and just spooky enough to be fun.

    +
    + + trick or treating photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We kept the car I rented to get the alternator for a few extra days because we decided we didn’t want to head north to check out the Redwoods proper with the bus. It’s been nice to see the ocean and all, but we also wanted to see the sun. Still, you can’t come all the way up here without showing the kids the tallest trees on earth.

    +

    We left the bus at Patrick’s Point and made a day trip up to the Redwood State and National parks. We hiked a few miles through a grove of the giant trees.

    +
    + + + redwoods photographed by luxagraf + + + + redwoods photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + redwood trees photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + redwoods photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +
    + + redwood trees photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + redwood trees photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + redwoods photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + kid on a bench, redwods photographed by luxagraf + +
    “just me”
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    1 Comment

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    + Drew + November 17, 2017 at 1:43 p.m. +
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    The best family photos yet- the one with the Dragon back triangles and the last 2! Where are you all spending Thanksgiving?

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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/11/halloween-and-big-trees.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/11/halloween-and-big-trees.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..528ace4 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/11/halloween-and-big-trees.txt @@ -0,0 +1,38 @@ +Halloween and the Big Trees +=========================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Friday, 03 November 2017 + +Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. It's got all the good elements of ritual to it, costumes, masks, sounds, night, and obliquely somewhere in there, veneration of the dead. For one moment, one evening, everyone is something they're not and somehow more themselves for it. The masks of everyday life get replaced with masks of our choosing, if only for one night. Plus, candy. + +Back in Athens the kids really loved going to Boo at the Zoo, the local zoo gets all Halloween fun so it's like a trip to the zoo plus costumes. Turns out Athens is far from the only place to have one of these so we crashed the Boo and the Zoo festival in Eureka. + + + + + + +We even managed to get some trick-or-treating in down in nearby Trinidad, which was completely enveloped in fog (natch) and just spooky enough to be fun. + + + +We kept the car I rented to get the alternator for a few extra days because we decided we didn't want to head north to check out the Redwoods proper with the bus. It's been nice to see the ocean and all, but we also wanted to see the sun. Still, you can't come all the way up here without showing the kids the tallest trees on earth. + +We left the bus at Patrick's Point and made a day trip up to the Redwood State and National parks. We hiked a few miles through a grove of the giant trees. + +
    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/11/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/11/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..81b5351 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/11/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,107 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

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    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: November 2017

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/aquarium-kings.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/aquarium-kings.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6b8be7a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/aquarium-kings.html @@ -0,0 +1,425 @@ + + + + + Aquarium Kings - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Aquarium Kings

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    King City, California, U.S.

    + – Map +
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    +

    After so much time away from the bus it was good to be on the road again. We headed out the morning after we got back, picking our way south through the Bay Area and down to, as it turned out, Silicon Valley, the epicenter of what’s wrong with America, and, as you might expect, a terrible place to try to camp. After an abortive attempt or two we gave up and got a hotel room.

    +

    The next day we drove the rest of the way down to Monterey, hoping to visit some friends and take the kids to aquarium. There’s a well located campground, right in the middle of Monterey, up on a hill. There’s too many trees to see the ocean, and there’s not even the pretense of a level site, but it’s far better than what you’ll find in most California cities so I won’t complain. It also had a nice playground for the kids.

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    + + playground, monterey, ca photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + playground, monterey, ca photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Being centrally located also allowed us to explore the town and see the aquarium.

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    + + jellyfish photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + fish, monterey aquarium photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + kids in clam photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + squid, monterey aquarium photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I’m probably just a twisted person, but after a few hours at the Monterey Bay Aquarium I was starving and really craving sushi.

    +

    One night I managed to sneak off one night to spend some time with my friends, who I’m pretty sure really didn’t understand why I refused to drive the bus up the hill to their house. I’ll tell you why in the next post. For now, rest assured that I made a wise decision.

    +

    From Monterey we were supposed to head south to Santa Barbara to visit some more friends, but honestly, we were a bit sick of being damp and wanted to head away from the coast for a while. This turned out to be a smart choice since the Santa Barbara fires started a couple days later. The first day out of Monterey we were headed down 101 (probably the roughest, consistently awful road we’ve driven, Californians I know you don’t want to hear this, but you are living in a third world country and you’re the only ones who don’t realize it. But I digress), I stopped for gas and when we pulled out of the gas station there was a horrible grinding noise that really sounded like wheel bearings to me.

    +

    My wife on the other hand thought the noise was coming from further back, near the transmission. I crawled underneath the bus but I couldn’t see anything amiss. Unfortunately I crawled from the engine and wiggled backward, which meant I missed seeing the problem. We drove back into King City and searched out a mechanic who, fortunately, had time to look around. He and I took it for a drive, then crawled under it from about midway back and immediately saw the problem — the forward driveshaft mount had dropped down and the driveshaft was scraping against a crossbar.

    +

    A quick lift with a floor jack and we tightened up the bracket and everything was fine. It took less time to fix than it did for my wife and kids to eat lunch at the Vietnamese restaurant next door.

    +

    By this time it was midway through the afternoon and no one really felt like driving anymore. We had spied a county park on our way into town so we headed there instead of back on the highway. It was a nice place, virtually empty and there was plenty of stuff for the kids to explore. We ended up spending the entire weekend there.

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    + + campground, King city photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + train car, King city photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + campground, King city photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + playground, king city, ca photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + playing in campground photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + campground, King city photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + campground, King city photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + King city photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + down by the river, king city, ca photographed by luxagraf + +
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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/aquarium-kings.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/aquarium-kings.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b8469c3 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/aquarium-kings.txt @@ -0,0 +1,42 @@ +Aquarium Kings +============== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 10 December 2017 + +After so much time away from the bus it was good to be on the road again. We headed out the morning after we got back, picking our way south through the Bay Area and down to, as it turned out, Silicon Valley, the epicenter of what's wrong with America, and, as you might expect, a terrible place to try to camp. After an abortive attempt or two we gave up and got a hotel room. + +The next day we drove the rest of the way down to Monterey, hoping to visit some friends and take the kids to aquarium. There's a well located campground, right in the middle of Monterey, up on a hill. There's too many trees to see the ocean, and there's not even the pretense of a level site, but it's far better than what you'll find in most California cities so I won't complain. It also had a nice playground for the kids. + + + + +Being centrally located also allowed us to explore the town and see the aquarium. + + + + + + +I'm probably just a twisted person, but after a few hours at the Monterey Bay Aquarium I was starving and really craving sushi. + +One night I managed to sneak off one night to spend some time with my friends, who I'm pretty sure really didn't understand why I refused to drive the bus up the hill to their house. I'll tell you why in the next post. For now, rest assured that I made a wise decision. + +From Monterey we were supposed to head south to Santa Barbara to visit some more friends, but honestly, we were a bit sick of being damp and wanted to head away from the coast for a while. This turned out to be a smart choice since the Santa Barbara fires started a couple days later. The first day out of Monterey we were headed down 101 (probably the roughest, consistently awful road we've driven, Californians I know you don't want to hear this, but you are living in a third world country and you're the only ones who don't realize it. But I digress), I stopped for gas and when we pulled out of the gas station there was a horrible grinding noise that really sounded like wheel bearings to me. + +My wife on the other hand thought the noise was coming from further back, near the transmission. I crawled underneath the bus but I couldn't see anything amiss. Unfortunately I crawled from the engine and wiggled backward, which meant I missed seeing the problem. We drove back into King City and searched out a mechanic who, fortunately, had time to look around. He and I took it for a drive, then crawled under it from about midway back and immediately saw the problem -- the forward driveshaft mount had dropped down and the driveshaft was scraping against a crossbar. + +A quick lift with a floor jack and we tightened up the bracket and everything was fine. It took less time to fix than it did for my wife and kids to eat lunch at the Vietnamese restaurant next door. + +By this time it was midway through the afternoon and no one really felt like driving anymore. We had spied a county park on our way into town so we headed there instead of back on the highway. It was a nice place, virtually empty and there was plenty of stuff for the kids to explore. We ended up spending the entire weekend there. + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/funland-beach.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/funland-beach.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f53de35 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/funland-beach.html @@ -0,0 +1,459 @@ + + + + + Funland At The Beach - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Funland at the Beach

    + +
    +
    +

    Newport Beach, California, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    I suck at waiting. We all suck at waiting actually, which is why after four days waiting around in the desert left us feeling a little stir crazy. We thought, screw the calendar, let’s do Christmas now. And so we did. We headed down to Orange County to my parent’s house, where the kids got to do some Christmasy stuff, like decorate a tree and, eventually, have a Christmas morning a week early.

    +
    + + Early Chrismas in orange county photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Early Chrismas in orange county photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We also got to do some decidedly un-Christmasy stuff as well, like head down to the beach since the weather was plenty warm enough to play in the sand and even go for a swim one day.

    +
    + + the beach off blackie's photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + the beach off blackie's photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + the beach off blackie's photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It wasn’t quite Christmas, it was early Christmas, but it was what we had. Then we headed back up toward the high desert to collect the bus, but it wasn’t quite ready so thankfully Bill and Crystal were willing to put us up in LA for a couple nights. We road the subways, explored Union Station and kept ourselves generally entertained until the call finally came — come get the bus.

    +
    + + On the metro, Los Angeles photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Union Station, Los Angeles photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Shoe shine stand, Union Station, Los Angeles photographed by luxagraf + +
    Before middle class mediocrity took over Americans used to make beautiful things, even shoe shine stands could be amazing.
    +
    + +
    + + Union Station, Los Angeles photographed by luxagraf + +
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    1 Comment

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    + Gwen + December 30, 2017 at 10:30 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Love the picture of your kids with your folks. Brings back memories of posing in the their yard for many a picture on holidays.

    + +
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/funland-beach.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/funland-beach.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f5b8b07 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/funland-beach.txt @@ -0,0 +1,25 @@ +Funland at the Beach +==================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 20 December 2017 + +I suck at waiting. We all suck at waiting actually, which is why after four days waiting around in the desert left us feeling a little stir crazy. We thought, screw the calendar, let's do Christmas now. And so we did. We headed down to Orange County to my parent's house, where the kids got to do some Christmasy stuff, like decorate a tree and, eventually, have a Christmas morning a week early. + + + + + +We also got to do some decidedly un-Christmasy stuff as well, like head down to the beach since the weather was plenty warm enough to play in the sand and even go for a swim one day. + + + + + +It wasn't quite Christmas, it was early Christmas, but it was what we had. Then we headed back up toward the high desert to collect the bus, but it wasn't quite ready so thankfully Bill and Crystal were willing to put us up in LA for a couple nights. We road the subways, explored Union Station and kept ourselves generally entertained until the call finally came -- come get the bus. + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1efecde --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,113 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Archive: December 2017

    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/terrible-horrible-no-good-very-bad-week.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/terrible-horrible-no-good-very-bad-week.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..eef53ca --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/terrible-horrible-no-good-very-bad-week.html @@ -0,0 +1,507 @@ + + + + + The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
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    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week

    + +
    +
    +

    Palm Springs, California, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    I don’t really feel like telling this story, so here’s two pictures that do it instead.

    +
    + + the blue bus being towed photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + engine blown piston photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    If you’re not real familiar with cars, that second photo is what your pistons look like after your head gasket leak destroys them. Or one of them anyway.

    +

    It all happened climbing or trying to climb over Tehachapi pass, to get out of central California. We’d been holed up in Bakersfield where I came down with a sinus infection that gave me a fever of 104 and took three rounds of antibiotics to put down. I was pretty doped up on cold medicine, but we really wanted to get out of Bakerfield so we went for it. About half way up oil was spraying out the right side of the engine and that was that. I pulled over and called AAA.

    +

    We got towed over the pass and, in the beginning, when I thought it was only the head gasket, we piled into a tiny, dingy Motel 6 room with 2 double beds and prepared to wait for a couple days. The next morning I got a call from the mechanic that I need to come down to the shop. That second picture is what I saw.

    +

    It was demoralizing to see the exhaust manifolds, spark plugs and other things we had just done sitting there destroyed. I called Corrinne and we discussed what to do. We seriously considered cutting our loses and parting it out, in fact we decided to do that, but in the end we couldn’t give up now. We’re too stubborn apparently. We had to stick with it. But there was no way we were going to hang around for weeks in a Motel 6 in Mojave, CA. We rented a car and set off for Palm Springs, where they at least have things to do and more than one restuarant.

    +

    We managed to get a great deal on a condo for a few days. It was a golf resort, the sort of place where I feel far more comfortable talking to the employees than I do my fellow guests, but it had a kitchen and the nicest foldout bed for the kids we’ve ever had. It also had a pool. And weather nice enough to use the pool.

    +
    + + playing in the pool photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + playing in the pool photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Palm Springs is possibly the least Christmasy place you could think of, so we compensated by doing some Christmasy stuff, like going to the living desert museum’s night time Christmas party. Lights, a carousels, and a pretty massive outdoor train setup were all hits, but our kids really can’t stay up past eight so they didn’t last long.

    +
    + + Christmas at the zoo photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Christmas at the zoo photographed by luxagraf + +
    Manual focus in low light is hard.
    +
    + +

    Reading over this it really doesn’t sound so terrible actually. It always sucks to be homeless, but when you live on the road it’s pretty much inevitable. One of the prices you have to pay to live this way I suppose. It could be worse.

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    6 Comments

    + + + + + + +
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    + classical_liberal + December 24, 2017 at 9:27 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Ahh Crap!!!

    +

    If it makes you feel any better I’m spending my Christmas working 14 hour shifts, hundreds of miles from my family and girlfriend, the high temp wont get above 0 F. I do, however, have plenty of snow.

    +

    Keep the adventure alive!

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + scott + December 24, 2017 at 4:35 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @classical_liberal-

    +

    Sorry to hear that, hope you find some way to celebrate. We’re all down with the flu right now, so it’s looking to be a bit dismal here as well.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + DREW ELDRIDGE + December 27, 2017 at 2:33 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Dont stop now. Youre the only thing that gives me hope sitting in my cube all day. Fight the good fight!

    +

    For a cold- Here is my cant miss home remedy- I just told Cathy and Bill about this last weekend and ill swear by it 100%

    +

    14-16 oz distilled water in some sort of bottle you can shake up. +add 2 tsp baking soda and 2 tsp non iodized salt.

    +

    shake it all up until it disolves 100%

    +

    Take a turkey baster with bulb syringe and squeeze into each nostril (HARD) twice per nostril. 2 times a day for as long as it takes.

    +

    I promise it will work. I was desperate when I came across this- had 2 rounds of antibiotics prior and even tried to snort fresh lime juice (a terrible idea).

    +

    To entertain you while you are down….

    +

    https://youtu.be/JpmHXIbqpB0

    +

    Makes the Neti pot look like a wus!

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + December 27, 2017 at 3:06 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Drew-

    +

    We’re not quitting yet. Although we’ve all now had the flu for six days and if ever there’s been a time I wish we lived in a house, the past couple of days would have been it. But it will pass. I think.

    +

    Funny thing about your nasal cure, that’s more or less what I usually do, but I use a neti pot and add some goldenseal. I’ll have to pick up a baster though, looks more powerful and less likely to break when traveling. Thanks for the tip.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + DREW ELDRIDGE + December 28, 2017 at 9:09 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Just got word that Cathy has turkey basted twice so far- Ill let you know how this saga plays out. She has already gone through 2 rounds of antibiotics with no results. I predict the turkey baster to cure her within the week.

    +

    Good luck out there! 2018 is your year!

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + December 29, 2017 at 12:39 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Drew-

    +

    I have an alternative to the turkey baster, when you’re short a baster… use the neti pot, and then… just snort it like it’s 1985 and you’re at Studio 54…

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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
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    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/terrible-horrible-no-good-very-bad-week.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/terrible-horrible-no-good-very-bad-week.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e72c431 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/terrible-horrible-no-good-very-bad-week.txt @@ -0,0 +1,31 @@ +The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week +============================================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 14 December 2017 + +I don't really feel like telling this story, so here's two pictures that do it instead. + + + + +If you're not real familiar with cars, that second photo is what your pistons look like after your head gasket leak destroys them. Or one of them anyway. + +It all happened climbing or trying to climb over Tehachapi pass, to get out of central California. We'd been holed up in Bakersfield where I came down with a sinus infection that gave me a fever of 104 and took three rounds of antibiotics to put down. I was pretty doped up on cold medicine, but we really wanted to get out of Bakerfield so we went for it. About half way up oil was spraying out the right side of the engine and that was that. I pulled over and called AAA. + +We got towed over the pass and, in the beginning, when I thought it was only the head gasket, we piled into a tiny, dingy Motel 6 room with 2 double beds and prepared to wait for a couple days. The next morning I got a call from the mechanic that I need to come down to the shop. That second picture is what I saw. + +It was demoralizing to see the exhaust manifolds, spark plugs and other things we had just done sitting there destroyed. I called Corrinne and we discussed what to do. We seriously considered cutting our loses and parting it out, in fact we decided to do that, but in the end we couldn't give up now. We're too stubborn apparently. We had to stick with it. But there was no way we were going to hang around for weeks in a Motel 6 in Mojave, CA. We rented a car and set off for Palm Springs, where they at least have things to do and more than one restuarant. + +We managed to get a great deal on a condo for a few days. It was a golf resort, the sort of place where I feel far more comfortable talking to the employees than I do my fellow guests, but it had a kitchen and the nicest foldout bed for the kids we've ever had. It also had a pool. And weather nice enough to use the pool. + + + + +Palm Springs is possibly the least Christmasy place you could think of, so we compensated by doing some Christmasy stuff, like going to the living desert museum's night time Christmas party. Lights, a carousels, and a pretty massive outdoor train setup were all hits, but our kids really can't stay up past eight so they didn't last long. + + + + +Reading over this it really doesn't sound so terrible actually. It always sucks to be homeless, but when you live on the road it's pretty much inevitable. One of the prices you have to pay to live this way I suppose. It could be worse. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/the-city.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/the-city.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..044dad2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/the-city.html @@ -0,0 +1,436 @@ + + + + + The City - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    The City

    + +
    +
    +

    San Francisco, California, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    We continued our slow meandering southward, stopping for a week to visit our friends Kate and Josh, whom we met back in Durango. They’re in the process of building a yurt on some friends’ land and there was enough room to tuck the bus under some redwoods as well. There was plenty of woods, fields, and streams for the kids to play in, and we got to wake up to the sound of hooting owls. They also loaned us a car, which was super nice.

    +

    Our thanksgiving plans were to return to my uncle’s house in Wellington, but I wasn’t about to drive the bus back over the mountains. Fortunately Kate and Josh’s friends (who actually own the land) said we could leave the bus there for a week. And that’s what we did. Since the bus was safely stowed, we figured we’d head into San Francisco on our way to visit some old friends there.

    +

    I’ll be honest, I was kind of dreading San Francisco. I’ve about had my fill of the whole entrepreneur-as-hero, techno-utopian bullshit that’s been spewing out of the Bay Area for the past decade or so. I was worried that that mindset had taken over the city, that the wealthy had squeezed the life out of it as they do everything else. I was, in short, prepared to hate what had become of the city I once loved. Fortunately for me, San Francisco hasn’t yet entirely succumbed the banality underlying the agendas of a handful of wealthy residents (and their acolytes). Which is to say, San Francisco is still pretty close to what it’s always been — San Francisco.

    +
    + + San Francisco bay photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It probably helped that we arrived on a weekend of gloriously warm weather with wide open, deep blue skies filled with scattered clouds to match the wide open deep blue of the bay filled with scattered sails and whitecaps. We spent a lot of time outdoors, almost all our time in fact. Walking the city streets, the parks, the shore, the marina, we even made an attempt to visit the wave organ, something I’ve been meaning to do for decades now, though it proved too far of a walk to go all the way around from where we parked out to the organ, we could at least see it, but then, seeing is not really the point of an organ. Next time.

    +

    We stayed on Lombard, down toward the touristy stuff because I thought the kids would like it and I was right. Hyde Street Pier was a hit, as was fisherman’s wharf and the liberty ship we toured, of which I have no pictures since helping three children navigate a giant metal ship with stairs and railings built for grown sailors did not leave a free arm to snap any photos. But the real find was the Musée Mécanique, an antique penny arcade museum.

    +
    + + hyde st pier photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + hyde st pier photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + hyde st pier photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + hyde st pier photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + arcade museum photographed by luxagraf + +
    First game of air hockey.
    +
    + +

    And of course, you can’t visit the city with kids without a trolley ride. See how thrilled they look?

    +
    + + + trolley car photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + trolley ride photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + None photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + +
    + +

    One morning we made made the long trek out to the Academy of Sciences museum, mostly I think because the kids had heard there was an albino crocodile, which the really wanted to see. It turned out to be pretty cool, especially the rainforest area with all its butterflies and birds flying around right next to you. And yes there was an albino crocodile.

    +
    + + Butterfly Academy of Sciences, SF photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Snake, Academy of Sciences, SF photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Albino Aligator, Academy of Sciences, SF photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    You want to know how out of touch with the modern world we are, we took our first Uber in SF, actually it was a Lyft, which I’d never heard of before we got there. Our friends in the city got it for us and it was probably faster than a taxi, certainly faster than the bus we’d taken earlier in the day. But I felt weird and little bit dirty about the whole thing, like I was somehow contributing to the demise of something, though I’m not sure what.

    +

    The next night I went to run a quick errand by myself, mostly just because I wanted to ride some public transportation alone, with headphones on. I have a whole essay on this site1 about what a magical thing it is to put on headphones on pubic transportation in pretty much any city. Twilight is the best time, but there’s no bad time. You slip into an otherworld of music in the city, riding public transportation you feel the city around you as if it were just you and the city, a kind of intimacy of place I know of no other way to achieve, at once isolating and communing, not with man but what we have wrought, what we have made collectively greater than ourselves. Cities are living things and I don’t mean that in some quasispiritual kind of way, I mean it very literally. This thing, this consciousness, we call the city for lack of a better word loves to commune if you ask it to. Paris and I get along best in this regard, though we have had our moments of disagreement. New York is all about flash and color, but here in San Francisco the conversation is always more sublte, warm yellow light and cool gray fog mingling in narrow streets, the glitter of shop windows and restaurants, blurring by as the bus lurches up Van Ness, inbound, coursing toward the heart the city. It was one short bus ride, another back but it was enough to spend some time alone with the city.

    +

    After four days in the city we headed back over the Sierras to my aunt and uncle’s place in Nevada. We had good Thanksgiving, I got to see some cousins I hadn’t seen in ten years and few relatives I hadn’t seen ever. The sunrises were nice too.

    +
    + + sunrise over topaz lake photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + volvo graveyard photographed by luxagraf + +
    Volvo graveyard
    +
    + +

    It was a good trip, but a week in hotels was quite enough. We were all ready to be back to the bus and when we got there Olivia jumped out of the car and ran to give the bus a hug. Home again.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      Surprisingly, for someone who changes their mind constantly and generally crings when reading anything I didn’t write today (and often then too), I actually still really like that essay and agree with every word in it. ↩

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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/the-city.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/the-city.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0326588 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/12/the-city.txt @@ -0,0 +1,54 @@ +The City +======== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 02 December 2017 + +We continued our slow meandering southward, stopping for a week to visit our friends Kate and Josh, whom we met back in Durango. They're in the process of building a yurt on some friends' land and there was enough room to tuck the bus under some redwoods as well. There was plenty of woods, fields, and streams for the kids to play in, and we got to wake up to the sound of hooting owls. They also loaned us a car, which was super nice. + +Our thanksgiving plans were to return to my uncle's house in Wellington, but I wasn't about to drive the bus back over the mountains. Fortunately Kate and Josh's friends (who actually own the land) said we could leave the bus there for a week. And that's what we did. Since the bus was safely stowed, we figured we'd head into San Francisco on our way to visit some old friends there. + +I'll be honest, I was kind of dreading San Francisco. I've about had my fill of the whole entrepreneur-as-hero, techno-utopian bullshit that's been spewing out of the Bay Area for the past decade or so. I was worried that that mindset had taken over the city, that the wealthy had squeezed the life out of it as they do everything else. I was, in short, prepared to hate what had become of the city I once loved. Fortunately for me, San Francisco hasn't yet entirely succumbed the banality underlying the agendas of a handful of wealthy residents (and their acolytes). Which is to say, San Francisco is still pretty close to what it's always been -- San Francisco. + + + +It probably helped that we arrived on a weekend of gloriously warm weather with wide open, deep blue skies filled with scattered clouds to match the wide open deep blue of the bay filled with scattered sails and whitecaps. We spent a lot of time outdoors, almost all our time in fact. Walking the city streets, the parks, the shore, the marina, we even made an attempt to visit [the wave organ](https://www.exploratorium.edu/visit/wave-organ/), something I've been meaning to do for decades now, though it proved too far of a walk to go all the way around from where we parked out to the organ, we could at least see it, but then, seeing is not really the point of an organ. Next time. + +We stayed on Lombard, down toward the touristy stuff because I thought the kids would like it and I was right. Hyde Street Pier was a hit, as was fisherman's wharf and the liberty ship we toured, of which I have no pictures since helping three children navigate a giant metal ship with stairs and railings built for grown sailors did not leave a free arm to snap any photos. But the real find was the Musée Mécanique, an antique penny arcade museum. + + + + + + + + +And of course, you can't visit the city with kids without a trolley ride. See how thrilled they look? + +
    + + + + + +
    + +One morning we made made the long trek out to the Academy of Sciences museum, mostly I think because the kids had heard there was an albino crocodile, which the really wanted to see. It turned out to be pretty cool, especially the rainforest area with all its butterflies and birds flying around right next to you. And yes there was an albino crocodile. + + + + + +You want to know how out of touch with the modern world we are, we took our first Uber in SF, actually it was a Lyft, which I'd never heard of before we got there. Our friends in the city got it for us and it was probably faster than a taxi, certainly faster than the bus we'd taken earlier in the day. But I felt weird and little bit dirty about the whole thing, like I was somehow contributing to the demise of something, though I'm not sure what. + +The next night I went to run a quick errand by myself, mostly just because I wanted to ride some public transportation alone, with headphones on. I have a [whole essay](https://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2005/03/one-nation-under-groove) on this site[^1] about what a magical thing it is to put on headphones on pubic transportation in pretty much any city. Twilight is the best time, but there's no bad time. You slip into an otherworld of music in the city, riding public transportation you feel the city around you as if it were just you and the city, a kind of intimacy of place I know of no other way to achieve, at once isolating and communing, not with man but what we have wrought, what we have made collectively greater than ourselves. Cities are living things and I don't mean that in some quasispiritual kind of way, I mean it very literally. This thing, this consciousness, we call the city for lack of a better word loves to commune if you ask it to. Paris and I get along best in this regard, though we have had our moments of disagreement. New York is all about flash and color, but here in San Francisco the conversation is always more sublte, warm yellow light and cool gray fog mingling in narrow streets, the glitter of shop windows and restaurants, blurring by as the bus lurches up Van Ness, inbound, coursing toward the heart the city. It was one short bus ride, another back but it was enough to spend some time alone with the city. + +After four days in the city we headed back over the Sierras to my aunt and uncle's place in Nevada. We had good Thanksgiving, I got to see some cousins I hadn't seen in ten years and few relatives I hadn't seen ever. The sunrises were nice too. + + + + +It was a good trip, but a week in hotels was quite enough. We were all ready to be back to the bus and when we got there Olivia jumped out of the car and ran to give the bus a hug. Home again. + +[^1]: Surprisingly, for someone who changes their mind constantly and generally crings when reading anything I didn't write today (and often then too), I actually still really like that essay and agree with every word in it. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..eb69304 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2017/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,344 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    2017, on luxagraf

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    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/almost-warm.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/almost-warm.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4ddf3dd --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/almost-warm.html @@ -0,0 +1,581 @@ + + + + + Almost Warm - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Almost Warm

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    Padre Island National Seashore, Texas, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    On some level it’s never made sense to me to differentiate between oceans — they’re all connected, there’s only one ocean. That said, there are some very different, call them personalities, and ecologies to different oceans, different shores, in different parts of the world. My favorite in these parts is the Gulf of Mexico.

    +
    + + Beach, Padre Island National Seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We’re a little way from warm, but it sure is nice to have sun and sand at least. If the wind died down it probably would be warm. Not bad for January.

    +
    + + Beach, Padre Island National Seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Beach, Padre Island National Seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Beach, Padre Island National Seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    If the wind died down though it’d be because we were somewhere else. Wind swept barrier island is a phrase that gets used a lot when you read about the ecology of the Gulf of Mexico, it’s the defining factor of these islands. The wind brings the waves, the waves bring the sand. No wind, no islands.

    +

    The wind shapes the land too, controlling what can grow here. Anything that grows out here has to deal with poorly drained soil, endless winding bending it and the occasional large dump of salt water from hurricanes — the wind again. Once you get beyond the dunes, the sea oats, prairie senna, and gulf croton, the island is like one continuous marshy sea of bulrush, cattails, and cordgrass. Hardly anything is taller than my waist.

    +
    + + Marshes, Padre Island National Seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Marshes, Padre Island National Seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It’s a beautiful, if somewhat stark and, yes, windswept. We had warm and sunny though. Cold and rainy too. But if the sun was out, we were on the beach.

    +
    + + Beach, Padre Island National Seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    Beach faeries
    +
    + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    Hey what are you doing? “Playing game where you try to hit the other person with a stick.” Oh, okay. Have fun.
    +
    + +

    The kids had been bugging me to take them fishing for, oh, two years now. A while back I finally got around to buying a fishing pole. Then I read up on surf fishing rigs, since I’ve never fished from the shore1.

    +

    I just bought a one day license since I knew we wouldn’t be in Texas long. Naturally it was the coldest day we’d seen. But, after a suitable lecture on how fishing requires patience, we’re probably not going to catch anything, etc, etc, we tossed the line out. It was out for about two minutes when Lilah announced she’d caught a fish. I didn’t believe her, because seriously, I cast the line, It turned around to arrange my chair and she said she had a fish. No way. But, sure enough. She had a fish. Shows you what I know.

    +
    + + + + fishing, padre island national seashore photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + + + + ocean catfish, padre island national seashore photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    It did rain from time to time, never very hard, but enough to force a break from the beach. Fortunately there’s plenty to do inside bus, like learning to sew. And no, no one gets stir crazy anymore. After our long sickness, when no one went outside for a week, being cooped up inside for one day is nothing.

    +
    + + learning to sew, padre island national seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + learning to sew, padre island national seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + learning to sew, padre island national seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + dinner is served photographed by luxagraf + +
    Dinner is served. This is why it’s so cheap to live in an RV, you just eat sand and rocks.
    +
    + +
    + + Missing teeth photographed by luxagraf + +
    They each lost a tooth on the same day.
    +
    + +

    The weather cooperated nicely to let us see the lunar eclipse, which was a super blue blood moon. Because in astronomy adjectives are cheap apparently. But it was really neat. We all got up early to see it, though the kids were considerably less enthusiastic about 5 AM moon viewing than I thought they would be. Go figure. I thought was pretty amazing to see the moon disappear into the darkness of the earth’s shadow and then turn around and see the sun rising behind us a few minutes later.

    +
    + + Blood, blue moon, Padre Island National Seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    Lunar eclipse in progress.
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    + +
    + + Sunrise, Padre Island National Seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    On a totally unrelated note, several people have asked me for more writing and more photos so I’ve added a couple things to the bottom of this post (and future posts). One is all the animals and plants we see in a given place. Frankly that’s probably overly ambitions, but I’ve been recording the birds I see for quite a while, because I’m nerdy like that, so there’s plenty of birds. In the future you can click on a bird and you might read a story or two about it, but I haven’t had time to add them just yet.

    +

    I also started posting shorter notes, things that were interesting, but don’t fit the narrative of a post. So far they’re mostly about stuff that happens on drives, or things I think about on drives. I call them field notes. They’re not edited and the photos are blurrier, but if you want more luxagraf, there you go. If you’re clever with URLs you can figure out where a full list of notes resides. One of these days maybe I’ll add a menu item for notes, but in the mean time…

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      Like everything else fun, in California you can’t do that. ↩

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    3 Comments

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    + gwen + February 14, 2018 at 6:03 p.m. +
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    Love the lunar eclipse picture.

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    + Bret and Laura + February 24, 2018 at 7:13 p.m. +
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    Absolutely love the entire thing, the restoration of a vintage coach, the experience these wonderful children are getting that is above and beyond an education.

    +

    We met them all at Padre, what a great family. I (Bret) witnessed the fishing experience from a short distance, as I was fishing and getting skunked, and saw it exactly as it unfolded. Too bad as now those kids will think there will always be a fish on the end of the line. Even from afar it played exactly as described above in the post.

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    Wicked good, +Bret and Laura

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    + Scott + February 25, 2018 at 9:15 a.m. +
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    @Bret and Laura-

    +

    Thanks, glad we got to meet you. And yes, they kids are pretty routinely disappointed when we don’t land a fish in the first five minutes or so.

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    Unfortunately we haven’t landed anything since then.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/almost-warm.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/almost-warm.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dfc88a8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/almost-warm.txt @@ -0,0 +1,58 @@ +Almost Warm +=========== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 31 January 2018 + +On some level it's never made sense to me to differentiate between oceans -- they're all connected, there's only one ocean. That said, there are some very different, call them personalities, and ecologies to different oceans, different shores, in different parts of the world. My favorite in these parts is the Gulf of Mexico. + + + +We're a little way from warm, but it sure is nice to have sun and sand at least. If the wind died down it probably would be warm. Not bad for January. + + + + + +If the wind died down though it'd be because we were somewhere else. Wind swept barrier island is a phrase that gets used a lot when you read about the ecology of the Gulf of Mexico, it's the defining factor of these islands. The wind brings the waves, the waves bring the sand. No wind, no islands. + +The wind shapes the land too, controlling what can grow here. Anything that grows out here has to deal with poorly drained soil, endless winding bending it and the occasional large dump of salt water from hurricanes -- the wind again. Once you get beyond the dunes, the sea oats, prairie senna, and gulf croton, the island is like one continuous marshy sea of bulrush, cattails, and cordgrass. Hardly anything is taller than my waist. + + + + +It's a beautiful, if somewhat stark and, yes, windswept. We had warm and sunny though. Cold and rainy too. But if the sun was out, we were on the beach. + + + + +The kids had been bugging me to take them fishing for, oh, two years now. A while back I finally got around to buying a fishing pole. Then I read up on surf fishing rigs, since I've never fished from the shore[^1]. + +I just bought a one day license since I knew we wouldn't be in Texas long. Naturally it was the coldest day we'd seen. But, after a suitable lecture on how fishing requires patience, we're probably not going to catch anything, etc, etc, we tossed the line out. It was out for about two minutes when Lilah announced she'd caught a fish. I didn't believe her, because seriously, I cast the line, It turned around to arrange my chair and she said she had a fish. No way. But, sure enough. She had a fish. Shows you what I know. + +
    + + + + +
    + +It did rain from time to time, never very hard, but enough to force a break from the beach. Fortunately there's plenty to do inside bus, like learning to sew. And no, no one gets stir crazy anymore. After our long sickness, when no one went outside for a week, being cooped up inside for one day is nothing. + + + + + + + +The weather cooperated nicely to let us see the lunar eclipse, which was a super blue blood moon. Because in astronomy adjectives are cheap apparently. But it was really neat. We all got up early to see it, though the kids were considerably less enthusiastic about 5 AM moon viewing than I thought they would be. Go figure. I thought was pretty amazing to see the moon disappear into the darkness of the earth's shadow and then turn around and see the sun rising behind us a few minutes later. + + + + +On a totally unrelated note, several people have asked me for more writing and more photos so I've added a couple things to the bottom of this post (and future posts). One is all the animals and plants we see in a given place. Frankly that's probably overly ambitions, but I've been recording the birds I see for quite a while, because I'm nerdy like that, so there's plenty of birds. In the future you can click on a bird and you might read a story or two about it, but I haven't had time to add them just yet. + +I also started posting shorter notes, things that were interesting, but don't fit the narrative of a post. So far they're mostly about stuff that happens on drives, or things I think about on drives. I call them field notes. They're not edited and the photos are blurrier, but if you want more luxagraf, there you go. If you're clever with URLs you can figure out where a full list of notes resides. One of these days maybe I'll add a menu item for notes, but in the mean time... + +[^1]: Like everything else fun, in California you can't do that. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/eastbound-down.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/eastbound-down.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cf7bafd --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/eastbound-down.html @@ -0,0 +1,540 @@ + + + + + Eastbound & Down - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Eastbound & Down

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    Kerrville, Texas, U.S.

    + – Map +
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    We really loved the southern Arizona desert we’ve called home for the better part of January, but unfortunately the desert gets bitter cold this time of year, too cold for us. We had a choice — head further south, into Mexico, or head east and south, back to the Gulf Coast. We really wanted to go to Mexico, but the Georgia DMV lost our registration papers for the better part of two months and it was looking like they were never going to get to us. No registration, no Mexico1.

    +

    We ended up deciding to head back to what remains one of our favorite places — the southern Gulf Coast.

    +

    We loved the southwest desert, especially the our corners area, but generally most of Utah, Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada and Colorado. If the weather were different we’d have headed north into northern Arizona and southern Utah again. But we go where the weather is warm and so we’re headed back to the south for now.

    +

    While Mexico still has a strong pull on our future, there are few things in this country quite as nice as spring in the south. We’re looking forward to it. Especially because we felt like we had to rush through Louisiana on our way out west.

    +

    It is of course, a long way from here to there. We hit the road for some long driving days across New Mexico and Texas. We rarely do more than 200 miles a day and hardly ever drive back to back days. But from the time we left the Dragoons we covered roughly 1200 miles in five days with only one weekend as a break.

    +
    + + Driving west Texas photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    One night, the day we left the Dragoons, the forecast called for 18 degrees overnight so we got a hotel in Deming NM. I ended up sleeping in the bus anyway and it wasn’t that bad, but we try to err on the side of caution for the kids. From there we went on to Las Cruces, ostensibly for the night, but we knew we wanted to head up to the Guadalupe Mountains and Carlsbad Caverns the next day and that area was having winds in the 60-70 mile and hour range.

    +

    I wanted to see what the bus would be like in those kinds of winds, but Corrinne wasn’t having it. We holed up at a state park outside Las Cruces for the weekend. Even there the wind was bad enough that one day I don’t think we left the bus for more than 20 minutes.

    +
    + + Playground, Leasburg Damn, MN photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Playground, Leasburg Dam, NM photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    When things finally calmed down we hit the road again and made the Guadalupe Mountains only to discover that — despite what the news was saying — the park was closed for the government shutdown. I really didn’t care because I was still so excited the bus had actually made it over Guadalupe Pass without incident that the whole world could have been on fire and I wouldn’t have cared. I made it over the hill damn it.

    +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    Western Texas grassland
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    We ended up camping in a parking lot just down the road for the night, along with a few other rigs in the same situation.

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    + + Camping, Guadalupe Mountains photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + West Texas sunrise photographed by luxagraf + +
    First light over the West Texas plains
    +
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    The next morning the government was back in business so we drove up to Carlsbad Caverns and had the place pretty much to ourselves.

    +
    + + Natural Entrance to Carlsbad Cavern photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Carlsbad Caverns, NM photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Carlsbad was just like Corrinne and I remembered it from our childhoods, with one exception — there’s almost no water in any of the pools now. Turns out the park service was artificially filling those pools the keep visitors enthralled, but at some point it thought better of that and now lets nature run its course, which means very little water.

    +

    It’s a very strange thing to descend 800 feet underground, but what surprised me the most was how quickly the kids became hushed and whispered in the darkness.

    +
    + + Carlsbad Caverns, NM photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + + + Carlsbad Caverns, NM photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Carlsbad Caverns, NM photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +
    + + Carlsbad Caverns, NM photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We spent the morning underground. Part of the reason there was no one in the cave was because the elevator wasn’t working. We’d been told that it would be fixed around 10, but that turned out to not be true. There was about half an hour there where we thought we’d have to hike out. Not the end of the world, but not really what the kids were looking forward to. Just about the time we were going to give up and start hiking out we heard the hiss of elevator doors and we ended up escaping the underworld the easy way. So long Hades, Persephone, Dionysus and all the rest of the vegetation cycle personifications around the world. The underworld is fun to visit, but I wouldn’t want to stay.

    +

    We had a quick bite to eat in the parking lot and then continued on our way. The drive south from Carlsbad to Fort Stockton was the single worst road we’ve driven, and I’ll go ahead and say it’s in the top ten worst roads I’ve driven anywhere in the world. The reason? The fracking industry. This is west Texas, the water table won’t support fracking, so water is trucked in. Hundreds and hundreds of trucks all day every day will absolutely destroy a road. And of course whatever water table was available here is full of chemicals now and, from a human perspective, forever.

    +

    Fracking is bit like burning the furniture to keep the house warm, and all you need to know about the current state of oil in the world is to drive though an area where the old oil pumps are rusted and collapsing and water trucks are rolling by in the steady stream — we’re getting desperate and nothing illustrates that so well as a fracking field. This is the third we’ve driven through and by far the worst.

    +

    After a night in Fort Stockton we continued on toward Kerrville and somewhere on that drive, I can almost pin it down to single climb over a single hill, you’re no longer in the west. You’re also not yet in the east. Nor are you in the Midwest. You’re in something uniquely Texas for a while. By Kerrville though you’re more or less back in the south. I got a little giddy at the grocery store walking the aisle and seeing okra, collards, grits, Duke’s Mayonnaise and all the other things I love about the south.

    +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    That bathroom in the background? Yeah, it’s got soap in it.
    +
    + +

    Westerners and Northerners always look at me funny when I say the south is my favorite part of America. Doubly so when they find out I actually grew up in Los Angeles. Whatever the case, it’s good to be back in the south. And yes, there’s more to it than a few foods that I’ve come to love. For example southern campgrounds put soap in the bathrooms, you really need to look into this westerners.

    +

    To be totally honest I’ve never been able to put my finger on exactly what it is I love about the south beyond saying that the people are kinder, more open, and friendlier. If you want to be left alone and never have to talk to anyone at the grocery store, head to the west. If you prefer to engage with your fellow spaceship travelers you’ll have a more rewarding time of it in the south.

    +

    Sometimes this gets called “southern politeness”, but I dislike that term. I prefer kindness. What I mean by that is that you say hello to people when you can, yes, strangers. You hold the door for them if you can, you pause to let them go first, you wait for them when they walk and you’re in a car, you respect them and treat them as people even if you don’t like them at all. This last point is especially important. Even if you thoroughly dislike someone, perhaps especially if you thoroughly dislike them, you still treat them with respect, you treat them as if you loved them.

    +

    The reason I prefer to term kindness is that the whole politeness thing gets obsessed over by northerners and westerners who think it’s somehow quaint and charming. It’s neither. It’s much simpler than that. It’s something that used to be called common decency, which you would extend to anyone — anyone with whom you have an I-you relationship. That is, anyone you consider a “person”. When people get rude and people get dangerous it’s because they have convinced themselves that you are an “it” not a “you”2.

    +

    That’s why I don’t like the term polite. In fact even the term kindness should be unnecessary. I would prefer to call the kindness nothing at all and instead define northern and western behavior what it is — coarse and rude.

    +

    One thing we’ve painfully noticed in 8000 miles of travel around the U.S. is that the lack of respect, the lack the treating the world around you and what’s in it as equals, is a huge part of so many of the problems our country is having just now. When you deal with the world outside yourself as a collection of “its” things have a way of turning ugly rather quickly.

    +

    There are, in my experience, more people with more “yous” in their lives in the south than elsewhere.

    +

    This is part of why, despite the economic strife, lingering racial prejudices, and the arrogant dismissal of the rest of the nation, southerners remain a generally happier, friendlier bunch than most. And of course it’s doubly impressive when you consider that there are more differences among people in the south than in much the rest of the country.

    +

    That’s not to say the south doesn’t have terrible people or is somehow a paradise. It’s flawed like everything else. It’s a mess too, but the people in it have at least retain the ability to go about the daily lives with a certain grace, dignity, and kindness that I find missing elsewhere. I should also probably say that, by the same token, we’ve met very nice, kind people in the west and are glad to call many of them friends at this point.

    +

    One of the interesting outgrowths of leaving the south has been discovering that southern culture extends beyond its borders. I can’t tell you how many people have come up to us to talk because they saw our license plate. We’ve met Georgians, Carolinians, Louisianans, Alabamans and others who wanted to talk simply because we were also from the south, because they knew we would talk, because they knew we would treat them with respect, and perhaps because there is an unwritten understanding among those from the south that we must stick together in the face of the unkindness that has engulfed the rest of the nation.

    +

    Truth be told I feel like, unfortunately, many of the things I like about the south — nebulous and difficult to define though they may be — are fast disappearing. They seem already gone in many larger cities, except perhaps New Orleans, but New Orleans is really it’s own thing, not exactly part of the south.

    +

    Still, if you stick to the small towns, particularly those lining the gulf of Mexico, the further out from the interstate and cities the better, you can still find some of the south Henry Miller describes in his 1939 drive across America.

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    For the foreseeable future, that’s our plan — visit the small towns, the backwaters, the places in the south that time forgot so to speak.

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      Our registration eventually showed up and got to us in Tucson, but by then we’d already made reservations all along the Gulf Coast (the one downside of the Gulf is that you can’t just show up and expect to get a campsite in most places). ↩

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      I’m borrowing those terms from philosopher Martin Buber because I think they work quite well, so long as you keep in mind that all dualities are concealing a third possibility. ↩

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    4 Comments

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    + Linda Norman + February 09, 2018 at 6:45 a.m. +
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    We found San Miguel to be very much like the south. One of the reasons we loved it.

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    + Patsy Wall + February 09, 2018 at 8:36 a.m. +
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    Good read, glad you guys are headed back south!

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    + gwen + February 14, 2018 at 6:00 p.m. +
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    I agree that the South is a more friendly place. Lovely reflections on the importance of treating people with respect. I appreciated the reference to Buber, though I prefer his use of thou, as it better suggests to me the sacredness of human beings.

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    + Scott + February 17, 2018 at 7:54 a.m. +
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    @Gwen-

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    I can see what you’re saying, but I think Thou ends up awkward and distracting for modern readers, especially relatively out of context like it would be here. The translation I read of Buber used Thou though.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/eastbound-down.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/eastbound-down.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7e4c85a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/eastbound-down.txt @@ -0,0 +1,95 @@ +Eastbound & Down +================ + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 24 January 2018 + +We really loved the southern Arizona desert we've called home for the better part of January, but unfortunately the desert gets bitter cold this time of year, too cold for us. We had a choice -- head further south, into Mexico, or head east and south, back to the Gulf Coast. We really wanted to go to Mexico, but the Georgia DMV lost our registration papers for the better part of two months and it was looking like they were never going to get to us. No registration, no Mexico[^1]. + +We ended up deciding to head back to what remains one of our favorite places -- the southern Gulf Coast. + +We loved the southwest desert, especially the our corners area, but generally most of Utah, Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada and Colorado. If the weather were different we'd have headed north into northern Arizona and southern Utah again. But we go where the weather is warm and so we're headed back to the south for now. + +While Mexico still has a strong pull on our future, there are few things in this country quite as nice as spring in the south. We're looking forward to it. Especially because we felt like we had to rush through Louisiana on our way out west. + +It is of course, a long way from here to there. We hit the road for some long driving days across New Mexico and Texas. We rarely do more than 200 miles a day and hardly ever drive back to back days. But from the time we left the Dragoons we covered roughly 1200 miles in five days with only one weekend as a break. + + + +One night, the day we left the Dragoons, the forecast called for 18 degrees overnight so we got a hotel in Deming NM. I ended up sleeping in the bus anyway and it wasn't that bad, but we try to err on the side of caution for the kids. From there we went on to Las Cruces, ostensibly for the night, but we knew we wanted to head up to the Guadalupe Mountains and Carlsbad Caverns the next day and that area was having winds in the 60-70 mile and hour range. + +I wanted to see what the bus would be like in those kinds of winds, but Corrinne wasn't having it. We holed up at a state park outside Las Cruces for the weekend. Even there the wind was bad enough that one day I don't think we left the bus for more than 20 minutes. + + + + +When things finally calmed down we hit the road again and made the Guadalupe Mountains only to discover that -- despite what the news was saying -- the park was closed for the government shutdown. I really didn't care because I was still so excited the bus had actually made it over Guadalupe Pass without incident that the whole world could have been on fire and I wouldn't have cared. I made it over the hill damn it. + + + +We ended up camping in a parking lot just down the road for the night, along with a few other rigs in the same situation. + + + + +The next morning the government was back in business so we drove up to Carlsbad Caverns and had the place pretty much to ourselves. + + + + +Carlsbad was just like Corrinne and I remembered it from our childhoods, with one exception -- there's almost no water in any of the pools now. Turns out the park service was artificially filling those pools the keep visitors enthralled, but at some point it thought better of that and now lets nature run its course, which means very little water. + +It's a very strange thing to descend 800 feet underground, but what surprised me the most was how quickly the kids became hushed and whispered in the darkness. + + + + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + +We spent the morning underground. Part of the reason there was no one in the cave was because the elevator wasn't working. We'd been told that it would be fixed around 10, but that turned out to not be true. There was about half an hour there where we thought we'd have to hike out. Not the end of the world, but not really what the kids were looking forward to. Just about the time we were going to give up and start hiking out we heard the hiss of elevator doors and we ended up escaping the underworld the easy way. So long Hades, Persephone, Dionysus and all the rest of the vegetation cycle personifications around the world. The underworld is fun to visit, but I wouldn't want to stay. + +We had a quick bite to eat in the parking lot and then continued on our way. The drive south from Carlsbad to Fort Stockton was the single worst road we've driven, and I'll go ahead and say it's in the top ten worst roads I've driven anywhere in the world. The reason? The fracking industry. This is west Texas, the water table won't support fracking, so water is trucked in. Hundreds and hundreds of trucks all day every day will absolutely destroy a road. And of course whatever water table was available here is full of chemicals now and, from a human perspective, forever. + +Fracking is bit like burning the furniture to keep the house warm, and all you need to know about the current state of oil in the world is to drive though an area where the old oil pumps are rusted and collapsing and water trucks are rolling by in the steady stream -- we're getting desperate and nothing illustrates that so well as a fracking field. This is the third we've driven through and by far the worst. + +After a night in Fort Stockton we continued on toward Kerrville and somewhere on that drive, I can almost pin it down to single climb over a single hill, you're no longer in the west. You're also not yet in the east. Nor are you in the Midwest. You're in something uniquely Texas for a while. By Kerrville though you're more or less back in the south. I got a little giddy at the grocery store walking the aisle and seeing okra, collards, grits, Duke's Mayonnaise and all the other things I love about the south. + + + +Westerners and Northerners always look at me funny when I say the south is my favorite part of America. Doubly so when they find out I actually grew up in Los Angeles. Whatever the case, it's good to be back in the south. And yes, there's more to it than a few foods that I've come to love. For example southern campgrounds put soap in the bathrooms, you really need to look into this westerners. + +To be totally honest I've never been able to put my finger on exactly what it is I love about the south beyond saying that the people are kinder, more open, and friendlier. If you want to be left alone and never have to talk to anyone at the grocery store, head to the west. If you prefer to engage with your fellow spaceship travelers you'll have a more rewarding time of it in the south. + +Sometimes this gets called "southern politeness", but I dislike that term. I prefer kindness. What I mean by that is that you say hello to people when you can, yes, strangers. You hold the door for them if you can, you pause to let them go first, you wait for them when they walk and you're in a car, you respect them and treat them as people even if you don't like them at all. This last point is especially important. Even if you thoroughly dislike someone, perhaps especially if you thoroughly dislike them, you still treat them with respect, you treat them as if you loved them. + +The reason I prefer to term kindness is that the whole politeness thing gets obsessed over by northerners and westerners who think it's somehow quaint and charming. It's neither. It's much simpler than that. It's something that used to be called common decency, which you would extend to anyone -- anyone with whom you have an I-you relationship. That is, anyone you consider a "person". When people get rude and people get dangerous it's because they have convinced themselves that you are an "it" not a "you"[^2]. + +That's why I don't like the term polite. In fact even the term kindness should be unnecessary. I would prefer to call the kindness nothing at all and instead define northern and western behavior what it is -- coarse and rude. + +One thing we've painfully noticed in 8000 miles of travel around the U.S. is that the lack of respect, the lack the treating the world around you and what's in it as equals, is a huge part of so many of the problems our country is having just now. When you deal with the world outside yourself as a collection of "its" things have a way of turning ugly rather quickly. + +There are, in my experience, more people with more "yous" in their lives in the south than elsewhere. + +This is part of why, despite the economic strife, lingering racial prejudices, and the arrogant dismissal of the rest of the nation, southerners remain a generally happier, friendlier bunch than most. And of course it's doubly impressive when you consider that there are more differences among people in the south than in much the rest of the country. + +That's not to say the south doesn't have terrible people or is somehow a paradise. It's flawed like everything else. It's a mess too, but the people in it have at least retain the ability to go about the daily lives with a certain grace, dignity, and kindness that I find missing elsewhere. I should also probably say that, by the same token, we've met very nice, kind people in the west and are glad to call many of them friends at this point. + +One of the interesting outgrowths of leaving the south has been discovering that southern culture extends beyond its borders. I can't tell you how many people have come up to us to talk because they saw our license plate. We've met Georgians, Carolinians, Louisianans, Alabamans and others who wanted to talk simply because we were also from the south, because they knew we would talk, because they knew we would treat them with respect, and perhaps because there is an unwritten understanding among those from the south that we must stick together in the face of the unkindness that has engulfed the rest of the nation. + +Truth be told I feel like, unfortunately, many of the things I like about the south -- nebulous and difficult to define though they may be -- are fast disappearing. They seem already gone in many larger cities, except perhaps New Orleans, but New Orleans is really it's own thing, not exactly part of the south. + +Still, if you stick to the small towns, particularly those lining the gulf of Mexico, the further out from the interstate and cities the better, you can still find some of the south Henry Miller describes in his 1939 drive across America. + +For the foreseeable future, that's our plan -- visit the small towns, the backwaters, the places in the south that time forgot so to speak. + +[^1]: Our registration eventually showed up and got to us in Tucson, but by then we'd already made reservations all along the Gulf Coast (the one downside of the Gulf is that you can't just show up and expect to get a campsite in most places). +[^2]: I'm borrowing those terms from philosopher Martin Buber because I think they work quite well, so long as you keep in mind that all dualities are concealing a third possibility. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/escaping-california.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/escaping-california.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..173beaf --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/escaping-california.html @@ -0,0 +1,454 @@ + + + + + Escaping California - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Escaping California

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    Painted Rocks Petroglyph Area, Arizona, U.S.

    + – Map +
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    There might have been a good bit of cheering in the bus as we crossed over the Colorado River, out of California and into Arizona.

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    + + Welcome to Arizona Sign photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    California wore us down. It’s not a place we like. As my daughter put it, neatly summing up some nebulous feelings I was struggling to describe — everything is dead in California, there’s no flowers or butterflies, I love flowers and butterflies.

    +
    + + Colorado River photographed by luxagraf + +
    Flowers and butterflies all live right over there in Arizona, where everything is alive. This scene actually reminded me of crossing the river at Huey Xui, Laos, something about the light, the shape of the river, the plants, I don’t know, but for a minute I thought I was back in SEAsia.
    +
    + +

    I actually wrote 2,500 words on what I don’t like about California, but I deleted it in favor of this. I prefer to focus on the positive — California and all the problems we encountered there… it’s all in the rearview mirror now.

    +

    We got the bus back just before Christmas. We’d only been back in it for a day when we all came down with the flu. All five of us similtaneously. That’s never happened before and it was every bit as miserable as it sounds. Luckily we were able to hole up at a campground in Victorville and wait it out. When we pulled in I figured we’d be stuck for the weekend. It was two weeks before we pulled out. A rather miserable two weeks I might add, I didn’t take a single picture Christmas morning, I’m not even sure I was out of bed for more than an hour. It was not fun.

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    + + stuck in the bus, sick photographed by luxagraf + +
    This is around day 4 stuck inside, lots of movies, but everyone was still going a little crazy.
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    + +

    After about a week we finally ventured outside again. The kids road their bikes a bit, had epic coughing fits and then rode some more. There’s nothing quite like that first day outside after a bad illness.

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    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + mojave narrows regional park photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    By New Year’s Day we were feeling well enough to get our proper New Year’s meal together. Or sort of together. Collards are hard to come by out here so we settled for Kale, closest we could find in this desolate, dreary part of the world.

    +
    + + New year's day. photographed by luxagraf + +
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    When we finally did get back on the road the bus purred across the desert and even the kids hardly raised a complaint when we did back to back five hour drives. They were just happy to be out of California. It’s warmer down here too, a little anyway. Warm enough to get back to our usual stuff, sitting around campfires, walking around looking at petrogylphs and digging in the dirt.

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    + + campfire photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Petroglyphs, Painted Rocks BLM area photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Petroglyphs, Painted Rocks BLM area photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + playing in the dirt. photographed by luxagraf + +
    Drawing their own petroglyphs.
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    It’s good to be back on the road, it’s good to be home.

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    2 Comments

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    + Denise Meyers + March 11, 2018 at 4:22 p.m. +
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    I swell with pride every time I read one of your posts. I feel like I am there with you, that I can’t believe I got to be a conduit between your dream, the Travco, and life on the road with your children, that, even when the chips are down, you find a way to overcome, that you didn’t just say you wanted to do this, you did it, and watching your family grow through these posts always brings me to tears, but in a good way. You are my hero.

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    + Scott + March 14, 2018 at 9:25 a.m. +
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    @Denise-

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    That’s a very nice thing to say, thank you. Glad you’re still following along. The bus is still going, sometimes it amazes even me.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/escaping-california.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/escaping-california.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..576b76e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/escaping-california.txt @@ -0,0 +1,38 @@ +Escaping California +=================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Friday, 05 January 2018 + +There might have been a good bit of cheering in the bus as we crossed over the Colorado River, out of California and into Arizona. + + + +California wore us down. It's not a place we like. As my daughter put it, neatly summing up some nebulous feelings I was struggling to describe -- *everything is dead in California, there's no flowers or butterflies, I love flowers and butterflies*. + + + +I actually wrote 2,500 words on what I don't like about California, but I deleted it in favor of this. I prefer to focus on the positive -- California and all the problems we encountered there... it's all in the rearview mirror now. + +We got the bus back just before Christmas. We'd only been back in it for a day when we all came down with the flu. All five of us similtaneously. That's never happened before and it was every bit as miserable as it sounds. Luckily we were able to hole up at a campground in Victorville and wait it out. When we pulled in I figured we'd be stuck for the weekend. It was two weeks before we pulled out. A rather miserable two weeks I might add, I didn't take a single picture Christmas morning, I'm not even sure I was out of bed for more than an hour. It was not fun. + + + +After about a week we finally ventured outside again. The kids road their bikes a bit, had epic coughing fits and then rode some more. There's nothing quite like that first day outside after a bad illness. + + + + +By New Year's Day we were feeling well enough to get our proper New Year's meal together. Or sort of together. Collards are hard to come by out here so we settled for Kale, closest we could find in this desolate, dreary part of the world. + + + +When we finally did get back on the road the bus purred across the desert and even the kids hardly raised a complaint when we did back to back five hour drives. They were just happy to be out of California. It's warmer down here too, a little anyway. Warm enough to get back to our usual stuff, sitting around campfires, walking around looking at petrogylphs and digging in the dirt. + + + + + + +It's good to be back on the road, it's good to be home. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/ghost-cochise.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/ghost-cochise.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7fbdce6 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/ghost-cochise.html @@ -0,0 +1,524 @@ + + + + + The Ghost Of Cochise - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    The Ghost of Cochise

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    Dragoon Mountains, Arizona, U.S.

    + – Map +
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    Juncos flit from the roadside, the conspicous flash of white tail feathers disappearing into the cover of brush as the bus engine approaches. The tires crunch and rumble as we creep over the moderately — by Arizona standards — washboard road. The road winds its way through dry desert grassland, interspersed with yucca and thorny mesquite trees, up into the foothills of the Dragoon Mountains where Arizona Oaks and Alligator Juniper cluster around the dry river beds and on up the rocky slopes of the mountains.

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    + + hiking, dragoon mountains, AZ photographed by luxagraf + +
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    I’ve been into Dragoon Mountains several times, from both the east and west side. The west is my favorite, but that road is far too rough for both the big blue bus and the Volvo. Both sides have access to the same central cluster of rock gardens and peaks in the middle, but the east is home to Cochise Stronghold, the place where Chihuicahui leader Cochise lived, later hid and eventually died and was buried.

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    By all accounts this is where Cochise loved to be and I happen to believe Cochise still wanders this place.

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    + + yucca, cochise stronghold photographed by luxagraf + +
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    Every time I’ve been here odd things have happened. I have seen strange shapes in the shadows, heard whispers whipping through the wind, and found some downright hard to explain things. If I were of the scientific-materialist type I’d have a really hard time reconciling my experiences in the Dragoons with my worldview. Whatever the case, there is something here. As happens with some places, there is something more here than is elsewhere. Call it what you will.

    +

    Our plan was to boondock a few nights at some spots on the way into Cochise Stronghold, but they ended up being already occupied by the time we go there, late afternoon on a Friday. We continued up the road and snagged a spot in the campground proper, which is a little densely packed, but it isn’t too bad. The cold drove most people away in short order anyway.

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    + + campsite, cochise stronghold photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Just one more chip photographed by luxagraf + +
    “Just one more chip, then we go.”
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    + + Playing in the sand, cochise stronghold photographed by luxagraf + +
    Dry riverbed are the best sandboxes.
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    And it was cold, down near freezing nearly every night and well below it for a couple of them. We have a propane heater that we use to take the edge of morning, but during the night all we can do is pile on the blankets. Fortunately we have a lot of blankets.

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    During the day the temperatures were nice, great for hiking. We trekked up above the stronghold area into the canyons and passes.

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    + + hiking, dragoon mountains, AZ photographed by luxagraf + +
    Snack break with a view.
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    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + hiking, dragoon mountains, AZ photographed by luxagraf + +
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    Aligator Junipers are well named.
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    It’s hard to walk in this place though without thinking of the Chiricahua.

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    As with most of American history, learning about what happened to Cochise and the Chihuicahui-Chiricahua makes for a dismal read. The United States suffered heavy losses every time it engaged with the Chiricahua, and eventually managed to capture leaders only by resorting the lying and murder under white flags.

    +

    Cochise was once almost captured for a crime he didn’t commit, but he slashed his way out of an Army tent and escaped. The Army held some of his relatives though and later killed them, which marked the beginning of what would best be called relentless guerrilla warfare, which Cochise kept up for 11 years, reducing, as Dan Thrapp puts it, “most of the Mexican/American settlements in southern Arizona to a burned-out wasteland”. Thrapp estimates the total death toll of settlers and travelers in the region may have reached 5,000, but that’s apparently a controversial figure.

    +

    Cochise was never captured or defeated by the U.S Army. In 1872 the Army negotiated a treaty granting Cochise and his band some land here in the Dragoons. That land was later taken away, but Cochise died of natural causes before that happened. Geronimo continued to fight long after Cochise had moved on from the obvious parts this world.

    +

    The less obvious, who knows.

    +

    We decided to move on when the temperatures in the area threaten to drop below 20 degrees. We wanted to get over to the Chiricahua Mountains, but they were even colder at the time so we decided it was time to hit the road again, bound for warmer climes.

    +
    + + earth fissures possible photographed by luxagraf + +
    On the drive out we went by a couple of these signs. I’m still trying to figure out what they’re referring to. Perhaps out here the earth just opens up and reclaims its own.
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    4 Comments

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    + Catherine Carter + April 06, 2019 at 6:32 p.m. +
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    In 1984 my family and I,in July that year came to camp in Cochise’s stronghold campground. I remember the long trek of a drive on gravel road,approx 10 Mike’s in thru thicket of sorts. We arrived at mid afternoon, and had a late picnic lunch after paying the drop in a envelope $5 to stay overnight. There were no other campers. After lunch I alone, as my two children and husband were resting in our rv I, alone preceded to clean food items,etc from outside table. To the sites right I remember the dry creek bed, that day. As I looked up I saw the ghost of a man,approx 25 to30yrs of age, all dressed in the most magnificent native American dress. Beautiful white feathered headdress the length of his body. He stood out in the dry creek bed and never moved, just looking at me. In questioning myself on what I was seeing, I twice thereafter took about 5seconds looking down, before again looking up again at him. The second time in doing so he was gone. I have never forgotten that of which I experienced there, due mostly because of the beautiful snow white native attire, he wore. Do I believe I was lucky to have seen the spirit of Cochise, in a prime year of age? Oh yes, I do believe it was his spirit. That stronghold campground,former home of his tribe, does put across a spiritual peace, about it.

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    + Scott + April 11, 2019 at 1:10 p.m. +
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    Catherine-

    +

    Great story, thank you for sharing. What I’ve seen out here was similar, though different in some aspects as well. Interesting to me, I’ve main had these experiences on the west side, once in about 92 or so and again in 96.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Niki + July 21, 2019 at 5:15 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    My aunt owns land on the ranch near the camp site and has access to the dragoon mountains. We went up to see the ancient Native American cave paintings and I saw a dark/black figure jump behind a large boulder, looked like it was in Native American dress due to the length of the outfit around its legs. It was however like a black shadow, but standing up like a human not on the ground.

    +

    I got back to her adobe house and looked at my photos on my DSLR, I caught two orbs following my aunt down as we were going back ( past the boulder where I definitely saw the shadow 40 seconds after taking the photo ) I took two in immediate succession and it follows her and I do not move.

    +

    Just after I see the shadow a snake crosses our path.

    +

    Was it warning us of the snake or was is doing something more malicious ?

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + July 24, 2019 at 8:34 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Niki-

    +

    Fascinating, thank you for sharing. I’d love to see those photos if you have them.

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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/ghost-cochise.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/ghost-cochise.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b1b9d14 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/ghost-cochise.txt @@ -0,0 +1,48 @@ +The Ghost of Cochise +==================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 17 January 2018 + +Juncos flit from the roadside, the conspicous flash of white tail feathers disappearing into the cover of brush as the bus engine approaches. The tires crunch and rumble as we creep over the moderately -- by Arizona standards -- washboard road. The road winds its way through dry desert grassland, interspersed with yucca and thorny mesquite trees, up into the foothills of the Dragoon Mountains where Arizona Oaks and Alligator Juniper cluster around the dry river beds and on up the rocky slopes of the mountains. + + + +I've been into Dragoon Mountains several times, from both the east and west side. The west is my favorite, but that road is far too rough for both the big blue bus and the Volvo. Both sides have access to the same central cluster of rock gardens and peaks in the middle, but the east is home to Cochise Stronghold, the place where Chihuicahui leader Cochise lived, later hid and eventually died and was buried. + +By all accounts this is where Cochise loved to be and I happen to believe Cochise still wanders this place. + + + +Every time I've been here odd things have happened. I have seen strange shapes in the shadows, heard whispers whipping through the wind, and found some downright hard to explain things. If I were of the scientific-materialist type I'd have a really hard time reconciling my experiences in the Dragoons with my worldview. Whatever the case, there is something here. As happens with some places, there is something more here than is elsewhere. Call it what you will. + +Our plan was to boondock a few nights at some spots on the way into Cochise Stronghold, but they ended up being already occupied by the time we go there, late afternoon on a Friday. We continued up the road and snagged a spot in the campground proper, which is a little densely packed, but it isn't too bad. The cold drove most people away in short order anyway. + + + + + + +And it was cold, down near freezing nearly every night and well below it for a couple of them. We have a propane heater that we use to take the edge of morning, but during the night all we can do is pile on the blankets. Fortunately we have a lot of blankets. + +During the day the temperatures were nice, great for hiking. We trekked up above the stronghold area into the canyons and passes. + + + + + + +It's hard to walk in this place though without thinking of the Chiricahua. + +As with most of American history, learning about what happened to Cochise and the Chihuicahui-Chiricahua makes for a dismal read. The United States suffered heavy losses every time it engaged with the Chiricahua, and eventually managed to capture leaders only by resorting the lying and murder under white flags. + +Cochise was once almost captured for a crime he didn't commit, but he slashed his way out of an Army tent and escaped. The Army held some of his relatives though and later killed them, which marked the beginning of what would best be called relentless guerrilla warfare, which Cochise kept up for 11 years, reducing, as Dan Thrapp [puts it](https://openlibrary.org/works/OL3749289W/Conquest_of_Apacheria_(Civilization_of_American_Indian)), "most of the Mexican/American settlements in southern Arizona to a burned-out wasteland". Thrapp estimates the total death toll of settlers and travelers in the region may have reached 5,000, but that's apparently a controversial figure. + +Cochise was never captured or defeated by the U.S Army. In 1872 the Army negotiated a treaty granting Cochise and his band some land here in the Dragoons. That land was later taken away, but Cochise died of natural causes before that happened. Geronimo continued to fight long after Cochise had moved on from the obvious parts this world. + +The less obvious, who knows. + +We decided to move on when the temperatures in the area threaten to drop below 20 degrees. We wanted to get over to the Chiricahua Mountains, but they were even colder at the time so we decided it was time to hit the road again, bound for warmer climes. + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3fef4ec --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,116 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
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    +

    Archive: January 2018

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    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/long-errand.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/long-errand.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..21b4e26 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/long-errand.html @@ -0,0 +1,371 @@ + + + + + A Long Errand - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    A Long Errand

    + +
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    +

    Catalina State Park, Arizona, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    While we were in Tucson Corrinne and the kids stayed with the bus while I grabbed a flight up to Reno where I met my uncle and we drove back down to his house to pick up our new dinghy — a 1983 Volvo 240 wagon. It’s the best car we’ve ever owned.

    +
    + + 1983 Volvo 240 wagon, white photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    For five months of this trip we had a second vehicle. For five months we were all together in the bus. There are things we liked about each. We liked being altogether in the bus, but it’s nice to explore areas nearby without having to pack up the bus.

    +

    What would be the best of both worlds would be to tow something behind the bus, but the bus engine just isn’t capable of towing anything that we’d want to drive. Yes, we’re picky about vehicles.

    +

    When we were at my uncle’s house last year we spied the 240 wagon sitting in the weeds behind the house. We got to talking about and eventually came up with a way to fix it up without having to spend too much time in the Nevada winter.

    +

    A couple months later I got on a plane — despite swearing I would never fly again — and now I have two projects to work on.

    +

    The Volvo project got under way on the way back from Reno. The thermostat started sticking somewhere on the way there, so it was a slow drive back, waiting for the car to cool down every 20 miles or so. A little overheating didn’t bother me much comsidering we raised the Volvo from the dead — it had been setting for five years. With a little TLC, some new fluids and basic parts it was running well, all things considered, thanks to Thomas and Ron for all the hard work.

    +

    That afternoon my uncle and I put in a new thermostat and ordered a water pump since it was leaking as well. The next morning we put in the water pump and, after a couple test drives, I hit the road for Tucson. It ran a little hot the whole way, but the temperature was stable.

    +
    + + The open road photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Clown Motel, tonopah, nv photographed by luxagraf + +
    On the drive back from my uncle’s house I got to see one thing we missed. Sadly, not nearly as creepy as it should be.
    +
    + +

    I drove straight through to just outside Phoenix where I stopped at a BLM campground and slept a few hours before driving the rest of the way to Catalina State Park.

    +

    In all I was gone two days, the longest I’ve been apart from Corrinne or the kids since they were born. The car still needs some work, mostly cosmetic and body stuff, at some point we’ll probably give it a new coat of paint, but for something that spent five years in the weeds, it runs beautifully. Thanks again Ron and Teresa.

    +
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    + + + +
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/long-errand.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/long-errand.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..13be271 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/long-errand.txt @@ -0,0 +1,30 @@ +A Long Errand +============= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 15 January 2018 + +While we were in Tucson Corrinne and the kids stayed with the bus while I grabbed a flight up to Reno where I met my uncle and we drove back down to his house to pick up our new dinghy -- a 1983 Volvo 240 wagon. It's the best car we've ever owned. + + + +For five months of this trip we had a second vehicle. For five months we were all together in the bus. There are things we liked about each. We liked being altogether in the bus, but it's nice to explore areas nearby without having to pack up the bus. + +What would be the best of both worlds would be to tow something behind the bus, but the bus engine just isn't capable of towing anything that we'd want to drive. Yes, we're picky about vehicles. + +When we were at my uncle's house last year we spied the 240 wagon sitting in the weeds behind the house. We got to talking about and eventually came up with a way to fix it up without having to spend too much time in the Nevada winter. + +A couple months later I got on a plane -- despite swearing I would never fly again -- and now I have two projects to work on. + +The Volvo project got under way on the way back from Reno. The thermostat started sticking somewhere on the way there, so it was a slow drive back, waiting for the car to cool down every 20 miles or so. A little overheating didn't bother me much comsidering we raised the Volvo from the dead -- it had been setting for five years. With a little TLC, some new fluids and basic parts it was running well, all things considered, thanks to Thomas and Ron for all the hard work. + +That afternoon my uncle and I put in a new thermostat and ordered a water pump since it was leaking as well. The next morning we put in the water pump and, after a couple test drives, I hit the road for Tucson. It ran a little hot the whole way, but the temperature was stable. + + + + + +I drove straight through to just outside Phoenix where I stopped at a BLM campground and slept a few hours before driving the rest of the way to Catalina State Park. + +In all I was gone two days, the longest I've been apart from Corrinne or the kids since they were born. The car still needs some work, mostly cosmetic and body stuff, at some point we'll probably give it a new coat of paint, but for something that spent five years in the weeds, it runs beautifully. Thanks again Ron and Teresa. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/youre-all-i-need-get.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/youre-all-i-need-get.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..623f6fe --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/youre-all-i-need-get.html @@ -0,0 +1,529 @@ + + + + + You’re All I Need To Get By - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    You’re All I Need to Get By

    + +
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    +

    Catalina State Park, Arizona, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    It was good to get back into the desert, into wide open wild spaces. It’s worth remembering that Nature is everywhere, even downtown Manhattan, there is in fact nothing but Nature. That said, it’s undeniably nicer for those of us who enjoy them, to be in less inhabited, vast tracts of wild, which is exactly what we had outside of Gila Bend, AZ.

    +

    We spent the weekend out in the wild, getting back into our groove, which had been thrown off considerably by California. I worked the mornings, and sat around playing with the kids in the afternoon. We had fires, we stared up at the milky way. We did very little other than relax and slow down the pace of life.

    +
    + + + Sunrise, Painted Rocks BLM area photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + milky way, Painted Rocks BLM area photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + night sky, Painted Rocks BLM area photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + Painted Rocks BLM area photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Painted Rocks BLM area photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    The pace of life in California is so dissimilar to how we live that it produces this background tension in me, like static on the radio that you barely hear, but is there when you listen for it. I know it sounds crazy, but I can’t explain what a weight was lifted from my shoulders when we drove out of California. It’s like being free again, like I imagine that first breath of air would be if you were trapped under an icy lake.

    +

    When Monday rolled around we drove into Tucson to visit some family, run some errands, one particularly long errand that I’m saving for the next post, and provision ourselves for some extended time out in the wild and on the road.

    +
    + + Sunset, catalina state park, tucson photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + catalina foothills, catalina state park, tucson photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We re-grouped and re-stocked. And of course enjoyed ourselves as best we could amidst the traffic and jumble of consumer experiences that constitutes modern city life.

    +

    One of the interesting things about living in a self-contained RV, camping mostly out in relatively remote natural areas, is that we have very little need of the sort of consumer experiences that make up modern American life. We very seldom buy things. We’re very seldom in places where there are in fact things to buy. We don’t have a house to buy stuff for, which eliminates a huge amount of shopping. We very seldom buy new clothes. We very seldom go to restaurants. The last time I went to a bar Big Papi was still on the Red Sox. All of which is to say we very seldom have consumer experiences anymore.

    +

    Once you stop shuffling around the retail world for a while doing so becomes much more horribly tedious than it ever seemed when I did it regularly. I can feel the hours of my life slipping away at stoplights in strange cities. I can watch the strange packages of things we call food rotting away as I wait in line at the supermarket. I stare at retail endcaps for far to long trying to workout why in the world I would want any of this stuff. In fact I walk around stores in a kind of stupor, working out in my head different ways we might be able to run errands even less than we already do. I find myself in line thinking surely the freezer and icebox could hold enough food for 10 days instead of 7? Perhaps I should start fishing along way to supplement the freezer? Is there a farmer’s market near camp? Maybe we can forage for veggies?

    +

    Those things are fun to contemplate, but the biggest way to avoid spending your days running errands is to embrace a very simple philosophy: If you don’t have it, you don’t need it.

    +

    Out of garlic? It’ll still taste okay. Nozzle of your hose broken? Water still comes out, you’ll get by. Radiator overflow tank blow a hole? By pass it with produce bag twist ties, an old spark plug and some bent hoses. Back on the road. Just find a way to make it work. In almost every case you can think of, you have a choice, you can use some ingenuity and find a way to make things work with what you have, or you can get in your car and go shopping. Choose wisely.

    +

    Don’t feel bad if you’re the shopping type. There’s nothing wrong with that, sometimes you have to. Out of salt? Yeah it’s probably not going to taste very good. Hose leaking non-potable water all over the place? Yeah that’s probably not good. Radiator hose has an actual hole? Well, that might still be fixable. You’d be amazed how long an engine will run with duct tape on a hose. Trust me.

    +

    But the extremely poor quality of goods these days means you’ll be doing fair bit of shopping even if your ingenuity is in overdrive. Still, before you grab your keys, always sit down for a bit, take stock of what you have and try to figure out how you could make things work with what you have rather than heading straight to the store.

    +

    In Tucson we had to run the sorts of errands there’s no getting out of, stocking up on food, picking up the bus registration which was “overnighted” to us (it took three days to get to us “overnight”, thanks USPS), getting medications, and one more big one that I’m just going to keep teasing you with again.

    +

    We also set aside an afternoon to catch up with some my extended family who live around here, including my great aunt who just turned 95. If you want to bend your brain a bit sit down next to 95 year old and watch a couple five year olds run around and contemplate everything that’s changed in those 90 intervening years. It’ll split your head open. I got caught up thinking about the speed of movement that’s changed in the last 90 years. In 1927 the car was still a thing that went about 40 MPH over rutted dirt roads. To start the engine you got out, opened the engine and cranked it with a long metal rod. Of course if you’re me you still start your bus by opening the engine and lifting the choke flap with your finger, so maybe less has changed than I think. In some cases anyway. Whatever the case, happy birthday Marge, hope you liked the burgers.

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    6 Comments

    + + + + + + +
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    + +
    + classical_liberal + January 19, 2018 at 1:24 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Good to see you & yours back at it!!

    +

    I took the month of February off work and planning a two - three week, car-camp road trip from arctic Midwest to AZ. Main destination is to visit some family for a couple of days who “snow bird” to Tuscon area, but I plan to spend at least a week in AZ bumming around & car camping. Any location suggestions for my limited time?

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + January 21, 2018 at 9:19 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @classical_liberal-

    +

    I have a couple suggestions, but it’d really depend on the weather. Cochise Stronghold in the Dragoon Mountains is about a hour from Tucson. It’s really nice, lots of good hiking, but it can be cold. We were there four nights and left when temps dropped down into the teens at night.

    +

    Chiricahua national monument is a bit further, but one of my favorite places in the area. It too can get cold though, just depends on when you’re there.

    +

    In Tucson I’d say check out Sabino Canyon; there’s no camping, but it’s a good desert hike. Catalina state park is nice too, though unless you have a reservation you’ll be stuck in the overflow campground which is sort of just a parking lot.

    +

    Anyway, that’s what comes to mind right now. Hope you have a good trip wherever you end up.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + DREW + January 23, 2018 at 9:12 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    “and one more big one that I’m just going to keep teasing you with”……

    +

    Is it triplets?

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + January 24, 2018 at 8:02 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Drew-

    +

    No.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Gwen + January 29, 2018 at 1:18 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Beautiful photos of the night sky.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + January 31, 2018 at 8:39 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Gwen-

    +

    Thank you. That was actually my first try doing that. I was pretty happy with it. I’d do a few things different next time, but now I won’t have any dark skies to shoot for a while.

    + +
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    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
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    + + +
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    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/youre-all-i-need-get.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/youre-all-i-need-get.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b6218fb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/01/youre-all-i-need-get.txt @@ -0,0 +1,46 @@ +You're All I Need to Get By +=========================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 10 January 2018 + +It was good to get back into the desert, into wide open wild spaces. It's worth remembering that Nature is everywhere, even downtown Manhattan, there is in fact nothing but Nature. That said, it's undeniably nicer for those of us who enjoy them, to be in less inhabited, vast tracts of wild, which is exactly what we had outside of Gila Bend, AZ. + +We spent the weekend out in the wild, getting back into our groove, which had been thrown off considerably by California. I worked the mornings, and sat around playing with the kids in the afternoon. We had fires, we stared up at the milky way. We did very little other than relax and slow down the pace of life. + +
    + + + + + + + +
    + + +The pace of life in California is so dissimilar to how we live that it produces this background tension in me, like static on the radio that you barely hear, but is there when you listen for it. I know it sounds crazy, but I can't explain what a weight was lifted from my shoulders when we drove out of California. It's like being free again, like I imagine that first breath of air would be if you were trapped under an icy lake. + +When Monday rolled around we drove into Tucson to visit some family, run some errands, one particularly long errand that I'm saving for the next post, and provision ourselves for some extended time out in the wild and on the road. + + + + +We re-grouped and re-stocked. And of course enjoyed ourselves as best we could amidst the traffic and jumble of consumer experiences that constitutes modern city life. + +One of the interesting things about living in a self-contained RV, camping mostly out in relatively remote natural areas, is that we have very little need of the sort of consumer experiences that make up modern American life. We very seldom buy things. We're very seldom in places where there are in fact things to buy. We don't have a house to buy stuff for, which eliminates a huge amount of shopping. We very seldom buy new clothes. We very seldom go to restaurants. The last time I went to a bar Big Papi was still on the Red Sox. All of which is to say we very seldom have consumer experiences anymore. + +Once you stop shuffling around the retail world for a while doing so becomes much more horribly tedious than it ever seemed when I did it regularly. I can feel the hours of my life slipping away at stoplights in strange cities. I can watch the strange packages of things we call food rotting away as I wait in line at the supermarket. I stare at retail endcaps for far to long trying to workout why in the world I would want any of this stuff. In fact I walk around stores in a kind of stupor, working out in my head different ways we might be able to run errands even less than we already do. I find myself in line thinking surely the freezer and icebox could hold enough food for 10 days instead of 7? Perhaps I should start fishing along way to supplement the freezer? Is there a farmer's market near camp? Maybe we can forage for veggies? + +Those things are fun to contemplate, but the biggest way to avoid spending your days running errands is to embrace a very simple philosophy: **If you don't have it, you don't need it**. + +Out of garlic? It'll still taste okay. Nozzle of your hose broken? Water still comes out, you'll get by. Radiator overflow tank blow a hole? By pass it with produce bag twist ties, an old spark plug and some bent hoses. Back on the road. Just find a way to make it work. In almost every case you can think of, you have a choice, you can use some ingenuity and find a way to make things work with what you have, or you can get in your car and go shopping. Choose wisely. + +Don't feel bad if you're the shopping type. There's nothing wrong with that, sometimes you have to. Out of salt? Yeah it's probably not going to taste very good. Hose leaking non-potable water all over the place? Yeah that's probably not good. Radiator hose has an actual hole? Well, that might still be fixable. You'd be amazed how long an engine will run with duct tape on a hose. Trust me. + +But the extremely poor quality of goods these days means you'll be doing fair bit of shopping even if your ingenuity is in overdrive. Still, before you grab your keys, always sit down for a bit, take stock of what you have and try to figure out how you could make things work with what you have rather than heading straight to the store. + +In Tucson we had to run the sorts of errands there's no getting out of, stocking up on food, picking up the bus registration which was "overnighted" to us (it took three days to get to us "overnight", thanks USPS), getting medications, and one more big one that I'm just going to keep teasing you with again. + +We also set aside an afternoon to catch up with some my extended family who live around here, including my great aunt who just turned 95. If you want to bend your brain a bit sit down next to 95 year old and watch a couple five year olds run around and contemplate everything that's changed in those 90 intervening years. It'll split your head open. I got caught up thinking about the speed of movement that's changed in the last 90 years. In 1927 the car was still a thing that went about 40 MPH over rutted dirt roads. To start the engine you got out, opened the engine and cranked it with a long metal rod. Of course if you're me you still start your bus by opening the engine and lifting the choke flap with your finger, so maybe less has changed than I think. In some cases anyway. Whatever the case, happy birthday Marge, hope you liked the burgers. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/hugging-coast.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/hugging-coast.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ff9e53b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/hugging-coast.html @@ -0,0 +1,473 @@ + + + + + Hugging The Coast - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Hugging the Coast

    + +
    +
    +

    Holly Beach, Louisiana, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Our plan for the remainder of winter was to chase the weather along the Gulf Coast, working our way up into Louisiana in time for Mardi Gras. After a week on Padre Island we headed north, hugging the coastline up to Matagorda Beach, which supposedly had a beach where bums like us could park for free.

    +

    It did turn out to have just that, but it would have meant driving out on sand that was way too soft for the bus. We ended up at a rather pricey RV park for the night. Fortunately it was right by the beach, so we at least had a nice sunny afternoon playing on the sand.

    +
    + + matagorda beach, TX photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + matagorda beach, TX photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + matagorda beach, TX photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + matagorda beach, TX photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + matagorda beach, TX photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    A couple people have asked how we find the places we go, and, after giving this some thought I think I finally have an answer. There are three ways we find stuff. The best is when Corrinne finds something. I don’t know how she does it, but she’ll sit there with her phone for a while researching things while we drive (I can only recount what I observed before we had the dingy) and next thing I know we’re at some really great, cheap campground. That’s about 40 percent of where we stay.

    +

    Another 20-30 percent of what we find is word of mouth. We meet someone, they say, oh you have to go to ______. So we do. The rest of what we find is pretty mundane, we look for green spots on maps, and sometimes we use freecampsites.net, wikicamp, guidebooks, etc. That’s about it.

    +

    Matagorda Beach was a green spot I had noticed halfway between Padre Island and Holly Beach, LA.

    +

    While we were there I met a couple on a beach who told me about a good county park up on Galveston Island. Under normal circumstances that would probably have become out next stop, but the weather forecast for Galveston was rain and wind for several days so we pressed on, up into Louisiana, to a place called Holly Beach.

    +

    The drive took us through Houston, which, like most cities, was largely forgettable except for one thing, the massive, ugly and rather ominous looking oil refineries and storage tanks the litter the coast for what feels like forever, but is probably only 20 miles or so.

    +
    + + refineries, houston, tx photographed by Ken Lund, Flickr + +
    Photograph by Ken Lund, Flickr | image by
    +
    + +

    Sometimes it gives me great pause to see what we humans have done to our world. I hate that we need oil to do this. I hate that without all that ugliness this would not be possible. I have all kinds of stats about how little energy we use, how 65 gallons of water can last us a week, but in the end, we feed those refineries as much as anyone. We need a boat.

    +

    I was thinking about energy, oil and the end of abundant cheap oil all the way to Holly Beach. I don’t know why I wanted to go to Holly Beach. I’d first read about it in Peter Jenkins book, Along the Edge of America, which is a good read if you have any interest in the Gulf Coast. But I have no idea why Holly Beach stuck out, it doesn’t really figure in the book much at all, but for whatever reason my brain latched onto it and I wanted to go.

    +

    It turned out to be a sad little place. Broken down houses, a few renovated as rentals, but hardly anyone around anymore. There was free camping on the sand, but again soft sand so we just pulled to the side of the road and spent one night. The dead dolphin washed up on the beach didn’t really make me want to fish and by the time the sun went down it was cold, raining and somewhat miserable. This is why Corrinne is usually in charge of where we stay.

    +
    + + Holly Beach, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + matagorda beach, TX photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Holly Beach, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Holly Beach, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Holly Beach, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    One thing Holly Beach had in spades was stop signs.
    +
    + +

    Of course, a cold, rainy day on the beach is still better than most days so it’s not that I’m complaining, I’m just saying, if you want to find the really good camping spots, hit my wife up for advice, not me.

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    2 Comments

    + + + + + + +
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    + DREW + February 19, 2018 at 2:04 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    I have a morbid curiosity…. Did the Dolphin “feel” like you were standing over an animal or more like a person? Its so big and strange, and its a mammal…. Who found it?

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + February 19, 2018 at 9:53 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Drew-

    +

    To be honest it was pretty damn cold and Corrinne and kids found it and wanted me to come see it so I did, took a picture, because, I don’t know, it seemed like something to record, and that was about the end of it.

    +

    Reflecting on it now I think it didn’t feel much like an animal at all. Whatever life force or existence it might have had was long, long gone. It was basically meat on its way to being much smaller meat.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
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    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/hugging-coast.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/hugging-coast.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cf7c251 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/hugging-coast.txt @@ -0,0 +1,42 @@ +Hugging the Coast +================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 05 February 2018 + +Our plan for the remainder of winter was to chase the weather along the Gulf Coast, working our way up into Louisiana in time for Mardi Gras. After a week on Padre Island we headed north, hugging the coastline up to Matagorda Beach, which supposedly had a beach where bums like us could park for free. + +It did turn out to have just that, but it would have meant driving out on sand that was way too soft for the bus. We ended up at a rather pricey RV park for the night. Fortunately it was right by the beach, so we at least had a nice sunny afternoon playing on the sand. + + + + + + + +A couple people have asked how we find the places we go, and, after giving this some thought I think I finally have an answer. There are three ways we find stuff. The best is when Corrinne finds something. I don't know how she does it, but she'll sit there with her phone for a while researching things while we drive (I can only recount what I observed before we had the dingy) and next thing I know we're at some really great, cheap campground. That's about 40 percent of where we stay. + +Another 20-30 percent of what we find is word of mouth. We meet someone, they say, oh you have to go to ______. So we do. The rest of what we find is pretty mundane, we look for green spots on maps, and sometimes we use freecampsites.net, wikicamp, guidebooks, etc. That's about it. + +Matagorda Beach was a green spot I had noticed halfway between Padre Island and Holly Beach, LA. + +While we were there I met a couple on a beach who told me about a good county park up on Galveston Island. Under normal circumstances that would probably have become out next stop, but the weather forecast for Galveston was rain and wind for several days so we pressed on, up into Louisiana, to a place called Holly Beach. + +The drive took us through Houston, which, like most cities, was largely forgettable except for one thing, the massive, ugly and rather ominous looking oil refineries and storage tanks the litter the coast for what feels like forever, but is probably only 20 miles or so. + + + +Sometimes it gives me great pause to see what we humans have done to our world. I hate that we need oil to do this. I hate that without all that ugliness this would not be possible. I have all kinds of stats about how little energy we use, how 65 gallons of water can last us a week, but in the end, we feed those refineries as much as anyone. We need a boat. + +I was thinking about energy, oil and the end of abundant cheap oil all the way to Holly Beach. I don't know why I wanted to go to Holly Beach. I'd first read about it in Peter Jenkins book, Along the Edge of America, which is a good read if you have any interest in the Gulf Coast. But I have no idea why Holly Beach stuck out, it doesn't really figure in the book much at all, but for whatever reason my brain latched onto it and I wanted to go. + +It turned out to be a sad little place. Broken down houses, a few renovated as rentals, but hardly anyone around anymore. There was free camping on the sand, but again soft sand so we just pulled to the side of the road and spent one night. The dead dolphin washed up on the beach didn't really make me want to fish and by the time the sun went down it was cold, raining and somewhat miserable. This is why Corrinne is usually in charge of where we stay. + + + + + + + +Of course, a cold, rainy day on the beach is still better than most days so it's not that I'm complaining, I'm just saying, if you want to find the really good camping spots, hit my wife up for advice, not me. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/mardi-gras-deux-facons.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/mardi-gras-deux-facons.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cb251e8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/mardi-gras-deux-facons.html @@ -0,0 +1,553 @@ + + + + + Mardi Gras Deux Façons - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    + + +
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    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Mardi Gras Deux Façons

    + +
    +
    +

    Lafayette, Louisiana, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    When we were first plotting out a route for the spring it didn’t occur to us that we’d be in Louisiana for Mardi Gras. Like most of the nation, for us Mardi Gras was just another Tuesday. Once we realized that our timing would put us there though we knew we had to go, preferably out deep in the Cajun/Acadian region from which Mardi Gras originates.

    +

    I won’t pretend to understand Mardi Gras, or where it comes from, though at least some of what we saw apparently dates from the Middle Ages when various guilds and small secret societies would celebrate, er, something? Some say it goes back to the feast of begging, in medieval France, but a good argument can be made that it’s much older than that. Whatever its origins, it’s insular enough that if you aren’t part of the culture, I don’t think you’ll ever really understand it. That won’t stop you from enjoying it though.

    +

    Part of what makes it complicated is that there are so many different ways people celebrate Mardi Gras. What you see in one place often bears no resemblance to what you see in another.

    +

    The only thing historians of Mardi Gras seem to agree upon is that at some point Mardi Gras became intertwined with the Catholic celebration of Lent. Mardi Gras became a celebration of excess in preparation for the deprivation of Lent. I think. Beads, heavy drinking and most of the other things we outsiders associate with Mardi Gras are apparently quite recent though, starting some time in the late 1940s, or ‘50s, or ‘60s, depending on who you ask.

    +

    The basis of most celebrations these days are the parades, huge floats full of people decorated with beads marching through towns, throwing out candy, toys and beads to those of us who gather to watch. We got beads, so many beads.

    +

    We attended two Mardi Gras celebrations, the first was a children’s parade in Lafayette. It wasn’t the best day for a parade, rain poured down just as it was about to get underway, but that didn’t stop anyone, including us.

    +
    + + + + mardi gras children's parade lafayette, la photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + + + + mardi gras children's parade lafayette, la photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + + + + + mardi gras children's parade lafayette, la photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + + + + + mardi gras children's parade lafayette, la photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + + + + mardi gras children's parade lafayette, la photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + + + + + + mardi gras children's parade lafayette, la photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + + + + mardi gras children's parade lafayette, la photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + +
    + +
    + + mardi gras children's parade lafayette, la photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + mardi gras children's parade lafayette, la photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We managed to make it back to the campground in time for the golf cart parade. Like I said, Mardi Gras is all about the parades, even when they’re small.

    +
    + + palmetto island mardi gras photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + mardi gras palmetto island photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + bus decorated for mardi gras photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + mardi gras palmetto island photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Before there were beads there was the Courir de Mardi Gras, which is Cajun French for “Fat Tuesday Run”. As with so many things in America over the last century, “run” morphed into “drive” and (probably) this is where the whole parade thing started. The biggest home of the old style “Courir” is in Mamou, where, apparently we might have seen Anthony Bourdain, but we decide to go to Iota for a Tee Mamou, or small mamou.

    +

    There was plenty of food and two stages with various Cajun bands.

    +
    + + tee mamou, Iota, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + tee mamou, Iota, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + tee mamou, Iota, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + tee mamou, Iota, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Before the main run, or drive in this case, there was a children’s version that led up to stage for some dancing.

    +
    + + tee mamou, Iota, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Then the main run started, costumed people descended on the downtown area, chasing chickens, dancing, and begging for loose change. There’s plenty of drunkenness, going on, but it’s not the chaos you might expect. There’s a Capitaine in charge of keeping people in line and he has a whip to back up whatever the rules are.

    +
    + + tee mamou, Iota, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + tee mamou, Iota, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + tee mamou, Iota, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + tee mamou, Iota, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + tee mamou, Iota, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + tee mamou, Iota, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + tee mamou, Iota, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
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    2 Comments

    + + + + + + +
    + +
    + +
    + classical_liberal + March 01, 2018 at 12:48 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Holy Crap!

    +

    I started my road trip, eventually bound for Tucson, straight south and realized it was Marti Gras. I’d never been to NOLA, you gave it rave reviews, so I figured what the heck. I spent Sunday evening through Wednesday there. I really enjoyed the people, talked to a bunch of locals. Enjoyed a night of debauchery as well.

    +

    I’d really like to see the city in more normal circumstances, its definitely on my list for a travel nurse assignment. I tried to describe the culture to my GF as a combination of southern hospitality, but with a libertarian twist.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + March 08, 2018 at 9:23 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @classical_liberal-

    +

    That’s awesome, glad you had a good time. And from what I’ve seen, New Orleans on Mardi Gras just has a few more parades than usual, otherwise it seems the same. It’s always a fun place.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/mardi-gras-deux-facons.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/mardi-gras-deux-facons.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..203c0cc --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/mardi-gras-deux-facons.txt @@ -0,0 +1,69 @@ +Mardi Gras Deux Façons +====================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 12 February 2018 + +When we were first plotting out a route for the spring it didn't occur to us that we'd be in Louisiana for Mardi Gras. Like most of the nation, for us Mardi Gras was just another Tuesday. Once we realized that our timing would put us there though we knew we had to go, preferably out deep in the Cajun/Acadian region from which Mardi Gras originates. + +I won't pretend to understand Mardi Gras, or where it comes from, though at least some of what we saw apparently dates from the Middle Ages when various guilds and small secret societies would celebrate, er, something? Some say it goes back to the feast of begging, in medieval France, but a good argument can be made that it's much older than that. Whatever its origins, it's insular enough that if you aren't part of the culture, I don't think you'll ever really understand it. That won't stop you from enjoying it though. + +Part of what makes it complicated is that there are so many different ways people celebrate Mardi Gras. What you see in one place often bears no resemblance to what you see in another. + +The only thing historians of Mardi Gras seem to agree upon is that at some point Mardi Gras became intertwined with the Catholic celebration of Lent. Mardi Gras became a celebration of excess in preparation for the deprivation of Lent. I think. Beads, heavy drinking and most of the other things we outsiders associate with Mardi Gras are apparently quite recent though, starting some time in the late 1940s, or '50s, or '60s, depending on who you ask. + +The basis of most celebrations these days are the parades, huge floats full of people decorated with beads marching through towns, throwing out candy, toys and beads to those of us who gather to watch. We got beads, so many beads. + +We attended two Mardi Gras celebrations, the first was a children's parade in Lafayette. It wasn't the best day for a parade, rain poured down just as it was about to get underway, but that didn't stop anyone, including us. + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + + + + +We managed to make it back to the campground in time for the golf cart parade. Like I said, Mardi Gras is all about the parades, even when they're small. + + + + + + +Before there were beads there was the Courir de Mardi Gras, which is Cajun French for "Fat Tuesday Run". As with so many things in America over the last century, "run" morphed into "drive" and (probably) this is where the whole parade thing started. The biggest home of the old style "Courir" is in Mamou, where, apparently we [might have seen Anthony Bourdain](https://www.instagram.com/p/BfJ1JZkH0dA/), but we decide to go to Iota for a Tee Mamou, or small mamou. + +There was plenty of food and two stages with various Cajun bands. + + + + + + + +Before the main run, or drive in this case, there was a children's version that led up to stage for some dancing. + + + +Then the main run started, costumed people descended on the downtown area, chasing chickens, dancing, and begging for loose change. There's plenty of drunkenness, going on, but it's not the chaos you might expect. There's a Capitaine in charge of keeping people in line and he has a whip to back up whatever the rules are. + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/on-avery-island.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/on-avery-island.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5412147 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/on-avery-island.html @@ -0,0 +1,368 @@ + + + + + On Avery Island - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    On Avery Island

    + +
    +
    +

    Avery Island, Louisiana, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Avery Island is best known to me as the title of a Neutral Milk Hotel album, but for most people it’s probably better known as the home of Tabasco.

    +
    + + Tabasco factory, Avery Island photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I love hot sauce, all kinds of hot sauce. A quick inventory of the pantry just now produced seven different bottle of hot sauce, including one home made ghost pepper sauce. Despite that I’ve never really like Tabasco, it’s too vinegary to me. Still, people love it and it’s been made more or less the same way, by the same family, since shortly after the Civil War. That’s a longer, more storied history than any of the bottles in my pantry.

    +

    My father-in-law grew up on this area and toured Avery Island in grade school, we put the kids in his footsteps. Or sort of. Back in the fifties they let you actually go in the salt mines, today you get to walk through a Disneylandesque replica. Otherwise though I doubt much as changed. For as widely distributed, and seemingly huge as the Tabasco company seems, production is decidedly down home.

    +
    + + Tabasco tour, Avery Island photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Tabasco tour, Avery Island photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Tabasco tour, Avery Island photographed by luxagraf + +
    Not a salt mine.
    +
    + +

    Part of the reason Tabasco is on Avery Island is that the island — which is just barely deserving of the name island — is made mostly of salt. When Tabasco was founded everything was right there, plant peppers, mine salt and you’re away.

    +

    Avery Island also happens to be one of the tallest points in southern Louisiana, sitting at 163 feet above sea level. It doesn’t sound like much, but it’s allowed the structures on the island to survive over a hundred years of hurricanes. Apparently that’s changing though. Rita, which hit this area hard in 2005, flooded the marshes and much of the island, and things are getting worse every year.

    +

    The marsh that protects the island loses about 30 feet per year as saltwater from rising seas seeps in and kills off the fresh water plants. As those plants die the soil loosens and dissolves, washing out the sea. Dredging for shipping canals and oil exploration canals abandoned by the oil companies also hasten erosion of the marshes. Without the buffer of the marsh the storm surge of the more frequent and stronger storms reaches further inland, up onto the island.

    +

    The McIlhenny family has been working hard to combat the soil loss, planting cordgrass and building its own levee and pumps system, which is not uncommon down here. There’s simply too much coastline and it’s disappearing too fast for the government of Louisiana to deal with, towns and companies in the area are building their own systems. In the end nothing is going to stop the sea, some places will survive just fine, and Avery Island may well be one of them, but even the current heads of the McIlhenny family admit they might have to move someday.

    +

    In the mean time, the hot sauce is still too vinegary in my opinion, but the factory tour is well worth it, even the finished product isn’t your thing.

    +
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    + + + +
    + + +
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    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/on-avery-island.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/on-avery-island.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5e77269 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/on-avery-island.txt @@ -0,0 +1,29 @@ +On Avery Island +=============== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 08 February 2018 + +Avery Island is best known to me as the title of a [Neutral Milk Hotel album](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/On_Avery_Island), but for most people it's probably better known as the home of Tabasco. + + + +I love hot sauce, all kinds of hot sauce. A quick inventory of the pantry just now produced seven different bottle of hot sauce, including one home made ghost pepper sauce. Despite that I've never really like Tabasco, it's too vinegary to me. Still, people love it and it's been made more or less the same way, by the same family, since shortly after the Civil War. That's a longer, more storied history than any of the bottles in my pantry. + +My father-in-law grew up on this area and toured Avery Island in grade school, we put the kids in his footsteps. Or sort of. Back in the fifties they let you actually go in the salt mines, today you get to walk through a Disneylandesque replica. Otherwise though I doubt much as changed. For as widely distributed, and seemingly huge as the Tabasco company seems, production is decidedly down home. + + + + + + +Part of the reason Tabasco is on Avery Island is that the island -- which is just barely deserving of the name island -- is made mostly of salt. When Tabasco was founded everything was right there, plant peppers, mine salt and you're away. + +Avery Island also happens to be one of the tallest points in southern Louisiana, sitting at 163 feet above sea level. It doesn't sound like much, but it's allowed the structures on the island to survive over a hundred years of hurricanes. Apparently that's changing though. Rita, which hit this area hard in 2005, flooded the marshes and much of the island, and things are getting worse every year. + +The marsh that protects the island loses about 30 feet per year as saltwater from rising seas seeps in and kills off the fresh water plants. As those plants die the soil loosens and dissolves, washing out the sea. Dredging for shipping canals and oil exploration canals abandoned by the oil companies also hasten erosion of the marshes. Without the buffer of the marsh the storm surge of the more frequent and stronger storms reaches further inland, up onto the island. + +The McIlhenny family has been working hard to combat the soil loss, planting cordgrass and building its own levee and pumps system, which is not uncommon down here. There's simply too much coastline and it's disappearing too fast for the government of Louisiana to deal with, towns and companies in the area are [building their own systems](http://www.nola.com/environment/index.ssf/2017/08/levee-ing_the_odds_southwest_l.html). In the end nothing is going to stop the sea, some places will survive just fine, and Avery Island may well be one of them, but even the current heads of the McIlhenny family admit they might have to [move](http://www.nola.com/environment/index.ssf/2018/01/tabascos_homeland_is_in_a_figh.html) someday. + +In the mean time, the hot sauce is still too vinegary in my opinion, but the factory tour is well worth it, even the finished product isn't your thing. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/on-the-beach.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/on-the-beach.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1f47fa2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/on-the-beach.html @@ -0,0 +1,524 @@ + + + + + On The Beach - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    On the Beach

    + +
    +
    +

    Rutherford Beach, Louisiana, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + rutherford beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Soft sand? Ten thousand pound vehicle? What could go wrong?

    +

    If you want a view like this though, you have to park in places like this:

    +
    + + The bus on rutherford beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Ordinarily I probably wouldn’t have done it, but when we pulled in there was another rig parked further down and its own came over and offered to pull us out with his truck should anything go wrong. I walked the sand it seemed firm enough so we went for it and it all worked out fine. There’s nothing like free ocean front camping.

    +

    If you use the websites I mentioned in the last post, notably freecampsites.net, and you zoom in on the south Louisiana coast there are basically two places to camp, Holly Beach and Rutherford Beach. After not finding much to like about Holly Beach we were prepared to be disappointed by Rutherford a well, but it turned out to be pretty near perfect. It’s also listed as one of the best shell beaches around and it definitely has more shells than anywhere I’ve ever been.

    +
    + + Shells of rutherford beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Shells of rutherford beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Shells of rutherford beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We spent five days on the beach. It stormed a good bit and fog would roll in pretty much every night, hiding the lights both onshore and off, making it feel like we were all alone in the world.

    +
    + + fishing rutherford beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    This was about ten minutes before the tide ate our sand spike.
    +
    + +
    + + The bus on rutherford beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    +
    +
    + + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +

    4 Comments

    + + + + + + +
    + +
    + +
    + DREW + February 21, 2018 at 3:10 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    I wish I could post a photo of my cubicle right now to make you feel that much better about your decisions. I click on this page almost daily hoping to find you all are still fighting the good fight. All alone in the world with your family seems like a pretty content place to be. God speed.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Patsy Wall + February 21, 2018 at 8:25 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Love the shells and the deserted beach. Your pictures are amazing!

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + February 22, 2018 at 3:10 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Drew-

    +

    You got to get out of that cubicle man. Also, we may be in your neck of the woods early summer. Just an FYI. I’d start now, try to fill up your driveway and eliminate any other large parking spaces in your immediate area. You don’t want to end up with some giant motorhome blocking your house. :-)

    +

    @Patsy-

    +

    Thank you.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + DREW + February 23, 2018 at 8:43 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Were moving to the other side of Signal this coming Monday. Its a bigger house with full basement, etc. Plenty of room for you all to crash assuming you can make it up Signal mntn. LOL…. Its not big (maybe 1200 ft gain, but its steep). Maybe park the bus at Walmart at the foot and bring the dingy up. Then I can get you out on some Chattanooga Rock.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
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    + + +
    + + +
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    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/on-the-beach.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/on-the-beach.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..58a1071 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/on-the-beach.txt @@ -0,0 +1,27 @@ +On the Beach +============ + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 07 February 2018 + + + +Soft sand? Ten thousand pound vehicle? What could go wrong? + +If you want a view like this though, you have to park in places like this: + + + +Ordinarily I probably wouldn't have done it, but when we pulled in there was another rig parked further down and its own came over and offered to pull us out with his truck should anything go wrong. I walked the sand it seemed firm enough so we went for it and it all worked out fine. There's nothing like free ocean front camping. + +If you use the websites I mentioned in the last post, notably freecampsites.net, and you zoom in on the south Louisiana coast there are basically two places to camp, Holly Beach and Rutherford Beach. After not finding much to like about [Holly Beach](/jrnl/2018/02/hugging-coast) we were prepared to be disappointed by Rutherford a well, but it turned out to be pretty near perfect. It's also listed as one of the best shell beaches around and it definitely has more shells than anywhere I've ever been. + + + + + +We spent five days on the beach. It stormed a good bit and fog would roll in pretty much every night, hiding the lights both onshore and off, making it feel like we were all alone in the world. + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/trapped-inside-song.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/trapped-inside-song.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4b73527 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/trapped-inside-song.html @@ -0,0 +1,615 @@ + + + + + Trapped Inside The Song - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Trapped Inside the Song

    + +
    +
    +

    New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    We limped into New Orleans on a Sunday afternoon. I parked the bus in a camp site at Bayou Segnette, jumped in the car and we headed into the city. No one used the word “brakes”. It was a perfect day.

    +

    Somewhere on the drive in we’d crossed over the little line dividing the Gulf air from the lower edge of the jet stream1. On the other side of that line is warmth. So, despite being February, New Orleans was the only way it’s ever been in the eight times I’ve been here, as far as I can tell, the only way it ever is, the way it should be, the way it was meant to be: hot, humid, sweltering. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

    +
    + + walking the streets of new orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Windows, New Orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + walking, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    This time around we hit some of our favorite spots, crepes in the French Market, swings and Storyland out at City Park, but we also spent more time in one of my favorite parts of New Orleans, Faubourg Treme.

    +
    + + crepes in the french market photographed by luxagraf + +
    Crepes in the french market
    +
    + +
    + + City park, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + tomb of the unknown slave, faubourg treme photographed by luxagraf + +
    Tomb of the unknown slave, Faubourg Treme
    +
    + +

    I ended up finding a good coffee shop to work at in the heart of Treme. It also served Sno-balls with an absurd amount of syrup on them, which kept the kids on a good sugar high while we wandered the streets.

    +
    + + blue tongue photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    While I was working Corrinne and the kids went to the Children’s Museum, which they all said was the best they’ve ever been to. Good enough that they went back a couple of times.

    +
    + + + children's museum, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + children's museum, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + children's museum, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + + children's museum, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + children's museum, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + + + + + +
    + + children's museum, new orleans photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson +
    Going native.
    +
    + + +
    + +

    I’d be hard pressed to come up with a more kid-friendly city than New Orleans, but then I think our kids may be a bit unusual.

    +

    One day at the campground I was working and Corrinne took the kids to the little playground. There ended up being some other kids there and they were all playing together. I wasn’t there but apparently the parents were complaining about how dirty New Orleans was (homeless people! Poop on the street! The horror!) and one of the kids told Lilah she didn’t like New Orleans. Later, when they were walking back to the bus Lilah whispered to Corrinne, I just don’t think I could be friends with someone who doesn’t like New Orleans.

    +
    + + City park, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + carousel, city park, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    The world’s fastest carousel did not seem quite as fast this year. Maybe it’s just us.
    +
    + +
    + + City park, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + City park, new orleans photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    While it would have been nice to ignore the brake situation completely, it did need to be dealt with. I got in touch with a shop that said they could do it and drove it over one morning. They got it apart and for the first time I saw the front shoes, and yep, we need new shoes, badly. Unfortunately the shoes are a bit of an oddity and the shop couldn’t get a shoe that fit. We ended up sleeping in the bus in the driveway of the shop with one tire off that night. Probably our oddest campsite thus far.

    +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    In the end though, two different shoes were ordered and neither ended up fitting. The next day we limped back to the campground to wait on a third set that was on order, but wouldn’t get here for five days. That meant an extra few days in New Orleans, but we’ve certainly been stranded in far less interesting places. No one was complaining this time.

    +

    We spent more time hanging around the campground this time around. Sometimes it’s good to spend a few days doing nothing. I worked, the kids played, we cooked lots of blackend redfish, ate crawfish boudin, and waited out a rainstorm or two. Once I even tricked the kids into letting me take portraits of them.

    +
    + + Bayou Segnette photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + playing at the bus photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + grumpy boy photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + rainy days photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Blackened Redfish photographed by luxagraf + +
    No we didn’t catch it.
    +
    + +
    + + Nice Airstream photographed by luxagraf + +
    No offense to anyone who owns an Airstream, but, while they’re cool, they’re a dime a dozen. This, however, was utterly remarkable. Far and away the best homemade camper I’ve seen, anywhere. The skill and attention to detail on this thing was amazing. Plus, he can climb mountains without ever thinking about it. Possibly the first rig I’ve been jealous of.
    +
    + +
    + + girl smiling photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + girl smiling photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    At the end of five days of waiting… that shoe didn’t fit either. I eventually tracked down shoes for the front, but it’d be another five days to have them shipped down and that would mean missing out on our reservations at Fort Pickens. We decided that, if we stuck to the interstate and avoided the stop and go traffic, it’d be fine. I also had a list of shops in Pensacola that I was pretty sure could help us out.

    +

    After ten days in New Orleans we were ready to move on anyway. It’s a lovely city, it’d still be top of our list to move to if we were interested in living in a city. But we’re not. Right now we’re more interested in discovering what’s around the next corner.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      Not mentioned in my summary of our planning tools were a couple of weather-related websites. We use https://earth.nullschool.net/ obsessively, or at least I do. Pretty sure my wife has better things to do with her life. But between that site and the University of Wisconsin’s various weather data you can get a pretty definitive understanding of why the weather is what it is where you are and where you need to go to improve it. ↩

      +
      2. +
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    2 Comments

    + + + + + + +
    + +
    + +
    + Patsy Wall + March 13, 2018 at 3:23 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Love reading your blogs, but love the pictures of the children even more. Such a Beautiful family!

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + March 14, 2018 at 9:23 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Patsy-

    +

    Thank you.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/trapped-inside-song.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/trapped-inside-song.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1e99594 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/trapped-inside-song.txt @@ -0,0 +1,76 @@ +Trapped Inside the Song +======================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 28 February 2018 + +We limped into New Orleans on a Sunday afternoon. I parked the bus in a camp site at Bayou Segnette, jumped in the car and we headed into the city. No one used the word "brakes". It was a perfect day. + +Somewhere on the drive in we'd crossed over the little line dividing the Gulf air from the lower edge of the jet stream[^1]. On the other side of that line is warmth. So, despite being February, New Orleans was the only way it's ever been in the eight times I've been here, as far as I can tell, the only way it ever is, the way it should be, the way it was meant to be: hot, humid, sweltering. I wouldn't want it any other way. + + + + + +This time around we hit some of our favorite spots, crepes in the French Market, swings and Storyland out at City Park, but we also spent more time in one of my favorite parts of New Orleans, Faubourg Treme. + + + + + +I ended up finding a good coffee shop to work at in the heart of Treme. It also served Sno-balls with an absurd amount of syrup on them, which kept the kids on a good sugar high while we wandered the streets. + + + +While I was working Corrinne and the kids went to the Children's Museum, which they all said was the best they've ever been to. Good enough that they went back a couple of times. + +
    + + + + + + + + + + +
    + +I'd be hard pressed to come up with a more kid-friendly city than New Orleans, but then I think our kids may be a bit unusual. + +One day at the campground I was working and Corrinne took the kids to the little playground. There ended up being some other kids there and they were all playing together. I wasn't there but apparently the parents were complaining about how dirty New Orleans was (homeless people! Poop on the street! The horror!) and one of the kids told Lilah she didn't like New Orleans. Later, when they were walking back to the bus Lilah whispered to Corrinne, *I just don't think I could be friends with someone who doesn't like New Orleans*. + + + + + + +While it would have been nice to ignore the brake situation completely, it did need to be dealt with. I got in touch with a shop that said they could do it and drove it over one morning. They got it apart and for the first time I saw the front shoes, and yep, we need new shoes, badly. Unfortunately the shoes are a bit of an oddity and the shop couldn't get a shoe that fit. We ended up sleeping in the bus in the driveway of the shop with one tire off that night. Probably our oddest campsite thus far. + + + +In the end though, two different shoes were ordered and neither ended up fitting. The next day we limped back to the campground to wait on a third set that was on order, but wouldn't get here for five days. That meant an extra few days in New Orleans, but we've certainly been stranded in far less interesting places. No one was complaining this time. + +We spent more time hanging around the campground this time around. Sometimes it's good to spend a few days doing nothing. I worked, the kids played, we cooked lots of blackend redfish, ate crawfish boudin, and waited out a rainstorm or two. Once I even tricked the kids into letting me take portraits of them. + + + + + + + + + + + + +At the end of five days of waiting... that shoe didn't fit either. I eventually tracked down shoes for the front, but it'd be another five days to have them shipped down and that would mean missing out on our reservations at Fort Pickens. We decided that, if we stuck to the interstate and avoided the stop and go traffic, it'd be fine. I also had a list of shops in Pensacola that I was pretty sure could help us out. + +After ten days in New Orleans we were ready to move on anyway. It's a lovely city, it'd still be top of our list to move to if we were interested in living in a city. But we're not. Right now we're more interested in discovering what's around the next corner. + +[^1]: Not mentioned in my summary of our planning tools were a couple of weather-related websites. We use [https://earth.nullschool.net/][1] obsessively, or at least I do. Pretty sure my wife has better things to do with her life. But between that site and [the University of Wisconsin's various weather data][2] you can get a pretty definitive understanding of why the weather is what it is where you are and where you need to go to improve it. + +[1]: https://earth.nullschool.net/#current/wind/surface/level/orthographic=-86.26,31.40,3000 +[2]: http://www.ssec.wisc.edu/data/us_comp/large diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/vermilionville-grand-isle.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/vermilionville-grand-isle.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d757964 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/vermilionville-grand-isle.html @@ -0,0 +1,490 @@ + + + + + Vermilionville & Grand Isle - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Vermilionville & Grand Isle

    + +
    +
    +

    Grand Isle, Louisiana, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Just before Mardi Gras we had planned to head up to Lafayette, LA. There was a nice county park there that would have put us walking distance to some of the Mardi Gras things we wanted to do, but on the way there the brakes went out on the bus. I found a shop, put in a new master cylinder, but to accommodate that we ended up staying in Palmetto Island. Not a big deal, but it did mean we missed out on a couple things we wanted to do in Lafayette.

    +

    The main one was visiting Vermilionville, so on our way to Grand Isle we swung north to Vermilionville for the morning. Vermilionville is a little bit like Pioneer Farm near Austin, except that instead of Texas history, Vermilionville is preserving some of the Cajun and Acadian culture that once dominated the area. There’s a bayou, some old bayou-style acadian homes that have been brought here, restored and once again face the bayou.

    +
    + + Vermilionville, Louisiana photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Vermilionville, Louisiana photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Vermilionville, Louisiana photographed by luxagraf + +
    It was this big…
    +
    + +

    The brakes still weren’t quite where I wanted them, so I spent a bit of time in the Vermilionville parking lot tinkering, testing and mostly failing and sighing a lot. Eventually I decided to just go for it. We were only planning to go about a hour down the road, to a campsite we’d been told about by someone at Bayou Segnette. It was all highway driving, so the stop and go would be minimal. I made it, but by the time we got to our camp I’d died several times and knew what my problem was — vacuum leak.

    +

    It was too late to run anywhere for parts so I just parked it in our campsite and took the kids over to the playground. When in doubt it’s best to relax and think things over.

    +
    + + Burn's Point Campground, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + burn's point park, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + sunset, burn's point park, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    You don’t see many sunsets over the water along the gulf coast, but when you do…
    +
    + +

    The next day we set out for Grand Isle. Corrinne and kids went ahead to run some errands along the way while I limped along behind them. I pulled into a Walmart parking lot to see if I could track down the vacuum leak. I ended up spending a few hours under the bus, running around getting some new hoses, failing to find new hoses and just generally failing. I cut down the main rubber hose that connects the engine side to vacuum line running back to the booster, reconnected it. Hit all the connections toward the back with starter fluid, hit the engine connections with WD40 and nothing ever sent the engine revving up or otherwise indicated I’d found the problem.

    +

    By then it was 3 o’clock and we still had a good hour of driving to do so I fired it and when it didn’t immediately die, decided that was good enough for the day. Clearly my standards have slipped. At the time I was thinking well, if I have to spend all day under the bus, in the heat, at least I want to be able to jump in the ocean when I’m done, so let’s get to Grand Isle and then I’ll work on it some more. It was a pretty good plan, except that I didn’t anticipate the mosquitoes.

    +

    Grand Isle is a strange little place, one of those places whose heyday is well in time’s rearview mirror, but has managed in the mean time to develop a dilapidated charm all its own. Certainly an impressive amount of engineering and roadwork went into making it even possible to get out here. It’s way, way out here. From here the next point south is the Yucatan. On the drive out you pass through some gorgeous marshland and get a tour of all the various efforts to stop the effects of rising seas and increasing hurricane frequency.

    +
    + + grand isle, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The first day we were there I ignored the bus and spent the day at the beach like a regular tourist.

    +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + grand isle, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + grand isle, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + grand isle, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    Because it’s so close to the mouth of the Mississippi the sand at Grand Isle is really more like silt, getting it off your hands so you can have a snack is an ordeal.
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    The next day I got back to work on the vacuum lines. Or rather I work my day job in the morning, waiting for the wind to pick up and then once it did, it drove the mosquitoes away and I could get to work on the bus. The mosquitoes on Grand Isle were the worst we’ve seen anywhere. They were massive, flew in swarms so thick you could see them coming and seemed totally immune to all the bug repellents we own. At times they made an otherwise quite nice place into a pretty miserable one. Fortunately during the day there was enough of an onshore breeze to drive them away.

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    + + +
    + + engine repair photographed by luxagraf +
    All the necessary tools for engine work.
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    + + playing photographed by luxagraf +
    Meanwhile, basket construction.
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    + + grand isle, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + grand isle, LA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I started by checking every hose on top of the engine and found a cracked heater hose I’d been avoiding dealing with for some time. When I bent it back to get it out of the way it ruptured and dumped a considerably amount of coolant all over the engine. Fortunately there was plenty of slack in the hose so, after giving the rest of it a thorough inspection, I was able to cut off the bad end and reattach it.

    +

    Then I decided to replace the fuel filter because I’d been meaning to for about 1000 miles now. I started to do that realized one of the small rubber fuel hoses was cracked, so I swapped that out as well. Then I went rhough tightening all the bolts I could find and, by the end of the day, I’d done next to nothing to fix the vacuum leak, but had put in a good few hours of repairs.

    +

    The next day when the breeze kicked in again I got serious and pulled out the entire main vacuum line from engine to rear booster and inspected it thoroughly, finding nothing. However, when I put it back together again I had 20in of pressure and the engine was purring right where I like it to be. Alas, the brakes were still soft and would lock up sometimes, which probably means there’s still a vacuum leak in there somewhere. I also knew we needed new shoes, which I wasn’t about to do on an island in the middle of nowhere.

    +

    That, combined with the mosquitoes, made the decision easy. We left Grand Isle after three nights. It’s a nice place, well worth a visit, but we needed to get to New Orleans.

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    1 Comment

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    + DREW + March 08, 2018 at 10:11 a.m. +
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    “Clearly my standards have slipped”….. making lemonade.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/vermilionville-grand-isle.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/vermilionville-grand-isle.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4e3ba44 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/02/vermilionville-grand-isle.txt @@ -0,0 +1,57 @@ +Vermilionville & Grand Isle +=========================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 21 February 2018 + +Just before Mardi Gras we had planned to head up to Lafayette, LA. There was a nice county park there that would have put us walking distance to some of the Mardi Gras things we wanted to do, but on the way there the brakes went out on the bus. I found a shop, put in a new master cylinder, but to accommodate that we ended up staying in Palmetto Island. Not a big deal, but it did mean we missed out on a couple things we wanted to do in Lafayette. + +The main one was visiting [Vermilionville](http://www.vermilionville.org/vermilionville/index-old.html), so on our way to Grand Isle we swung north to Vermilionville for the morning. Vermilionville is a little bit like [Pioneer Farm near Austin](https://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2017/05/austin-part-one), except that instead of Texas history, Vermilionville is preserving some of the Cajun and Acadian culture that once dominated the area. There's a bayou, some old bayou-style acadian homes that have been brought here, restored and once again face the bayou. + + + + + +The brakes still weren't quite where I wanted them, so I spent a bit of time in the Vermilionville parking lot tinkering, testing and mostly failing and sighing a lot. Eventually I decided to just go for it. We were only planning to go about a hour down the road, to a campsite we'd been told about by someone at Bayou Segnette. It was all highway driving, so the stop and go would be minimal. I made it, but by the time we got to our camp I'd died several times and knew what my problem was -- vacuum leak. + +It was too late to run anywhere for parts so I just parked it in our campsite and took the kids over to the playground. When in doubt it's best to relax and think things over. + + + + + +The next day we set out for Grand Isle. Corrinne and kids went ahead to run some errands along the way while I limped along behind them. I pulled into a Walmart parking lot to see if I could track down the vacuum leak. I ended up spending a few hours under the bus, running around getting some new hoses, failing to find new hoses and just generally failing. I cut down the main rubber hose that connects the engine side to vacuum line running back to the booster, reconnected it. Hit all the connections toward the back with starter fluid, hit the engine connections with WD40 and nothing ever sent the engine revving up or otherwise indicated I'd found the problem. + +By then it was 3 o'clock and we still had a good hour of driving to do so I fired it and when it didn't immediately die, decided that was good enough for the day. Clearly my standards have slipped. At the time I was thinking well, if I have to spend all day under the bus, in the heat, at least I want to be able to jump in the ocean when I'm done, so let's get to Grand Isle and then I'll work on it some more. It was a pretty good plan, except that I didn't anticipate the mosquitoes. + +Grand Isle is a strange little place, one of those places whose heyday is well in time's rearview mirror, but has managed in the mean time to develop a dilapidated charm all its own. Certainly an impressive amount of engineering and roadwork went into making it even possible to get out here. It's way, way out here. From here the next point south is the Yucatan. On the drive out you pass through some gorgeous marshland and get a tour of all the various efforts to stop the effects of rising seas and increasing hurricane frequency. + + + +The first day we were there I ignored the bus and spent the day at the beach like a regular tourist. + + + + + + +The next day I got back to work on the vacuum lines. Or rather I work my day job in the morning, waiting for the wind to pick up and then once it did, it drove the mosquitoes away and I could get to work on the bus. The mosquitoes on Grand Isle were the worst we've seen anywhere. They were massive, flew in swarms so thick you could see them coming and seemed totally immune to all the bug repellents we own. At times they made an otherwise quite nice place into a pretty miserable one. Fortunately during the day there was enough of an onshore breeze to drive them away. + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + +I started by checking every hose on top of the engine and found a cracked heater hose I'd been avoiding dealing with for some time. When I bent it back to get it out of the way it ruptured and dumped a considerably amount of coolant all over the engine. Fortunately there was plenty of slack in the hose so, after giving the rest of it a thorough inspection, I was able to cut off the bad end and reattach it. + +Then I decided to replace the fuel filter because I'd been meaning to for about 1000 miles now. I started to do that realized one of the small rubber fuel hoses was cracked, so I swapped that out as well. Then I went rhough tightening all the bolts I could find and, by the end of the day, I'd done next to nothing to fix the vacuum leak, but had put in a good few hours of repairs. + +The next day when the breeze kicked in again I got serious and pulled out the entire main vacuum line from engine to rear booster and inspected it thoroughly, finding nothing. However, when I put it back together again I had 20in of pressure and the engine was purring right where I like it to be. Alas, the brakes were still soft and would lock up sometimes, which probably means there's still a vacuum leak in there somewhere. I also knew we needed new shoes, which I wasn't about to do on an island in the middle of nowhere. + +That, combined with the mosquitoes, made the decision easy. We left Grand Isle after three nights. It's a nice place, well worth a visit, but we needed to get to New Orleans. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/forest.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/forest.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..04d14e3 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/forest.html @@ -0,0 +1,570 @@ + + + + + In The Forest - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    In the Forest

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    Camel Lake, Apalachicola National Forest, Florida, U.S.

    + – Map +
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    I went for a walk in the woods one afternoon during our time at Camel Lake. It was a mixed slash pine and palmetto forest, probably not more than ten years old in most of places, heavily logged and replanted. After you walk in enough woods it’s not hard to tell the re-planted areas, they’re a little too orderly, a little too deliberate, not quite as chaotic and wild as an untouched area, of which there are, at this point, very few. Especially around here.

    +
    + + Camel Lake, Apalachicola National Forest photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Not that I was complaining, they’re still beautiful woods. I went out to try to take some pictures of the bright greenish yellow butterflies we’d been watching drift through camp for the past few days. They look like someone colored them in with a highlighter and then brought them to life. I don’t know their name, but they look like green Cabbage Whites, except bright yellow, so I call them Cabbage Yellows.

    +

    Even in the woods though they never stopped long enough to get a good look so I thought I’d go into the woods and see if I could find one to photograph. It turned out though, that they just don’t stop. Wherever they are headed they’re in a hurry to get there. In the week we were in this place I never saw one land.

    +
    + + Camel Lake, Apalachicola National Forest photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Camel Lake, Apalachicola National Forest photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Camel Lake, Apalachicola National Forest photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Camel Lake, Apalachicola National Forest photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    At some point on my walk I slipped off my flip flops and walked barefoot down the trail, feeling the soft sand and pine needles of the forest floor. This is something I’ve been doing for several weeks now. It all started when we were back at Fort Pickens. I was sitting round one day and happened to see some kids running barefoot down the road and one wince and stopped and wiped something off her foot. I smiled because I had a distinct memory of that, those early summer days when you’re free, but your feet are still tender from being cooped up all winter in shoes. I got to thinking though about how by the end of the summer you’d run across the same burning hot blacktop without ever feeling the heat or stopping to get the thorns out because your feet had grown so tough you know longer felt those things. I got to thinking about and decided there was really no reason I couldn’t make my feet tough like that again, it would just take some practice. And so ever since I’ve been going barefoot as much as I could.

    +

    That afternoon in the woods my feet were still on the tender side. Twice I had to stop to pick pine needs out of the arch of my foot. And it limited my ability to go crashing through the undergrowth chasing butterflies, but you have to have patience about these things.

    +

    I never did get a picture of my Cabbage Yellows, though I discovered that swallowtails do in fact land. Not very often and only atop the big, thorny, purple flowers of Purple Thistles. The thistles are thorny enough to have been named Cirsium horridulum, but the Swallowtails don’t seem to mind. They balance atop the thorns and dig into the flower, which they proceed to work over in a very orderly fashion, probing for nectar from one side to the other, millimeter by millimeter, until, I presume, they’ve either had their fill or exhausted the nectar from that flower, at which point they alight again in their grand looping flight that seems to have a kind of rhythm to it, though any actual pattern to their floating bouncing flutters remains just beyond my brain’s ability to recognize it.

    +
    + + Camel Lake, Apalachicola National Forest photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    What you don’t want to do is walk barefoot into a bunch of Cirsium horridulum. Not until the end of summer anyway. And perhaps not even then, there are limits everything you know.

    +

    The interesting thing about being barefoot that I do not remember from my youth is the sense of energy you get from it. It’s not exactly a discovery on my part, there are lots of very old names out there for this, martial arts tend to call it qi or chi, yoga calls it prana, druids have the best name in my opinion, the telluric current, one of the two great currents of nwyfre (life energy). Whatever you want to call it, you can feel it. Take off your shoes and put your feet on the dirt or grass or what have you and sit or stand with your eyes closed for about five minutes everyday for a few weeks and pay attention to sensations you notice. It’s interesting.

    +

    Unless you come here for stories of travel, in which case this may not be interesting. But I spent a lot of time here at Camel Lake thinking about it. There wasn’t a lot else to do. There was a small beach, a few fish in the lake, fish so small I don’t even have a hook small enough to get it in their mouths. I had fun trying to convince them to open a little wider though, dangling worm after worm and watching them snatch it away without ever getting on the hook. So if you go to Camel Lake one day and land a fat lazy bass that seems like it must have been hand fed, you’re welcome.

    +
    + + Camel Lake, Apalachicola National Forest photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Camel Lake, Apalachicola National Forest photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    There’s nothing to really draw you here, save a desire for peace and quiet. We ended up here partly because our luck with cancellations in the crowded beaches of the Panhandle finally ran out, or at least partly ran out. There were a few campgrounds at various places around St. Andrew Bay, just north a Grayton and Topsail that we could have stayed. And a few more down in the mess of Panama City, but we wanted to come inland for a bit. I’ve nothing against Panama City. It seems quite fashionable to look down on it these days, the white trash riviera as some call it. I’ve always rather liked the place, it has a unique charm. I’ve eaten the hell out of some oysters at Shuck’ums. I have the cup to prove it. Panama City Beach was the first place I came to in the Panhandle. I thought it was great then and I still like it now.

    +

    What I don’t like is the new development west of it, all the gated communities and faux mixed development. Places with names like Royal Palms of Laguna Beach Shores or Laguna Beach Estates. Places that are all planned and new and clean and brightly lit and lifeless. A vast oasis devoid of magic. I’m glad everyone else goes there though, that way I can enjoy the redneck beaches full of biting midges, dilapidated bait shacks, abandoned buildings and people who are there to fish and sit and think and enjoy the silence, not serve up iced frappes and air conditioned smiles.

    +

    But that wasn’t what drove us inland really. We just wanted something different for a while. A forest rather than a beach. Too much of one thing — even when that one thing is some of the most perfect beaches in the U.S. — gets repetitive after a while. Sometime you need a change for no other reason than you just feel like it.

    +

    When I got back from my walk the kids came running up wanting to go for a walk too. So I set out again, this time with them, though only Lilah stayed with me for more than a few minutes.

    +
    + + Camel Lake, Apalachicola National Forest photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Camel Lake, Apalachicola National Forest photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Camel Lake, Apalachicola National Forest photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Camel Lake, Apalachicola National Forest photographed by luxagraf + +
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    We ended up across the road, following a trail that seemed to head into the darker, denser, older parts of the forest, but it turned out to be a river bottom, we soon crossed over and came up the other side into another logged area. She pointed out flowers and the curled, curved fern fronds just starting to stretch themselves out for the spring. She wanted to know why the ferns were lighter at the tip and much darker green toward the stalk.

    +
    + + Camel Lake, Apalachicola National Forest photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    When a cell divides each new cell has only half the number of chloroplasts in it compared to the parent cell. It takes time for the chloroplasts themselves to divide so the cells as the tip of the new frond don’t have as many chloroplasts and aren’t therefore as dark green as those back at the base. For the record, my explanation to her at the time was not quite that coherent, but she seemed to be satisfied with it anyway. We got distracted shortly after by a pink and red and purple moth that was quite unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.

    +

    Later that night the sunset turned a deep rich red that seemed to rise right up out of the forest and then faded into a gradient of purple that turned progressively darker shades of blue until it faded up into the blue-black clouds. A cardinal chirped through the woods just beyond the fire, grabbing a last seed or two before settling down the roost for the night. I watched it through the trees, standing next to the fire, hands cupped over it for warmth, wondering if this winter would ever end. At least the cold kept the Yellow Flies at bay, otherwise this little lake in the woods, tucked somewhere in the Apalachicola river basin, might be miserable.

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    The next morning we packed up and headed on south again, tracing the river on down to the sea.

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    5 Comments

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    + DREW ELDRIDGE + April 16, 2018 at 8:15 a.m. +
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    Did you get a new lens or lighting? Your DOF on macro is getting really good! Also, barefoot is FL is great- but they have that little clump of cooka burrow grass down there that will cripple a man. No clue what its called- but it sucks.

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    + Scott + April 16, 2018 at 10:05 a.m. +
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    @Drew-

    +

    I hate those burr things.

    +

    And for the life of me I can’t find out what they’re called, it’s like Google has no idea what I’m talking about. But yes, they really hurt. At this point though I have enough callouses that they only get me in the arch of my foot. Which hurts like hell, but luckily hasn’t happened much lately.

    +

    As for the lens, nothing new, just my 2 100mms. The busier bokeh is a Minolta and the smoother is an Olympus. Neither is technically a macro. I usually use the Minolta for portraits because it’s a little softer, but it happened to be on my camera when I went for a walk and I sorta liked the results. In a couple cases I went back with the Olympus and a tripod. I keep thinking about getting a proper macro lens, but my lens collection is in danger of surpassing the wife’s shoe collection, which is not allowed.

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    + DREW ELDRIDGE + April 18, 2018 at 8:36 a.m. +
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    That busy bokeh like on the photo where the childs hand is reaching for the fern is intense. Its almost like a oil painting- It seems very random.

    +

    You dont need another new expensive lens. Just get some decent extension tubes that maintain your auto focus. You can find them from $40 to $150 depending. I have found the cheaper ones work just fine though.

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    + Scott + April 18, 2018 at 10:08 a.m. +
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    @Drew- That’s the minolta 100 f/2.5 I think. Maybe f/2.8. And yeah, it goes a little crazy sometimes. It does better with a long distance between fore and background, like a portrait with a distance background.

    +

    I need to check out extension tubes, I just picked up a teleconverter to turn my 200 into a 400, so next I’ll have to go the other way with an extention tube.

    +

    No autofocus though, I don’t currently own a single autofocus lens.

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    + DREW ELDRIDGE + April 18, 2018 at 1:00 p.m. +
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    Even better- you just need a ring that will get the lens off the camera. Manual focus is fine and at that level I usually use auto to get me close and manual to dial it in.

    +

    You should be able to get a manual focus tube for very cheap. Get a set of 3 that you can stack for different ranges of macro.

    +

    You’ll just need a lot of natural light- or you can build a snoot which is what I ended up doing later on.

    +

    I have no clue what mount your camera needs, but you can find something like this for $15- and if it sucks you’re only out $15 eBay extension tubes

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/forest.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/forest.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fca331a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/forest.txt @@ -0,0 +1,61 @@ +In the Forest +============= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 28 March 2018 + +I went for a walk in the woods one afternoon during our time at Camel Lake. It was a mixed slash pine and palmetto forest, probably not more than ten years old in most of places, heavily logged and replanted. After you walk in enough woods it's not hard to tell the re-planted areas, they're a little too orderly, a little too deliberate, not quite as chaotic and wild as an untouched area, of which there are, at this point, very few. Especially around here. + + + +Not that I was complaining, they're still beautiful woods. I went out to try to take some pictures of the bright greenish yellow butterflies we'd been watching drift through camp for the past few days. They look like someone colored them in with a highlighter and then brought them to life. I don't know their name, but they look like green Cabbage Whites, except bright yellow, so I call them Cabbage Yellows. + +Even in the woods though they never stopped long enough to get a good look so I thought I'd go into the woods and see if I could find one to photograph. It turned out though, that they just don't stop. Wherever they are headed they're in a hurry to get there. In the week we were in this place I never saw one land. + + + + + + +At some point on my walk I slipped off my flip flops and walked barefoot down the trail, feeling the soft sand and pine needles of the forest floor. This is something I've been doing for several weeks now. It all started when we were back at Fort Pickens. I was sitting round one day and happened to see some kids running barefoot down the road and one wince and stopped and wiped something off her foot. I smiled because I had a distinct memory of that, those early summer days when you're free, but your feet are still tender from being cooped up all winter in shoes. I got to thinking though about how by the end of the summer you'd run across the same burning hot blacktop without ever feeling the heat or stopping to get the thorns out because your feet had grown so tough you know longer felt those things. I got to thinking about and decided there was really no reason I couldn't make my feet tough like that again, it would just take some practice. And so ever since I've been going barefoot as much as I could. + +That afternoon in the woods my feet were still on the tender side. Twice I had to stop to pick pine needs out of the arch of my foot. And it limited my ability to go crashing through the undergrowth chasing butterflies, but you have to have patience about these things. + +I never did get a picture of my Cabbage Yellows, though I discovered that swallowtails do in fact land. Not very often and only atop the big, thorny, purple flowers of Purple Thistles. The thistles are thorny enough to have been named *Cirsium horridulum*, but the Swallowtails don't seem to mind. They balance atop the thorns and dig into the flower, which they proceed to work over in a very orderly fashion, probing for nectar from one side to the other, millimeter by millimeter, until, I presume, they've either had their fill or exhausted the nectar from that flower, at which point they alight again in their grand looping flight that seems to have a kind of rhythm to it, though any actual pattern to their floating bouncing flutters remains just beyond my brain's ability to recognize it. + + + +What you don't want to do is walk barefoot into a bunch of Cirsium horridulum. Not until the end of summer anyway. And perhaps not even then, there are limits everything you know. + +The interesting thing about being barefoot that I do not remember from my youth is the sense of energy you get from it. It's not exactly a discovery on my part, there are lots of very old names out there for this, martial arts tend to call it qi or chi, yoga calls it prana, druids have the best name in my opinion, the telluric current, one of the two great currents of nwyfre (life energy). Whatever you want to call it, you can feel it. Take off your shoes and put your feet on the dirt or grass or what have you and sit or stand with your eyes closed for about five minutes everyday for a few weeks and pay attention to sensations you notice. It's interesting. + +Unless you come here for stories of travel, in which case this may not be interesting. But I spent a lot of time here at Camel Lake thinking about it. There wasn't a lot else to do. There was a small beach, a few fish in the lake, fish so small I don't even have a hook small enough to get it in their mouths. I had fun trying to convince them to open a little wider though, dangling worm after worm and watching them snatch it away without ever getting on the hook. So if you go to Camel Lake one day and land a fat lazy bass that seems like it must have been hand fed, you're welcome. + + + + +There's nothing to really draw you here, save a desire for peace and quiet. We ended up here partly because our luck with cancellations in the crowded beaches of the Panhandle finally ran out, or at least partly ran out. There were a few campgrounds at various places around St. Andrew Bay, just north a Grayton and Topsail that we could have stayed. And a few more down in the mess of Panama City, but we wanted to come inland for a bit. I've nothing against Panama City. It seems quite fashionable to look down on it these days, the white trash riviera as some call it. I've always rather liked the place, it has a unique charm. I've eaten the hell out of some oysters at Shuck'ums. I have the cup to prove it. Panama City Beach was the first place I came to in the Panhandle. I thought it was great then and I still like it now. + +What I don't like is the new development west of it, all the gated communities and faux mixed development. Places with names like Royal Palms of Laguna Beach Shores or Laguna Beach Estates. Places that are all planned and new and clean and brightly lit and lifeless. A vast oasis devoid of magic. I'm glad everyone else goes there though, that way I can enjoy the redneck beaches full of biting midges, dilapidated bait shacks, abandoned buildings and people who are there to fish and sit and think and enjoy the silence, not serve up iced frappes and air conditioned smiles. + +But that wasn't what drove us inland really. We just wanted something different for a while. A forest rather than a beach. Too much of one thing -- even when that one thing is some of the most perfect beaches in the U.S. -- gets repetitive after a while. Sometime you need a change for no other reason than you just feel like it. + +When I got back from my walk the kids came running up wanting to go for a walk too. So I set out again, this time with them, though only Lilah stayed with me for more than a few minutes. + + + + + + +We ended up across the road, following a trail that seemed to head into the darker, denser, older parts of the forest, but it turned out to be a river bottom, we soon crossed over and came up the other side into another logged area. She pointed out flowers and the curled, curved fern fronds just starting to stretch themselves out for the spring. She wanted to know why the ferns were lighter at the tip and much darker green toward the stalk. + + + +When a cell divides each new cell has only half the number of chloroplasts in it compared to the parent cell. It takes time for the chloroplasts themselves to divide so the cells as the tip of the new frond don't have as many chloroplasts and aren't therefore as dark green as those back at the base. For the record, my explanation to her at the time was not quite that coherent, but she seemed to be satisfied with it anyway. We got distracted shortly after by a pink and red and purple moth that was quite unlike anything I've ever seen before. + +Later that night the sunset turned a deep rich red that seemed to rise right up out of the forest and then faded into a gradient of purple that turned progressively darker shades of blue until it faded up into the blue-black clouds. A cardinal chirped through the woods just beyond the fire, grabbing a last seed or two before settling down the roost for the night. I watched it through the trees, standing next to the fire, hands cupped over it for warmth, wondering if this winter would ever end. At least the cold kept the [Yellow Flies][1] at bay, otherwise this little lake in the woods, tucked somewhere in the Apalachicola river basin, might be miserable. + +The next morning we packed up and headed on south again, tracing the river on down to the sea. + +[1]: /jrnl/2015/05/tates-hell diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/green-sea-days.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/green-sea-days.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..400f2df --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/green-sea-days.html @@ -0,0 +1,552 @@ + + + + + Green Sea Days - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Green Sea Days

    + +
    +
    +

    East Bay, Pensacola, Florida, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    When we planned out this trip back through the Gulf we made reservations at a bunch of places we knew we wanted to go but wouldn’t be able to just show up and find anywhere to camp. In between those places though we left a month to wander around and see what we found. The first stop in our wander was a free campground on East Bay, which is part of Pensacola Bay.

    +
    + + sunset over east bay, Pensacola, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I’ve seen more than a few full time RVers complaining on the internet that there’s no free camping in Florida or the Gulf Coast in general. I can’t decide if I should correct this ignorance or not. I’m going to take the middle ground and say there’s plenty of free camping all along the Gulf Coast you, but you do have to know where to look. We’ve found great free camping in Texas, Louisiana, Alabama and Florida. It’s harder to find, that’s true, but it’s definitely there. And while I’m on the subject, the whole free camping thing is not, at least for us, really about being free. That is nice, but what free camping almost always means is fewer people and wilder places, which is the main appeal for us.

    +
    + + Escambia bay, controlled burn. photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + playing escambia bay, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + playing near escabia bay photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + playing east bay, pensacola, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The place we stayed on the shore of East Bay is a small campground at the end of a dusty dirt road made of dried Florida red clay. The rains turned it to mud, but not so bad we couldn’t get in and out. Follow the road long enough through the pine flats, bayous and marshes and you’ll find a little campground on the bay. There’s only 12 sites and a crazy online reservation system that ensure most of them will be unoccupied at any given time (despite being “full” if you look online)1. We stayed a total of 10 nights there in two separate trips and never saw the place full. .

    +

    So there is free camping in Florida, plenty of it in fact, you just have to find it. That said, this place is probably somewhat unique. It’s a little slice of wild Florida that doesn’t seem like it’s changed much since the Choctaw were living here a few hundred years ago.

    +
    + + playing east bay, pensacola, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + playing east bay, pensacola, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Window Marker art photographed by luxagraf + +
    These days there are ways to do the things we used to get yelled at for doing, without getting yelled at.
    +
    + +

    It was nice to get back to something a little wilder. I love the south, and it does have some very wild spots, but they’re fewer and further between than the west. East Bay felt wilder than any place we’d been in a long time, probably since Rutherford Beach.

    +

    We first visited the area a week earlier on our way to Fort Pickens. The day we arrived they were doing a controlled burn in the pine flats (our neighbor told me there’s a pine around here that only germinates with fire, which could be the reason). The air was filled with smoke and ash rained down on us all afternoon which made the place feel even wilder. That night we had a campfire, but real fire was beyond our camp in the woods. For the most part it was a steady red glow through the trees, but occasionally a dead palm would suddenly bursting into flame with a great crashing roar.

    +

    When we came back there were no nearby fires. The first couple days we were there it rained off and on most of the day. The cloud cover never broke. Then one afternoon the sun finally came out and the whole campground turned out. I heard the squeak of Vanagon doors and the zipper of tents being thrown open and pretty soon folding chairs were pulled out to the shoreline, shirts came off and we all sort of sat in silence and enjoyed the sunshine. We do this sort of thing all the time — just sit and do nothing — so I think nothing of it until we get to a campground where people are always off seeing the sights, fishing, doing stuff and all the sudden I feel conspicuous in my doing nothingness. I knew I had found my people when I noticed that everyone here was just sitting, doing nothing, staring out at the sea. There was something about the place that seemed to inspire you to just sit and think. Perhaps it was the droop of the Spanish Moss, or the glaring Florida sun, or the dead oaks along the shore, limbs reaching out like gnarled fingers clawing at the sky. Whatever the case, it was an excellent place to simply sit and feel the warmth of the sun. Or have a water fight.

    +
    + + boy fishing east bay, pensacola, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + water fight, east bay, pensacola, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + water fight, east bay, pensacola, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + water fight, east bay, pensacola, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + water fight, east bay, pensacola, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    You had to snatch that sun though. The rain was off and on all week. Mornings started off looking like rain, but by 10 it’d be sunny, which would last until around 2PM, at which point clouds would roll in, the wind would kick up and it would feel like a squall was coming, but then nothing ever made it all the way across the bay and by sundown it was clear enough to watch the sunset.

    +

    A couple of mornings a strange warm fog covered the bay, just before dawn the world looked flat and blurred, sea and sky become one and suffused with a blue glow.

    +
    + + early morning fog, east bay, pensacola, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + morning fog, east bay, pensacola, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The gloom burned off quickly once the sun was up and the last few days we were there the weather was perfect, even if the fish weren’t biting.

    +
    + + girl fishing, east bay, pensacola, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + sunset over east bay, Pensacola, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      While we were there the online system was changed a bit and now you’re supposed to call when you arrive or you forfeit your reservations and the site is available to walk ups. This seemed to be only about half implemented and unevenly enforced, but they’re trying anyway. ↩

      +
      2. +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +

    2 Comments

    + + + + + + +
    + +
    + +
    + classical_liberal + April 01, 2018 at 3:15 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Someday your kids, probably in a couple of decades once they realize how different their childhood was from others, are going to sincerely thank you for these experiences.

    +

    Free campsites.net has clued me into a few places I wouldn’t have thought to look, but appears very weak overall (in that is misses a ass-ton of good possibilities I’ve found accidently). How do you guys find the good freebies?

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + April 02, 2018 at 11:32 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @classic_liberal-

    +

    I sent you an email with a more detailed answer, but here’s the short version:

    +

    Freecampsites.net is okay, but doesn’t seem to get much use anymore +(info is often very out of date). I also use wikicamp a good bit, but +it’s phone-only for some reason, which irritates me.

    +

    https://www.usa.wikicamps.co/

    +

    Still, it was great out west, less so lately.

    +

    A good bit of our research is just looking for green spots on the map and using DuckDuckGo to search for “free camping”.

    +

    Honestly though, our best finds have been happy accidents and blind luck (one of my top five favorite spots we found because we didn’t feel like driving through a storm and just turned off the main road to look around).

    + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/green-sea-days.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/green-sea-days.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c774f9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/green-sea-days.txt @@ -0,0 +1,52 @@ +Green Sea Days +============== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 14 March 2018 + +When we planned out this trip back through the Gulf we made reservations at a bunch of places we knew we wanted to go but wouldn't be able to just show up and find anywhere to camp. In between those places though we left a month to wander around and see what we found. The first stop in our wander was a free campground on East Bay, which is part of Pensacola Bay. + + + +I've seen more than a few full time RVers complaining on the internet that there's no free camping in Florida or the Gulf Coast in general. I can't decide if I should correct this ignorance or not. I'm going to take the middle ground and say there's plenty of free camping all along the Gulf Coast you, but you do have to know where to look. We've found great free camping in Texas, Louisiana, Alabama and Florida. It's harder to find, that's true, but it's definitely there. And while I'm on the subject, the whole free camping thing is not, at least for us, really about being free. That is nice, but what free camping almost always means is fewer people and wilder places, which is the main appeal for us. + + + + + + +The place we stayed on the shore of East Bay is a small campground at the end of a dusty dirt road made of dried Florida red clay. The rains turned it to mud, but not so bad we couldn't get in and out. Follow the road long enough through the pine flats, bayous and marshes and you'll find a little campground on the bay. There's only 12 sites and a crazy online reservation system that ensure most of them will be unoccupied at any given time (despite being "full" if you look online)[^1]. We stayed a total of 10 nights there in two separate trips and never saw the place full. . + +So there is free camping in Florida, plenty of it in fact, you just have to find it. That said, this place is probably somewhat unique. It's a little slice of wild Florida that doesn't seem like it's changed much since the Choctaw were living here a few hundred years ago. + + + + + +It was nice to get back to something a little wilder. I love the south, and it does have some very wild spots, but they're fewer and further between than the west. East Bay felt wilder than any place we'd been in a long time, probably since Rutherford Beach. + +We first visited the area a week earlier on our way to Fort Pickens. The day we arrived they were doing a controlled burn in the pine flats (our neighbor told me there's a pine around here that only germinates with fire, which could be the reason). The air was filled with smoke and ash rained down on us all afternoon which made the place feel even wilder. That night we had a campfire, but real fire was beyond our camp in the woods. For the most part it was a steady red glow through the trees, but occasionally a dead palm would suddenly bursting into flame with a great crashing roar. + +When we came back there were no nearby fires. The first couple days we were there it rained off and on most of the day. The cloud cover never broke. Then one afternoon the sun finally came out and the whole campground turned out. I heard the squeak of Vanagon doors and the zipper of tents being thrown open and pretty soon folding chairs were pulled out to the shoreline, shirts came off and we all sort of sat in silence and enjoyed the sunshine. We do this sort of thing all the time -- just sit and do nothing -- so I think nothing of it until we get to a campground where people are always off seeing the sights, fishing, doing stuff and all the sudden I feel conspicuous in my doing nothingness. I knew I had found my people when I noticed that everyone here was just sitting, doing nothing, staring out at the sea. There was something about the place that seemed to inspire you to just sit and think. Perhaps it was the droop of the Spanish Moss, or the glaring Florida sun, or the dead oaks along the shore, limbs reaching out like gnarled fingers clawing at the sky. Whatever the case, it was an excellent place to simply sit and feel the warmth of the sun. Or have a water fight. + + + + + + + + +You had to snatch that sun though. The rain was off and on all week. Mornings started off looking like rain, but by 10 it'd be sunny, which would last until around 2PM, at which point clouds would roll in, the wind would kick up and it would feel like a squall was coming, but then nothing ever made it all the way across the bay and by sundown it was clear enough to watch the sunset. + +A couple of mornings a strange warm fog covered the bay, just before dawn the world looked flat and blurred, sea and sky become one and suffused with a blue glow. + + + + +The gloom burned off quickly once the sun was up and the last few days we were there the weather was perfect, even if the fish weren't biting. + + + + +[^1]: While we were there the online system was changed a bit and now you're supposed to call when you arrive or you forfeit your reservations and the site is available to walk ups. This seemed to be only about half implemented and unevenly enforced, but they're trying anyway. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/island-sun.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/island-sun.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..eadd104 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/island-sun.html @@ -0,0 +1,467 @@ + + + + + Island In The Sun - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Island in the Sun

    + +
    +
    +

    Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    When we were sitting in the bus, sick, in Victorville, where the temperatures were in the twenties at night, nothing sounded quite so good to us as the perfect, sugary, white sand beaches of Gulf Islands National Seashore.

    +
    + + beaches, Gulf Islands National Seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The danger with reminiscing from a long way away is you tend to forget the negative things, but in this case the only downside is the campground, which is little more than a parking lot. I can live with that when the beach looks like this.

    +
    + + Gulf Islands National Seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + beaches, Gulf Islands National Seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Gulf Islands National Seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Gulf Islands National Seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Gulf Islands National Seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Gulf Islands National Seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    This time around there were no Blue Angels flying overhead, but we did make a trip across the bay one day to check out the naval aviation museum.

    +
    + + blue angels, naval air museum, pensacola photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + at the naval air museum, pensacola photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Navy recruitment sign, 1920s photographed by luxagraf + +
    Navy recruitment sign, 1920s
    +
    + +

    The kids were into the various Blue Angel planes, but otherwise seemed bored with the place. I thought it was moderately interesting until Corrinne pointed out that all the planes had been sanitized, not a single pin-up, or any nose art at all to be found in the whole place.

    +

    I asked one of the docents about it and he told me it was done to make the place more family-friendly. Because building a monument to the various ways to kill people from the air is totally family-friendly, but anything hinting at sex, the way, if you recall, you actually get families, is not1. One of the things I hope foreign guidebooks to our strange land prepare visitors for is that sometimes American logic will make your head explode.

    +

    We beat a haste retreat back across the bay to the beach.

    +

    I took a break from the brake problem, but of course that didn’t mean there was nothing to do on the bus. The awning ratchet broke one afternoon, which I mention mostly because in my quest to find a replacement part I had to visit the worst store ever: Camping World. What a racket. If you can, avoid it. I did manage to get the awning fixed though. Just in time for the wind and rain.

    +

    The last day we were on the island it suddenly turned quite cold and rained most of the day, but we still managed to get some time in the sand.

    +
    + + Gulf Islands National Seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Gulf Islands National Seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pensacola beach sign, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    Still the best sign in Florida.
    +
    + +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      Officially the Navy banned nose art in 1944, which wasn’t widely enforced until after the war, but better than half of the planes in the building were pre-1944. ↩

      +
      2. +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/island-sun.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/island-sun.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0b3d4d1 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/island-sun.txt @@ -0,0 +1,44 @@ +Island in the Sun +================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 07 March 2018 + +When we were sitting in the bus, sick, in Victorville, where the temperatures were in the twenties at night, nothing sounded quite so good to us as the perfect, sugary, white sand beaches of Gulf Islands National Seashore. + + + +The danger with reminiscing from a long way away is you tend to forget the negative things, but in this case the only downside is the campground, which is little more than a parking lot. I can live with that when the beach looks like this. + + + + + + + + + +This time around there were no Blue Angels flying overhead, but we did make a trip across the bay one day to check out the naval aviation museum. + + + + + +The kids were into the various Blue Angel planes, but otherwise seemed bored with the place. I thought it was moderately interesting until Corrinne pointed out that all the planes had been sanitized, not a single pin-up, or any nose art at all to be found in the whole place. + +I asked one of the docents about it and he told me it was done to make the place more family-friendly. Because building a monument to the various ways to kill people from the air is totally family-friendly, but anything hinting at sex, the way, if you recall, you actually get families, is not[^1]. One of the things I hope foreign guidebooks to our strange land prepare visitors for is that sometimes American logic will make your head explode. + +We beat a haste retreat back across the bay to the beach. + +I took a break from the brake problem, but of course that didn't mean there was nothing to do on the bus. The awning ratchet broke one afternoon, which I mention mostly because in my quest to find a replacement part I had to visit the worst store ever: Camping World. What a racket. If you can, avoid it. I did manage to get the awning fixed though. Just in time for the wind and rain. + +The last day we were on the island it suddenly turned quite cold and rained most of the day, but we still managed to get some time in the sand. + + + + + + + +[^1]: Officially the Navy banned nose art in 1944, which wasn't widely enforced until after the war, but better than half of the planes in the building were pre-1944. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/old-school.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/old-school.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0c727de --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/old-school.html @@ -0,0 +1,596 @@ + + + + + Old School - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Old School

    + +
    +
    +

    Grayton State Park, Florida, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    There are a handful of places on the planet where the earth has created what are known as coastal dune lakes, fresh water lakes located within two miles of the ocean. They occur in Australia, Madagascar, New Zealand, South Carolina and here in Florida, more specifically, in Walton County. There were a handful of dune lakes at Topsail and a couple more at our next destination, Grayton State Park.

    +
    + + grayton beach state park, florida photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    These lakes are more than 10,000 years old, and play an important role in making this coastline look the way it looks. Unlike most dunes, these areas have pretty good soil. When it rains hard the lakes fill and the water escapes through what’s known as an outfall, which is where the lake overwhelms the berm that separates it from the sea. When that happens fresh water floods out over the dunes, delivering nutrients, along with plants and animals that would otherwise not be on dunes.

    +

    The lakes are also individually disinct, with varying levels of salinity and different specifies of life in each one. Probably the most popular of the lakes, from what I could tell, is here in Grayton, known as Western Lake.

    +
    + + grayton beach state park, florida photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We were again, somehow, able to get in on some cancellations and spent four days wandering the lakeside and seashore of Grayton State Park. This time there was no RV Park, no pool and the people were mostly like us. One morning some kids from another site wandered over and started playing with our kids. Eventually the parents came by to check on their children and we got to talking. The mom told me about how she let her son, who was seven, wander wherever he wanted. He’d walked to the beach (about a mile) the day before.

    +

    I was impressed because I often feel like we’re the only people who let our kids do that sort of thing. But then the woman expressed my one great fear, that some meddling adult would end up calling the cops or otherwise harrassing our kids about doing their own thing. It’s never actually happened, but I’m constantly worried about it given the average American’s inability to mind their own damn business. Neither of us had any solution, but it was at least comforting to know that other parents have the same concerns.

    +

    Eventually the other family had to go (our kids have an unfortunate knack for making friends with kids that are leaving that day).

    +

    Not ten minutes later some woman came up to Corrinne talking about some kids she had seen “just walking down by the water” and how “someone should be watching them.” Luckily for that woman she talked to Corrinne who shrugged and politely turned away. I’m not nearly as polite.

    +

    Another blog I read regularly writes quite a bit about this meddling phenomena in other contexts and has suggested reviving the Anti-Poke-Nose society in response to people who can’t seem to stop from poking their noses in other people’s business. I’d love join. And seriously world, if no one’s bleeding, just stay the hell out of my kids’ business.

    +

    Free ranging children wasn’t the only old school thing we did at Grayton. One day we even managed to go super old school and spend all day in the sun, like I did growing up, a good six hours of sunshine, back when we weren’t scared of the sun. We still aren’t.

    +
    + + grayton beach state park, florida photographed by luxagraf + +
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    There were plenty of sandcastles built, water fights had, and games of freeze tag played. And yes, we all got a little bit of a sunburn, but I’m pretty sure we’ll live. And that night, everyone, even me, was asleep before the sky had even gone dark.

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    + + grayton beach state park, florida photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + grayton beach state park, florida photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + stingrays, grayton beach state park, florida photographed by luxagraf + +
    If you look closely you can see a couple of the stingrays that cruised up and down the beach all day long.
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    8 Comments

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    + DREW ELDRIDGE + April 09, 2018 at 3:04 p.m. +
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    Title your book “Free Ranging Children”

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    Love it.

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    + Scott + April 09, 2018 at 3:40 p.m. +
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    @Drew-

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    I like that, but it already has a title I like a little bit more.

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    + Rick McQuiston + April 14, 2018 at 1:56 p.m. +
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    I am a resident on Alligator Lake, suburb of Grayton State park. Here is a reply to Athenian Arva Weinstein who sent me the link to Luxagraf:

    +

    Interesting is an understatement. Particularly Old School, right here at home.

    +

    What a guy! Scott Gilbertson is very much the Renaissance man — photographer, bird watcher, wood-working craftsman, courageous nomad who would travel deserts and mountains in an antique motor home, a father who is not raising PC snowflake snotnoses (free range children). Not to mention, having a fine way with words.

    +

    I’ve read much of Luxagraf and intend to read more. Their travels have taken them to many places near and dear to us.

    +

    Arva, I’ll bet you have many stories to tell about this guy and his family.

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    Thanks, bigtime. I will share with many, beginning with friends here on the Emerald Coast, no longer the pristine Redneck Riviera you recall.

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    + Scott + April 18, 2018 at 10:23 a.m. +
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    @Rick-

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    Thanks, that’s a nice thing to say. I’m glad you like the site and any friend of Arva’s in a friend of ours.

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    + Gwen + August 10, 2018 at 3:14 p.m. +
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    We just spent a few days in Panama City Beach. We’d never been to that part of Florida before and wouldn’t stay in Panama City again. I was looking back and reading your posts from that area of Florida. On our last day we drove by Grayton State Park. Looks like a nice area. That’s where we would go if we came back again. We did love seeing the sea life in the Gulf. Your picture here of the stingrays turned out much better than the one I took last week!

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    + Scott + August 10, 2018 at 5:25 p.m. +
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    Gwen-

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    Panama City Beach is the first place I ever went down here, and I went for spring break no less. I think everyone should do it at least once, but yes there are much nicer places. Grayton is nice, but if you come back go to St. George Island over by Apalachicola. That’s the best place on the entire Gulf side of Florida in my experience.

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    + Gwen + August 11, 2018 at 6:43 a.m. +
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    Why do you like St. George the best? How does it compare to Grayton area?

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    + Scott + August 11, 2018 at 3:00 p.m. +
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    Gwen-

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    I like it because it’s less developed. St George has very few hotels, half the island is a state park, and there’s just not much out there. I also really like Apalachicola, which is just across the bay.

    +

    The whole coastline down there is pretty similar though, there’s not a huge difference between Grayton and anywhere else within 50 miles east and west, at least in terms of the beaches. It’s all about the towns around them, I happen to like Apalachicola a lot more than the rest. There’s also St. Joseph Peninsula, which is just west of Apalachicola and really nice as well.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/old-school.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/old-school.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4286cd9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/old-school.txt @@ -0,0 +1,42 @@ +Old School +========== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 24 March 2018 + +There are a handful of places on the planet where the earth has created what are known as coastal dune lakes, fresh water lakes located within two miles of the ocean. They occur in Australia, Madagascar, New Zealand, South Carolina and here in Florida, more specifically, in Walton County. There were a handful of dune lakes at [Topsail][1] and a couple more at our next destination, Grayton State Park. + + + +These lakes are more than 10,000 years old, and play an important role in making this coastline look the way it looks. Unlike most dunes, these areas have pretty good soil. When it rains hard the lakes fill and the water escapes through what's known as an outfall, which is where the lake overwhelms the berm that separates it from the sea. When that happens fresh water floods out over the dunes, delivering nutrients, along with plants and animals that would otherwise not be on dunes. + +The lakes are also individually disinct, with varying levels of salinity and different specifies of life in each one. Probably the most popular of the lakes, from what I could tell, is here in Grayton, known as Western Lake. + + + +We were again, somehow, able to get in on some cancellations and spent four days wandering the lakeside and seashore of Grayton State Park. This time there was no RV Park, no pool and the people were mostly like us. One morning some kids from another site wandered over and started playing with our kids. Eventually the parents came by to check on their children and we got to talking. The mom told me about how she let her son, who was seven, wander wherever he wanted. He'd walked to the beach (about a mile) the day before. + +I was impressed because I often feel like we're the only people who let our kids do that sort of thing. But then the woman expressed my one great fear, that some meddling adult would end up calling the cops or otherwise harrassing our kids about doing their own thing. It's never actually happened, but I'm constantly worried about it given the average American's inability to mind their own damn business. Neither of us had any solution, but it was at least comforting to know that other parents have the same concerns. + +Eventually the other family had to go (our kids have an unfortunate knack for making friends with kids that are leaving that day). + +Not ten minutes later some woman came up to Corrinne talking about some kids she had seen "just walking down by the water" and how "someone should be watching them." Luckily for that woman she talked to Corrinne who shrugged and politely turned away. I'm not nearly as polite. + +Another blog I read regularly writes quite a bit about this meddling phenomena in other contexts and has suggested reviving the [Anti-Poke-Nose society][2] in response to people who can't seem to stop from poking their noses in other people's business. I'd love join. And seriously world, if no one's bleeding, just stay the hell out of my kids' business. + +Free ranging children wasn't the only old school thing we did at Grayton. One day we even managed to go super old school and spend all day in the sun, like I did growing up, a good six hours of sunshine, back when we weren't scared of the sun. We still aren't. + + + +There were plenty of sandcastles built, water fights had, and games of freeze tag played. And yes, we all got a little bit of a sunburn, but I'm pretty sure we'll live. And that night, everyone, even me, was asleep before the sky had even gone dark. + + + + + + + + +[1]: /jrnl/2018/03/stone-crabs +[2]: https://www.flickr.com/photos/aemays/5547187616/ diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/stone-crabs.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/stone-crabs.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6511273 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/stone-crabs.html @@ -0,0 +1,546 @@ + + + + + Stone Crabs - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Stone Crabs

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    Topsail State Park, Florida, U.S.

    + – Map +
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    After enjoying such a nice slice of wilderness, we were bound to be a little disappointed returning to the crowds.

    +

    As we headed back to the coastline we found ourselves among two peculiar breeds of American tourist, spring break partygoers in rented convertibles and snow birds in massive RVs.

    +

    To provide maximum contrast between wild and crowded, we headed first to a place called Topsail State Park and RV Resort. And yes, it really was an RV Resort — full hookups, pool, the whole bit, but inside a state park. It was the strangest campground we’ve been in and not really our scene you could say. When my wife asked if there was a trail to the beach the woman at the counter looked at her like she was crazy and apparently the first person here to contemplate walking a whole mile. There was naturally a road, complete with shuttle, that could take you to beach.

    +

    The minute Corrinne said there was a pool I knew I’d never see the beach anyway. For the kids, at this point, white sand beaches happen pretty much all the time, but pools? Pools are exotic and enticing, even when they’re the coldest pool any of us had ever set foot in.

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    + + Pool, Topsail State Beach, Florida photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Pool, Topsail State Beach, Florida photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Pool, Topsail State Beach, Florida photographed by luxagraf + +
    It was cold, take-your-breath-away cold.
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    + +

    Topsail certainly isn’t a destination for Spring Breakers, though we drove through plenty of that crowd on our way, especially in Destin. Topsail drew in the snow birds. I lost count of midwestern license plates, Ohio, Michigan, Illinois, Indiana, Minnesota, and South Dakota, but those are fulltime people1. And there were some truly massive rigs, with square footage well over the average Parisian apartment. I’ve nothing against big rigs really, it seems very limiting to me, but hey, to each their own, still, it was odd to be around such mammoth vehicles.

    +

    I’m not really sure how we ended up with a spot here in the first place. Corrinne had been refreshing the reservation page the whole time we were at East Bay and finally found something, a cancellation we were able to snatch up for a couple of days.

    +

    The pool entertained the kids, and we did make it out the beach one afternoon. We walked. It was a nice beach, though pretty crowded with people and high-rise hotels just down the shore in either direction. But if you stared out at the sea and squinted a bit, it looked more or less like Gulf Islands National Seashore.

    +
    + + Pelicans, Topsail State Beach, Florida photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Topsail State Beach, Florida photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Topsail State Beach, Florida photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Topsail State Beach, Florida photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The influx of Northerners and Midwesterns brought a return of what I call the stone-faced walk-by, which I thought we’d left behind in California.

    +

    Imagine you’re walking down a trail, or a path, a nice sun-bleached wood plank boardwalk over some dunes say, and someone else is approaching you. Now nearly everywhere I’ve been on this planet, in dozens of cultures, with dozens of language barriers, in nearly every case, everyone at least smiles and maybe attempts to exchange pleasantries, even if the latter are not maybe completely understood.

    +

    In parts of America though there’s another approach: the stone-faced walk-by.

    +

    In this scenario you not only don’t smile or exchange pleasantries. Instead you don’t acknowledge the other person at all. You completely avoid making eye contact because you’re very concerned about something over… there, anywhere really, except the direction of the approaching person. You find this spot to stare at, like it’s the guiding light that will get you through, past the terror of interacting with other people, without actually interacting, like a child who closes her eyes and momentarily pretends that nothing around her exists. And then you slide on by the other person without acknowledging their existence in any way.

    +

    It’s fascinating to watch, bizarre and a little disconcerting to experience. It helps to narrate the whole thing in your head using the voice of David Attenborough. Sometimes I swear you can almost hear the approaching person’s subvocalization: please don’t talk to please don’t talk to me please don’t talk to me.

    +

    It’s strange, very strange. But then maybe it’s the place, not the people. I didn’t notice it the time, but I ended up with pictures of the kids looking hilariously (and unintentionally) angsty while playing on the beach.

    +
    + + Topsail State Beach, Florida photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Topsail State Beach, Florida photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Different places bring out different things in you. I have a post about that, but that’s for another day. For now I’ll just say that Topsail was an oddball place; we didn’t dislike it exactly, but I think we were all ready to move on when our three nights were up.

    +
    + + Alban Eilir eggs, Topsail State Beach, Florida photographed by luxagraf + +
    Equinox eggs
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    1. +

      A lot of full time people make South Dakota their state of residence. Just as Delaware attracts corporations with tax breaks and easy incorporation processes, South Dakota has (purposefully or not, I’m not sure) made it easy to be a resident, and even get mail, without needing to actually be in the state more than once every few years. So when you see an RV with South Dakota plates, chances are, that’s a full timer. ↩

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    4 Comments

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    + Lou + April 02, 2018 at 1:29 p.m. +
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    I have missed seeing y’all’s cute camper when I drive down Holman, but really enjoyed reading about your adventures. If you have a slideshow party (I guess it’d be more of a PowerPoint party?) when you get back, please invite me :) ~Lou

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    + classical_liberal + April 04, 2018 at 8:45 a.m. +
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    I’ve spent some time is South Dakota. In the West around Rapid City it’s dominated with Libertarian types. Preppers, tattooed bikers, the modern hippy. On the East near Sioux Falls are the more socially “proper” Red Staters. In between you have Indian Reservations and ranchers. None of these folks like government being in their business, so it makes for a very deregulated state. Nice for RVer’s… could also be a good state of “residence” (as defined by SD law in a very deregulated manner) for travel nurses who like a place which allows for a multi-state RN license without continuing education requirements and no income taxes. If one were so inclined :)

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    + Scott + April 04, 2018 at 9:51 a.m. +
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    @lou-

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    We’ll be in Athens next month, we’d love to meet up with you at some point. We thought about having some sort of party, I don’t know about a slideshow :-), but a party at least.

    +

    So far though we haven’t gone beyond just thinking, oh, hey, that’d be good idea. But if we do get our act together I’ll let you know.

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    + Scott + April 04, 2018 at 9:53 a.m. +
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    @classic_liberal-

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    As much as I will be sorry to no longer officially be a Georgian, it just doesn’t make financial sense for us to have residency anywhere but South Dakota. We’ll probably change it this summer, we’re headed that way anyway.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/stone-crabs.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/stone-crabs.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8398f36 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/03/stone-crabs.txt @@ -0,0 +1,53 @@ +Stone Crabs +=========== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Tuesday, 20 March 2018 + +After enjoying such a [nice slice of wilderness][1], we were bound to be a little disappointed returning to the crowds. + +As we headed back to the coastline we found ourselves among two peculiar breeds of American tourist, spring break partygoers in rented convertibles and snow birds in massive RVs. + +To provide maximum contrast between wild and crowded, we headed first to a place called Topsail State Park and RV Resort. And yes, it really was an RV Resort -- full hookups, pool, the whole bit, but inside a state park. It was the strangest campground we've been in and not really our scene you could say. When my wife asked if there was a trail to the beach the woman at the counter looked at her like she was crazy and apparently the first person here to contemplate walking a whole mile. There was naturally a road, complete with shuttle, that could take you to beach. + +The minute Corrinne said there was a pool I knew I'd never see the beach anyway. For the kids, at this point, white sand beaches happen pretty much all the time, but pools? Pools are exotic and enticing, even when they're the coldest pool any of us had ever set foot in. + + + + + +Topsail certainly isn't a destination for Spring Breakers, though we drove through plenty of that crowd on our way, especially in Destin. Topsail drew in the snow birds. I lost count of midwestern license plates, Ohio, Michigan, Illinois, Indiana, Minnesota, and South Dakota, but those are fulltime people[^1]. And there were some truly massive rigs, with square footage well over the average Parisian apartment. I've nothing against big rigs really, it seems very limiting to me, but hey, to each their own, still, it was odd to be around such mammoth vehicles. + +I'm not really sure how we ended up with a spot here in the first place. Corrinne had been refreshing the reservation page the whole time we were at East Bay and finally found something, a cancellation we were able to snatch up for a couple of days. + +The pool entertained the kids, and we did make it out the beach one afternoon. We walked. It was a nice beach, though pretty crowded with people and high-rise hotels just down the shore in either direction. But if you stared out at the sea and squinted a bit, it looked more or less like Gulf Islands National Seashore. + + + + + + + + +The influx of Northerners and Midwesterns brought a return of what I call the stone-faced walk-by, which I thought we'd left behind in California. + +Imagine you're walking down a trail, or a path, a nice sun-bleached wood plank boardwalk over some dunes say, and someone else is approaching you. Now nearly everywhere I've been on this planet, in dozens of cultures, with dozens of language barriers, in nearly every case, everyone at least smiles and maybe attempts to exchange pleasantries, even if the latter are not maybe completely understood. + +In parts of America though there's another approach: the stone-faced walk-by. + +In this scenario you not only don't smile or exchange pleasantries. Instead you don't acknowledge the other person at all. You completely avoid making eye contact because you're very concerned about something over... there, anywhere really, except the direction of the approaching person. You find this spot to stare at, like it's the guiding light that will get you through, past the terror of interacting with other people, without actually interacting, like a child who closes her eyes and momentarily pretends that nothing around her exists. And then you slide on by the other person without acknowledging their existence in any way. + +It's fascinating to watch, bizarre and a little disconcerting to experience. It helps to narrate the whole thing in your head using the voice of David Attenborough. Sometimes I swear you can almost hear the approaching person's subvocalization: please don't talk to please don't talk to me please don't talk to me. + +It's strange, very strange. But then maybe it's the place, not the people. I didn't notice it the time, but I ended up with pictures of the kids looking hilariously (and unintentionally) angsty while playing on the beach. + + + + +Different places bring out different things in you. I have a post about that, but that's for another day. For now I'll just say that Topsail was an oddball place; we didn't dislike it exactly, but I think we were all ready to move on when our three nights were up. + + + +[1]: /jrnl/2018/03/green-sea-days +[^1]: A lot of full time people make South Dakota their state of residence. Just as Delaware attracts corporations with tax breaks and easy incorporation processes, South Dakota has (purposefully or not, I'm not sure) made it easy to be a resident, and even get mail, without needing to actually be in the state more than once every few years. So when you see an RV with South Dakota plates, chances are, that's a full timer. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/cape-san-blas.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/cape-san-blas.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e204000 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/cape-san-blas.html @@ -0,0 +1,473 @@ + + + + + Cape San Blas - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Cape San Blas

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    St Joseph State Park, Florida, U.S.

    + – Map +
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    +

    It’s been a year on the road now, so to the handful of people who ask how long we’re going to do this, I can say with some authority: more than a year.

    +
    + + St Joseph State Parkl, Cape San Blas, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    After our time in the forest we headed back down to the coast, picking up the main highway in Port St. Joe before heading out, way out, on to the long peninsula known as Cape San Blas. There’s a state park out at the end of the cape with a nice enough campground and by far the nicest beach on this stretch of the Panhandle. It doesn’t hurt that it’s only a few steps from the campground.

    +
    + + St Joseph State Parkl, Cape San Blas, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + St Joseph State Parkl, Cape San Blas, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    This is just around the corner from what I think is still our favorite spot in the Panhandle, St. George Island, Apalachicola Bay. I don’t know what it is about this stretch of Florida. Maybe it’s me. To me then everything seems just a little bit nicer here, sharper here, clearer here, the sand a little whiter, the sea a little calmer, the sun a little brighter, the bugs a little fewer. Okay that’s a lie. There’s plenty of biting midges here just like the rest of the coast.

    +

    Winter seems to have left anyway, finally, a brief rainstorm on our first day giving up a week of perfect 75 and sunny days at the beach.

    +
    + + + St Joseph State Park, Cape San Blas, FL photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + + + + + St Joseph State Park, Cape San Blas, FL photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + + + + St Joseph State Park, Cape San Blas, FL photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + + + + + St Joseph State Park, Cape San Blas, FL photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + + + + + St Joseph State Park, Cape San Blas, FL photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + + + + St Joseph State Park, Cape San Blas, FL photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + St Joseph State Parkl, Cape San Blas, FL photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + St Joseph State Parkl, Cape San Blas, FL photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    A year later we’re very close to right back where we started, which feels natural to me.

    +

    Everything moves in cycles. Time is a vast swirling whirlpool, spinning us all around and around, each time a little different than the last, but themes emerge, patterns emerge, events repeat, for us, in the world around us. It’s spring again, the birds are migrating back from the Yucatan and points south, just as they did last year. We’ve returned from our own migration. In couple of months the storms will begin to spin across the ocean, gather speed and rush toward the land. Animals, people, natural systems, everything is moving through cycles that have been repeating endlessly for longer than anyone can calculate. Don’t like where things are today? Wait a week, it’ll all change.

    +

    There are cycles within cycles. From Ice Ages to Civilizations, everything rises and fall following roughly the same cyclical trajectories. Travelers rise and fall. It’s been a year worth of rises and falls, with any luck we’ll have a many more years, many more seasons, many more migrations, many more rises and yes, many more falls.

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    1 Comment

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    + Patsy wall + April 18, 2018 at 5:07 p.m. +
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    Beautiful phots of a beautiful family and an amazing adventure! Love, ❤️

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/cape-san-blas.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/cape-san-blas.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3f27c4e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/cape-san-blas.txt @@ -0,0 +1,42 @@ +Cape San Blas +============= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 07 April 2018 + +It's been a year on the road now, so to the handful of people who ask how long we're going to do this, I can say with some authority: more than a year. + + + +After our time [in the forest][1] we headed back down to the coast, picking up the main highway in Port St. Joe before heading out, way out, on to the long peninsula known as Cape San Blas. There's a state park out at the end of the cape with a nice enough campground and by far the nicest beach on this stretch of the Panhandle. It doesn't hurt that it's only a few steps from the campground. + + + + +This is just around the corner from what I think is still our favorite spot in the Panhandle, St. George Island, Apalachicola Bay. I don't know what it is about this stretch of Florida. Maybe it's me. To me then everything seems just a little bit nicer here, sharper here, clearer here, the sand a little whiter, the sea a little calmer, the sun a little brighter, the bugs a little fewer. Okay that's a lie. There's plenty of biting midges here just like the rest of the coast. + +Winter seems to have left anyway, finally, a brief rainstorm on our first day giving up a week of perfect 75 and sunny days at the beach. + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + +A year later we're very close to right back where we started, which feels natural to me. + +Everything moves in cycles. Time is a vast swirling whirlpool, spinning us all around and around, each time a little different than the last, but themes emerge, patterns emerge, events repeat, for us, in the world around us. It's spring again, the birds are migrating back from the Yucatan and points south, just as they did last year. We've returned from our own migration. In couple of months the storms will begin to spin across the ocean, gather speed and rush toward the land. Animals, people, natural systems, everything is moving through cycles that have been repeating endlessly for longer than anyone can calculate. Don't like where things are today? Wait a week, it'll all change. + +There are cycles within cycles. From Ice Ages to Civilizations, everything rises and fall following roughly the same cyclical trajectories. Travelers rise and fall. It's been a year worth of rises and falls, with any luck we'll have a many more years, many more seasons, many more migrations, many more rises and yes, many more falls. + +[1]: /jrnl/2018/03/forest diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/migration.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/migration.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3e82f4e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/migration.html @@ -0,0 +1,540 @@ + + + + + Migration - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    + + +
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    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Migration

    + +
    +
    +

    St George Island State Park, Florida, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    If you were a bird, a small one, maybe a Palm Warbler, or a Blue-winged Warbler or perhaps an Indigo Bunting, perhaps, say, this one:

    +
    + + Indigo bunting, St George Island, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    If you were an Indigo bunting and you were down on the west coast of Costa Rica, spending winter where it was nice and warm, and you decided it was time to head north again, you’d first fly across Costa Rica, then Nicaragua, and then perhaps stopover for a bit in Honduras, and then maybe go for the short hop over the water to Cuba, but, to get to the woodlands of the Great Lakes area, which is where all your bunting friends are spending the summer these days, at some point you’d have to head out over the Gulf of Mexico, starting from either Cuba or Honduras.

    +

    Either way, it’s going to be a long flight over water.

    +

    You are, just for reference, about five inches long, weigh a couple ounces, have a heart about the size of your pinky nail and are about to fly several hundred miles without stopping, day and night. You’re not very waterproof and sink like a stone, albeit a small one. But over the ocean stopping is not an option, barring a lucky piece of driftwood or a boat. Eventually you’d make it to some Florida barrier island in state roughly similar to what those doomed early polar explorers looked like shortly before they collapsed and died.

    +

    But, assuming you make it, you just might find yourself, exhausted and starving, on the shores of St George Island.

    +
    + + Sanderling, St George Island State Park, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    St George Island is an important stopover for dozens of species of birds coming up from Cuba, the Yucatan and points well south of there, all the way to central South America in some cases. But of course most of St. George is covered in houses and not a very good place to try to find food. If you’re a bird. Or a person for that matter.

    +

    Luckily for the birds, the east end of the island is a state park with a few square miles of land set aside to be something like it was before Europeans arrived, what I imagine the birds, somewhat like the Hopi, refer to as “the previous world”.

    +
    + + Laughing Gull, St George Island State Park, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + willet, st george st park, fl photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Great Blue Heron, St George state park, fl photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + cattle egret, st george st park, fl photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Alas we all live in this world, so if you want to see birds, to the state park you go.

    +

    And we did. Another short travel day, six miles and we were done, a campsite among the birds. And, as you can see by the list at the bottom of the page, birds there were. And birders there were as well. We weren’t in camp more than hour before a couple different fellow bird watchers stopped by to let us know where the good spots were. I think sometimes birders hesitate to tell us anything because they’re more or less sending small children into the woods, and birds like quiet, whereas small children do not. But at least some of them take the risk, for which I’m thankful.

    +
    + + + + Hummingbird, St George Island State Park, FL photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + campground, st george state park, fl photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + St George Island State Park, FL photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    I find it a little odd to know that, as I sit comfortably on the beach, sipping ice cold beverages and munching on peanuts and pork skins, somewhere overhead the drama of migration is playing out and tiny little things like Indigo Buntings are completing a journey far more impressive and grand than any I’m likely to undertake1.

    +

    Higher up, above the buntings and warblers there’s even more impressive migrations happening, though many of them are accidental. The sky is full of insects. Spiders in the clouds, insects on the high winds, tons and tons of biomass moving over our heads all the time. All these concurrent lives of which we know almost nothing passing overhead, almost unnoticed save for the moments when you stop and consider them for a moment or two.

    +

    Do they consider us from up there, looking down at the strange meaty, fleshy creatures lying in the sand, apparently doing nothing but snacking? Or do they too largely just pass on by, ignoring everything else in their own quest for their version of peanuts and pork skins?

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      Aside from our impressive feats of seafaring, humans are not big travelers, as a species anyway. We got everywhere eventually, a testament to our adaptability, but also something that took a very long time to happen relative to the rest of the animal kingdom. And compared to epic twice yearly migrations of birds, insects, even some mammals, we’re more or less homebodies. ↩

      +
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    2 Comments

    + + + + + + +
    + +
    + +
    + Rick McQuiston + May 12, 2018 at 3:02 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Good perspective, different perspective.

    +

    I’ve had the great pleasure of seeing both the indigo and painted buntings here, where you visited in Old School. That was before we got generally wonderful felines and removed the bird feeders.

    +

    Haven’t heard in a while. Are you guys back in Athens?

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + May 13, 2018 at 1:12 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @rick-

    +

    That’s awesome you’ve had a chance to see painted buntings. Someday I’ll run across then.

    +

    And yes, we are in Athens now, saw Arva the other day. Hopefully I’ll get the site caught up on our adventures soon.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/migration.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/migration.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..660ea55 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/migration.txt @@ -0,0 +1,50 @@ +Migration +========= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 16 April 2018 + +If you were a bird, a small one, maybe a Palm Warbler, or a Blue-winged Warbler or perhaps an Indigo Bunting, perhaps, say, this one: + + + +If you were an Indigo bunting and you were down on the west coast of Costa Rica, spending winter where it was nice and warm, and you decided it was time to head north again, you'd first fly across Costa Rica, then Nicaragua, and then perhaps stopover for a bit in Honduras, and then maybe go for the short hop over the water to Cuba, but, to get to the woodlands of the Great Lakes area, which is where all your bunting friends are spending the summer these days, at some point you'd have to head out over the Gulf of Mexico, starting from either Cuba or Honduras. + +Either way, it's going to be a long flight over water. + +You are, just for reference, about five inches long, weigh a couple ounces, have a heart about the size of your pinky nail and are about to fly several hundred miles without stopping, day and night. You're not very waterproof and sink like a stone, albeit a small one. But over the ocean stopping is not an option, barring a lucky piece of driftwood or a boat. Eventually you'd make it to some Florida barrier island in state roughly similar to what those doomed early polar explorers looked like shortly before they collapsed and died. + +But, assuming you make it, you just might find yourself, exhausted and starving, on the shores of St George Island. + + + +St George Island is an important stopover for dozens of species of birds coming up from Cuba, the Yucatan and points well south of there, all the way to central South America in some cases. But of course most of St. George is covered in houses and not a very good place to try to find food. If you're a bird. Or a person for that matter. + +Luckily for the birds, the east end of the island is a state park with a few square miles of land set aside to be something like it was before Europeans arrived, what I imagine the birds, somewhat like the Hopi, refer to as "the previous world". + + + + + + +Alas we all live in this world, so if you want to see birds, to the state park you go. + +And we did. Another short travel day, six miles and we were done, a campsite among the birds. And, as you can see by the list at the bottom of the page, birds there were. And birders there were as well. We weren't in camp more than hour before a couple different fellow bird watchers stopped by to let us know where the good spots were. I think sometimes birders hesitate to tell us anything because they're more or less sending small children into the woods, and birds like quiet, whereas small children do not. But at least some of them take the risk, for which I'm thankful. + +
    + + + + + +
    + +I find it a little odd to know that, as I sit comfortably on the beach, sipping ice cold beverages and munching on peanuts and pork skins, somewhere overhead the drama of migration is playing out and tiny little things like Indigo Buntings are completing a journey far more impressive and grand than any I'm likely to undertake[^1]. + +Higher up, above the buntings and warblers there's even more impressive migrations happening, though many of them are accidental. The sky is full of insects. Spiders in the clouds, insects on the high winds, tons and tons of biomass moving over our heads all the time. All these concurrent lives of which we know almost nothing passing overhead, almost unnoticed save for the moments when you stop and consider them for a moment or two. + +Do they consider us from up there, looking down at the strange meaty, fleshy creatures lying in the sand, apparently doing nothing but snacking? Or do they too largely just pass on by, ignoring everything else in their own quest for their version of peanuts and pork skins? + + +[^1]: Aside from our impressive feats of seafaring, humans are not big travelers, as a species anyway. We got everywhere eventually, a testament to our adaptability, but also something that took a very long time to happen relative to the rest of the animal kingdom. And compared to epic twice yearly migrations of birds, insects, even some mammals, we're more or less homebodies. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/st-george.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/st-george.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a404b69 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/st-george.html @@ -0,0 +1,466 @@ + + + + + St George - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    St George

    + +
    +
    +

    St. George Island, Florida, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Someone who witnessed Corrinne and I trying to figure out what day of the week it was asked if we often forgot what day of the week it is. The answer is yes, yes we do. Often. There’s really no need to know in our lives. We avoid driving on Sundays (fewer auto parts stores and mechanics open), but otherwise dates and days of the week are not real pertinent to our lives.

    +

    All which is long-winded way of saying we recently ended up with a night between the end of one reservation and the beginning of another with nowhere to go. We spent it here:

    +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It was better than it looks. There was a park across the street that kept the kids busy and there’s a marina just behind where I took this picture, which always provides for entertaining characters. We met two brothers who’d been sailing for I don’t know how long, but they grew up on more or less the same street I did and remembered when it was full of boat builders. There wasn’t a boat builder left by the time I was born.

    +

    They had stories though, good stories. Most of which I’m not at liberty to repeat here. But if you ever see a couple sun worn men driving a golf cart around Apalachicola, talk to them if you can. And watch out. The one driving is technically blind.

    +

    The next day we headed over to St. George Island where we had rented a beach house to meet up with some of Corrinne’s family. The weather did not cooperate, but we still had fun.

    +
    + + St George Island, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    The roughest surf I think I’ve ever seen on St. George.
    +
    + +
    + + Dark storm clouds, St George Island, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We rented the house so there would be room for everyone, but it’s a little odd for us to be anywhere but the bus. Even when we plan it. It was also very strange to spend so much time indoors. I’d never really thought about how much we’re outside until we were inside for a week.

    +
    + + Fort, St George Island, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + ballet, St George Island, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    As soon as Corrinne’s family left it got nice and warm and sunny again, though the wind took a couple more days to die down completely. We managed to get in some beach time anyway.

    +
    + + St George Island, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + + + St George Island, FL photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + St George Island, FL photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + + boogie boarding, St George Island, FL photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + shaved ice, St George Island, FL photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +
    + + Laughing Gull, St George Island, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Fishing boat, St George Island, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    Once the wind died down the Gulf went back to being bathtub calm.
    +
    + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    We just don’t do good group shots.
    +
    +
    +
    + + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/st-george.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/st-george.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6b07b11 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/st-george.txt @@ -0,0 +1,44 @@ +St George +========= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 12 April 2018 + +Someone who witnessed Corrinne and I trying to figure out what day of the week it was asked if we often forgot what day of the week it is. The answer is yes, yes we do. Often. There's really no need to know in our lives. We avoid driving on Sundays (fewer auto parts stores and mechanics open), but otherwise dates and days of the week are not real pertinent to our lives. + +All which is long-winded way of saying we recently ended up with a night between the end of one reservation and the beginning of another with nowhere to go. We spent it here: + + + +It was better than it looks. There was a park across the street that kept the kids busy and there's a marina just behind where I took this picture, which always provides for entertaining characters. We met two brothers who'd been sailing for I don't know how long, but they grew up on more or less the same street I did and remembered when it was full of boat builders. There wasn't a boat builder left by the time I was born. + +They had stories though, good stories. Most of which I'm not at liberty to repeat here. But if you ever see a couple sun worn men driving a golf cart around Apalachicola, talk to them if you can. And watch out. The one driving is technically blind. + +The next day we headed over to St. George Island where we had rented a beach house to meet up with some of Corrinne's family. The weather did not cooperate, but we still had fun. + + + + + +We rented the house so there would be room for everyone, but it's a little odd for us to be anywhere but the bus. Even when we plan it. It was also very strange to spend so much time indoors. I'd never really thought about how much we're outside until we were inside for a week. + + + + +As soon as Corrinne's family left it got nice and warm and sunny again, though the wind took a couple more days to die down completely. We managed to get in some beach time anyway. + + +
    + + + + + + + + +
    + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/too-much-sunshine.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/too-much-sunshine.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..319ca18 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/too-much-sunshine.html @@ -0,0 +1,455 @@ + + + + + Too Much Sunshine - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Too Much Sunshine

    + +
    +
    +

    St. George Island, Florida, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    After a few days at St. George State Park we headed back down the island to the beach house for another long weekend with some friends who came down from Atlanta. We always love to meet up with friends, but by this time we’d discovered something interesting about ourselves that we sort of already knew, we don’t particularly like staying outside the bus.

    +

    I know most people think we’re crazy for living in such a small space, but for us it’s not even something we think about, it’s home. We’re also used to being outside all the time. And I mean that pretty close to literally. If we’re awake, we’re generally outside, it’s the best thing about the way we live. The thing is, it turns out that even we will stay indoors given the opportunity. Even though we know we’re happier outside. I don’t really have a good explanation or solution, other than having a tiny house.

    +
    + + St George Island, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    In the end though I know I probably sound like an asshole. Having access to a beach house, as well as an open-ended schedule that allows a more or less unlimited amount of time in this area, and yet deciding that we’ve had enough of the beach isn’t going to endear me to anyone. But there it is.

    +

    Sometimes you need a change, no matter how nice it is where you are.

    +

    There were also a couple practical considerations that drove us to leave about 10 days before we’d originally planned.

    +

    The first was that it’s starting to get hot down here. The second, and far more important reason, is that the bus needs new brakes. I called at least a dozen mechanics between New Orleans and Apalachicola and not one of them was willing or able to do the job.1 Just outside of Athens, however, there’s a truck mechanic whose been working on m300 series Dodge chassis since they were coming off the factory line. We also have friends and family willing to put us up in Athens, so to Athens we went.

    +

    But not before we went to a classic car and boat show over in Apalachicola.

    +

    I’m not really much impressed by cars these days, I was in it for the boats. Unfortunately there were only a couple boats, very nice boats, extremely well preserved/made/taken care of, but only three of them.

    +
    + + Classic car and boat show, Apalachicola, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Classic car and boat show, Apalachicola, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Classic car and boat show, Apalachicola, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    There are plenty of people keeping cars alive, but far too few keeping maritime traditions going. Future generations will suffer because we’ve turned our back on the sea as a culture. But so it goes, as Kurt Vonnegut would say.

    +

    If you want classic boats and maritime history though, Apalachicola has you covered. The Maritime Museum has quite a few restorations and a few more in progress.

    +
    + + Maritime Museum, Apalachicola, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    Small wooden boat similar to what would have been used as an oyster boat in these parts, back when the wind was all you had.
    +
    + +

    The museum’s current big restoration project is The Golden Ball, a 50 foot wooden sloop, designed by L. Francis Hereschoff and built especially for the west coast of Florida, thanks to its shallow draw (2.5 ft) and leeboard stabilizing system (controlled with block and tackle, no winches or motors). There’s a video on YouTube of her arrival in Apalachicola (on the back of a truck) along with the donor talking a little about the boat.

    +

    It’s a far larger boat than I would want — should we ever decide we want a boat — but boy would it be awesome to sail a wooden ship around the world. Nothing says fun like a family struggling to careen a worm-eaten 50-ft wood ship on some south pacific atoll. The family that careens together stays together. Probably not actually. When you come down to it, fiberglass was a pretty brilliant invention, probably up there with the ability to calculate longitude reliable on the things-that-revolutionized-seafaring scale.

    +

    Anyway our friends had never really spent any time in Apalachicola so we wandered the town for a bit, walked around the Maritime Museum and docks, along with the old canneries and warehouses that line Water Street.

    +
    + + Apalachicola, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Apalachicola, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Apalachicola, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Since no one else was interested, I wandered off to stick my head in the tent where the Golden Ball was being restored.

    +
    + + The Golden Ball, Apalachicola, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    There was no one around, it was just a big canvas shed that I guessed was covering a boat. I poked my head in, snapped a few pictures and was getting ready to head off to catch up with everyone else when a voice said, “you can go in”. I turned around and an older gentleman was crossing the street coming toward me. He gestured to the giant tent and said go in.

    +

    I said I already had. It’s a beautiful ship I told him.

    +

    He said, “thanks, but it still needs a lot of work.”

    +

    “True,” I said, “but that’s the fun part.” I told him a little about restoring the bus, far simpler than his project, but the only restoration I’ve ever done. We talked about the beauty of fiberglass over wood and metal when it comes to surviving long-term exposure to the elements.

    +

    He looked at me for a bit and then squinted a little and said, “you want to help restore this thing?”

    +

    “Absolutely,” I said. Learning wooden ship building is one of those things I’ve always wanted to do, along with welding, sewing, sailing, tracking, hunting, and several dozen other skills I’ve yet to pick up. “The problem is I don’t live around here. Worse than that I don’t really live anywhere.”

    +

    “Well, that’s easy to fix.” He smiled, “you need to move here.”

    +

    I laughed. “True, that would be the simple solution.” And it’s not often someone more or less offers to teach you wooden ship restoration. It was tempting. The most tempting settle-down-in-one-place offer I’ve had. “Someday we might,” I told him, “we do love Apalachicola, but right now we’re having too much fun on the road. Good luck with her though.”

    +

    “Thank you. And if you ever change your mind, come on down, I’m sure I’ll still be here.” He smiled.

    +

    We shook hands and he ducked inside the tent.

    +

    I set off down the street, walking fast to catch up with the family.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      There actually is one I’m pretty sure would have been capable, and had worked on the bus last year, but he was booked up three weeks out. ↩

      +
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/too-much-sunshine.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/too-much-sunshine.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d195e92 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/04/too-much-sunshine.txt @@ -0,0 +1,75 @@ +Too Much Sunshine +================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 23 April 2018 + +After a few days at St. George State Park we headed back down the island to the beach house for another long weekend with some friends who came down from Atlanta. We always love to meet up with friends, but by this time we'd discovered something interesting about ourselves that we sort of already knew, we don't particularly like staying outside the bus. + +I know most people think we're crazy for living in such a small space, but for us it's not even something we think about, it's home. We're also used to being outside all the time. And I mean that pretty close to literally. If we're awake, we're generally outside, it's the best thing about the way we live. The thing is, it turns out that even we will stay indoors given the opportunity. Even though we know we're happier outside. I don't really have a good explanation or solution, other than having a tiny house. + + + +In the end though I know I probably sound like an asshole. Having access to a beach house, as well as an open-ended schedule that allows a more or less unlimited amount of time in this area, and yet deciding that we've had enough of the beach isn't going to endear me to anyone. But there it is. + +Sometimes you need a change, no matter how nice it is where you are. + +There were also a couple practical considerations that drove us to leave about 10 days before we'd originally planned. + +The first was that it's starting to get hot down here. The second, and far more important reason, is that the bus needs new brakes. I called at least a dozen mechanics between New Orleans and Apalachicola and not one of them was willing or able to do the job.[^1] Just outside of Athens, however, there's a truck mechanic whose been working on m300 series Dodge chassis since they were coming off the factory line. We also have friends and family willing to put us up in Athens, so to Athens we went. + +But not before we went to a classic car and boat show over in Apalachicola. + +I'm not really much impressed by cars these days, I was in it for the boats. Unfortunately there were only a couple boats, very nice boats, extremely well preserved/made/taken care of, but only three of them. + + + + + + +There are plenty of people keeping cars alive, but far too few keeping maritime traditions going. Future generations will suffer because we've turned our back on the sea as a culture. But so it goes, as Kurt Vonnegut would say. + +If you want classic boats and maritime history though, Apalachicola has you covered. The Maritime Museum has quite a few restorations and a few more in progress. + + + +The museum's current big restoration project is The Golden Ball, a 50 foot wooden sloop, designed by L. Francis Hereschoff and built especially for the west coast of Florida, thanks to its shallow draw (2.5 ft) and [leeboard](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leeboard) stabilizing system (controlled with block and tackle, no winches or motors). There's a [video on YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KbXpUJQhrJM) of her arrival in Apalachicola (on the back of a truck) along with the donor talking a little about the boat. + +It's a far larger boat than I would want -- should we ever decide we want a boat -- but boy would it be awesome to sail a wooden ship around the world. Nothing says fun like a family struggling to careen a worm-eaten 50-ft wood ship on some south pacific atoll. The family that careens together stays together. Probably not actually. When you come down to it, fiberglass was a pretty brilliant invention, probably up there with the ability to calculate longitude reliable on the things-that-revolutionized-seafaring scale. + +Anyway our friends had never really spent any time in Apalachicola so we wandered the town for a bit, walked around the Maritime Museum and docks, along with the old canneries and warehouses that line Water Street. + + + + + +Since no one else was interested, I wandered off to stick my head in the tent where the Golden Ball was being restored. + + + +There was no one around, it was just a big canvas shed that I guessed was covering a boat. I poked my head in, snapped a few pictures and was getting ready to head off to catch up with everyone else when a voice said, "you can go in". I turned around and an older gentleman was crossing the street coming toward me. He gestured to the giant tent and said go in. + +I said I already had. It's a beautiful ship I told him. + +He said, "thanks, but it still needs a lot of work." + +"True," I said, "but that's the fun part." I told him a little about restoring the bus, far simpler than his project, but the only restoration I've ever done. We talked about the beauty of fiberglass over wood and metal when it comes to surviving long-term exposure to the elements. + +He looked at me for a bit and then squinted a little and said, "you want to help restore this thing?" + +"Absolutely," I said. Learning wooden ship building is one of those things I've always wanted to do, along with welding, sewing, sailing, tracking, hunting, and several dozen other skills I've yet to pick up. "The problem is I don't live around here. Worse than that I don't really live anywhere." + +"Well, that's easy to fix." He smiled, "you need to move here." + +I laughed. "True, that would be the simple solution." And it's not often someone more or less offers to teach you wooden ship restoration. It was tempting. The most tempting settle-down-in-one-place offer I've had. "Someday we might," I told him, "we do love Apalachicola, but right now we're having too much fun on the road. Good luck with her though." + +"Thank you. And if you ever change your mind, come on down, I'm sure I'll still be here." He smiled. + +We shook hands and he ducked inside the tent. + +I set off down the street, walking fast to catch up with the family. + + + +[^1]: There actually is one I'm pretty sure would have been capable, and had worked on the bus last year, but he was booked up three weeks out. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/05/keep-on-keeping-on.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/05/keep-on-keeping-on.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..210c585 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/05/keep-on-keeping-on.html @@ -0,0 +1,594 @@ + + + + + Keep On Keeping On - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Keep on Keeping on

    + +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    One day we fired up the bus and finally headed off St. George Island. We hugged the coast for a while before pointing our nose north, toward our former hometown, Athens, GA.

    +
    + + Rest area, near carrabelle, FL photographed by luxagraf + +
    The cars have changed, but otherwise this little rest area near Carrabelle, FL probably didn’t look much different when it was built half a century or more ago.
    +
    + +

    It was a slow drive, the mushy brakes never far from my mind, which gave things an edge, made it far more interesting than it should have been. But, and I know this sounds crazy, I really don’t use the brakes much in the bus. Take your foot off the gas and 10,000 lbs (or so) will stop pretty damn quickly. That’s no excuse for letting the brakes get as bad as I did, but it might explain how I made it to Athens in one piece.

    +

    We stopped overnight at Reed Bingham State Park in south Georgia. It had been several months since we’d driven more than 100 miles in a day and we were out of practice, after driving for two hours, we needed a break.

    +
    + + + + Reed Bingham State Park, George photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Reed Bingham State Park, George photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + Reed Bingham State Park, George photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    After a little time on the playground, a good night’s rest in the forest, and a dump of the tanks, we managed to make it the rest of the way to Athens.

    +

    We had couple nights in town before I dropped the bus off at the mechanic’s, so I spent the first few days in town frantically trying to get a dozen or so bus projects done. I pulled several panels of wood in the front (the little scoop air vents leak and I’m pretty sure they’ll never stop so I cut new wood and sealed with fiberglass resin, if it’s not waterproof now, it never will be), completely gutted our step area (the porch I call it), ran some new wires for new electrical outlet, repainted the kids’ room in the back, and took care of at least a dozen other little “paper cut” annoyances that needed to be solved.

    +

    And then we dropped off the bus at the truck mechanic’s shop and became homeless for about three weeks. It was our longest stretch of homelessness to date, but at least we knew it was coming and we had friends and family to take us in.

    +

    We spent a week at my in-laws’, a week with our friends who run Eastern River Expeditions and have a house on the river, a few days in our trusty tent (the guest house, should you meet up with us on the road) and then back to the in-laws, back to our friends’ house, and so on.

    +

    Many thanks to everyone who put us up. Somewhere in there we managed to celebrated a birthday, have a mother’s day water balloon fight, and beat the unseasonably warm temps playing in sprinklers.

    +
    + + Athens, GA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Water Balloon Fight, Athens, GA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Water Balloon Fight, Athens, GA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Water Balloon Fight, Athens, GA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Sprinklers, Athens, GA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + River 2, Athens, GA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pirate, Athens, GA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Spaceman, Athens, GA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Athens, GA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Athens, GA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We also made sure to stick close to a river. We have two friends that live backed up to rivers and Watson Mill State Park has a river running through it as well so we had plenty of water to keep cool in. Lilah and I even managed to catch a small bass and a sunfish of some sort. Neither was any bigger than my hand, but they were the first we’ve managed to land since Texas.

    +
    + + Sunrise on the river, Athens, GA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + River, Watson Mill State Park, GA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + tadpoles, Athens, GA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Frog, Athens, GA photographed by luxagraf + +
    We were in Athens so long the tadpoles above this picture turned into frogs.
    +
    + +
    + + rRiver, Athens, GA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Playing in the river, Athens, GA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Catching fish, Athens, GA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The bus brakes ended up taking about three weeks. Not because they were that complicated, but because the mechanic is essentially the only truck mechanic around and he’s very, very busy. The brakes turned out to be less complicated, and less expensive than I thought they would be. In the end the main problem was that the rear self adjusting screws froze up. Or rather they got so gunked up they no longer worked. When this happened I’m not sure. I know the rear brakes were smoking coming down the pass into California, but that could have been due to the axle issues. It’s possible, likely even, that we’ve never had rear brakes. That meant the front brakes were the only thing stopping the bus for quite some time, which then wore down those shoes much faster than it should have.

    +

    Now that we have new shoes in the front and working adjusters in the back I have a full pedal of brakes and she stops like a nice lightweight sedan.

    +

    Three weeks of bouncing between houses and camping, with stuff here, stuff there, projects half finished in three locations, eventually it takes its toll. I can’t tell you what a relief it was to have the bus back, I don’t know about the kids, they seemed more or less fine, but I was approaching desperation by the end of those three weeks.

    +

    We got it back on a Monday and for about 48 hours all I did was eat, sleep and work on the bus. I re-installed all the panels, ran new wiring, fixed the dinnette seat cushion, and gave it a good tune up and an oil change. Just for good measure I got some new rear shocks installed on the Volvo and changed its oil too (many thanks to John and Mike for help with the shocks).

    +

    We had a perfect weather window lined up for a Monday departure, but then somehow I got talked into staying until Wednesday, which brought plenty of rain. It was, as Snoopy would say, a dark and stormy morning when we finally pulled out of Athens.

    +

    It was nice to see our friends and family and spend some quality time with everyone, but if anyone was wondering if we’d decide to move back, uh, yeah, that’d be a very emphatic no. We love the bus and we’re still looking forward to what’s around the next bend.

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    + + + + + + +

    2 Comments

    + + + + + + +
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    + DREW + May 29, 2018 at 11:05 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Which direction are you headed now? NE for the summer?

    +

    We will be in the Glacier area come late July if we happen to cross paths that would be awesome.

    +

    Your photography is on point these days. Bravo!

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + May 30, 2018 at 11:00 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Drew-

    +

    We really wanted to get up to see y’all, but I didn’t want to push the bus over the mountains. We went west and then up. In central Tenn at the moment.

    +

    We’re headed to the great lakes area for the summer, Wisconsin and Michigan UP mostly, then west, Minnesota, Dakotas, etc. No time frame though, I’ll keep you posted.

    +

    And thanks, glad you like the photos.

    + +
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    + +
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    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/05/keep-on-keeping-on.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/05/keep-on-keeping-on.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b4e72b3 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/05/keep-on-keeping-on.txt @@ -0,0 +1,65 @@ +Keep on Keeping on +================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Friday, 18 May 2018 + +One day we fired up the bus and finally headed off St. George Island. We hugged the coast for a while before pointing our nose north, toward our former hometown, Athens, GA. + + + +It was a slow drive, the mushy brakes never far from my mind, which gave things an edge, made it far more interesting than it should have been. But, and I know this sounds crazy, I really don't use the brakes much in the bus. Take your foot off the gas and 10,000 lbs (or so) will stop pretty damn quickly. That's no excuse for letting the brakes get as bad as I did, but it might explain how I made it to Athens in one piece. + +We stopped overnight at Reed Bingham State Park in south Georgia. It had been several months since we'd driven more than 100 miles in a day and we were out of practice, after driving for two hours, we needed a break. + +
    + + + + + +
    + +After a little time on the playground, a good night's rest in the forest, and a dump of the tanks, we managed to make it the rest of the way to Athens. + +We had couple nights in town before I dropped the bus off at the mechanic's, so I spent the first few days in town frantically trying to get a dozen or so bus projects done. I pulled several panels of wood in the front (the little scoop air vents leak and I'm pretty sure they'll never stop so I cut new wood and sealed with fiberglass resin, if it's not waterproof now, it never will be), completely gutted our step area (the porch I call it), ran some new wires for new electrical outlet, repainted the kids' room in the back, and took care of at least a dozen other little "paper cut" annoyances that needed to be solved. + +And then we dropped off the bus at the truck mechanic's shop and became homeless for about three weeks. It was our longest stretch of homelessness to date, but at least we knew it was coming and we had friends and family to take us in. + +We spent a week at my in-laws', a week with our friends who run [Eastern River Expeditions](http://www.easternriverexpeditions.com/) and have a house on the river, a few days in our trusty tent (the guest house, should you meet up with us on the road) and then back to the in-laws, back to our friends' house, and so on. + +Many thanks to everyone who put us up. Somewhere in there we managed to celebrated a birthday, have a mother's day water balloon fight, and beat the unseasonably warm temps playing in sprinklers. + + + + + + + + + + + + +We also made sure to stick close to a river. We have two friends that live backed up to rivers and Watson Mill State Park has a river running through it as well so we had plenty of water to keep cool in. Lilah and I even managed to catch a small bass and a sunfish of some sort. Neither was any bigger than my hand, but they were the first we've managed to land since Texas. + + + + + + + + + +The bus brakes ended up taking about three weeks. Not because they were that complicated, but because the mechanic is essentially the only truck mechanic around and he's very, very busy. The brakes turned out to be less complicated, and less expensive than I thought they would be. In the end the main problem was that the rear self adjusting screws froze up. Or rather they got so gunked up they no longer worked. When this happened I'm not sure. I know the rear brakes were smoking coming down the pass into California, but that could have been due to the axle issues. It's possible, likely even, that we've never had rear brakes. That meant the front brakes were the only thing stopping the bus for quite some time, which then wore down those shoes much faster than it should have. + +Now that we have new shoes in the front and working adjusters in the back I have a full pedal of brakes and she stops like a nice lightweight sedan. + +Three weeks of bouncing between houses and camping, with stuff here, stuff there, projects half finished in three locations, eventually it takes its toll. I can't tell you what a relief it was to have the bus back, I don't know about the kids, they seemed more or less fine, but I was approaching desperation by the end of those three weeks. + +We got it back on a Monday and for about 48 hours all I did was eat, sleep and work on the bus. I re-installed all the panels, ran new wiring, fixed the dinnette seat cushion, and gave it a good tune up and an oil change. Just for good measure I got some new rear shocks installed on the Volvo and changed its oil too (many thanks to John and Mike for help with the shocks). + +We had a perfect weather window lined up for a Monday departure, but then somehow I got talked into staying until Wednesday, which brought plenty of rain. It was, as Snoopy would say, a dark and stormy morning when we finally pulled out of Athens. + +It was nice to see our friends and family and spend some quality time with everyone, but if anyone was wondering if we'd decide to move back, uh, yeah, that'd be a very emphatic no. We love the bus and we're still looking forward to what's around the next bend. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/05/thunder-road.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/05/thunder-road.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e5335bb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/05/thunder-road.html @@ -0,0 +1,512 @@ + + + + + Thunder Road - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
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    +

    Thunder Road

    + +
    +
    +

    Meriweather Lewis Campground, Natchez Trace, Tennessee, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    There was a line of thunderheads just north of us and another just south, but we managed to slide right through Atlanta with hardly a drop of rain on the windshield.

    +

    Sometimes I forget that most people drive cars that allow them to more or less disregard the weather. We don’t. I can drive the bus through a storm, and I have, but if we can avoid it by staying put for a day or leaving a day early, we usually do. When we slide right between two of them, I won’t lie, we feel a little more clever than usual.

    +

    We spent our first night back on the road at a small campground somewhere in Alabama. We got up the next day and hit the road early. As is par for the course, we didn’t realize it was Memorial Day until it was really too late to plan for it. Most campgrounds we could find that took reservations were already full. We went with our usual plan, find a campground with no electricity. Take away people’s ability to run the air conditioning and televisions 24/7 and you’re pretty much guaranteed to find an empty campground.

    +
    + + Natchez Trace Parkway photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    And we did, right in the middle of the Natchez Trace, one of the oldest thoroughfares on the continent. It probably started with big game during the last ice age and then various tribes picked it up as well. By the time Europeans arrived it was pretty much a highway connecting the Choctaw, Natchez and Chickasaw nations. These days it’s a smoothly paved road that doesn’t allow trucks.

    +

    The Meriwether Lewis campground is somewhere in the middle, a bit toward Nashville. It’s where the explorer lived and died I believe, though honestly we never made it to the monument.

    +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    Definitely the most backwoods rig we’ve seen. I’d have taken a better picture, but they wanted money for it, which, uh, yeah, no.
    +
    + +

    The campground was one of those head scratchers for me. It’s really nice, up on a ridge in the middle of a mostly beech and oak forest, cool breezes, plenty of shade and pretty level sites, a water spigot, bathrooms with flush toilets, trash pickup and yet totally free. I mean I get it, my tax dollars at work, but why not charge a few bucks to cover some of the costs? Like everyone else, I love free camping, but when something is free I don’t expect luxuries like picnic tables and bathrooms. I expect to not be hassled about where I’m parked and not much else. Amenities and free together doesn’t seem sustainable to me, but then I’ve never been over the Interior Department’s books, so what do I know?

    +

    Whatever the case we claimed a spot on Thursday and didn’t leave all through the weekend. Memorial Day, survived. We didn’t get a lot of sun, but we managed. By the time we left nearly a week later our batteries were way lower than you should ever let your batteries get. Somehow though ours keep on going though, sorta.

    +

    We sat out some thunderstorms, sweating a bit in the bus. Those gloriously huge windows don’t do you much good with it’s storming too hard to have the awning out.

    +

    It wasn’t all rain though, usually just a couple of thundershowers around midday and then it would be overcast, but plenty warm enough to head down to the creek and cool off playing in the water, catching frogs, chasing minnows, throwing rocks.

    +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + little swan creek, Meriwether Lewis campground photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + little swan creek, Meriwether Lewis campground photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + little swan creek, Meriwether Lewis campground photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + little swan creek, Meriwether Lewis campground photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We tried to get in the water every day to make sure we got the ticks off us. This part of Tennessee has ticks like nowhere I’ve ever been. Most of them are not deer ticks thankfully, but ticks suck even if they don’t carry some disease.

    +

    One afternoon I drove a few miles up the road to dump the tanks at a nearby RV park and couldn’t help noticing how badly rusted our black tank straps had become. It was on my mind because someone in a Facebook group that Corrinne belongs to posted a story about their black tank falling off and smashing all over the ground while they drove through a campground. Awkward.

    +

    We already refer to small towns we can’t remember the name of by saying things like, “you know, the one where the fuel line cracked?” or “What was that place, where the rear transmission mount almost fell off?”; “What was that place where you hitchhiked to get a new alternator?”

    +

    I really did not want to have one of these that went, “you know, that campground where we dropped the black tank on the ground?”

    +

    When I got back from dumping I crawled under the tank with a flashlight to get serious about things and realized that one of our straps was already cracked about halfway through. It is 1969 steel so it probably had some life left in it, but I didn’t want to risk it.

    +

    I called a few auto parts stores in the area looking for fuel tank straps, but no one had anything. I ended up driving the Volvo to the nearest good size town, which had a Lowes, and bought some aluminum, some large sheet metal screws and two long drill bit extensions. A couple hours under the black tank and I had a nice new strap in place. The only problem was that when I jacked up the tank to lift it off the old strap, I cracked it. So two days later I was back at the RV park dumped it again, dried the outside and got busy with the fiberglass and resin. Fun times.

    +

    Nothing makes a creek bath feel sweet like an afternoon of sweating, fiberglass, and resin.

    +

    That night we were sitting around the fire after dinner when a pair of summer tanagers flew right up to us, chatting away as if we didn’t exist. The male sat up in the tree, chirping away, almost like he was giving suggestions to the female that was down on the ground gather sticks and pine needles in her beak. Then they’d fly away and come back a bit later for more.

    +
    + + Summer Tanager, meriwether lewis campground photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The whole time they didn’t seem bothered by our presence, even the kids playing quite loudly, at all. It was the start of something of a running theme the last couple weeks in Tennessee — birds just fly right up to us. This morning a hawk landed about 10 feet from us and just sat there on the ground, occasionally looking over at us, but for the most part seemingly unconcerned about our existence.

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    3 Comments

    + + + + + + +
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    + Gwen + June 06, 2018 at 1:18 p.m. +
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    David was planning to bike pack the Natchez Trace with a friend this past week, but ended up cancelling….

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    + DREW ELDRIDGE + June 06, 2018 at 3:02 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    I had my first run in with seed ticks last year. Id say a hundred or so on my torso. I walked out of the woods and my arm was crawling with what I thought were mites. My friend told me differently. I had them embedded in my back and just gave Mia (10 at the time) a knife and told her to scrape them off… “Move the knife up to down, not side to side!” She decided she couldnt do it- so I held the knife and she guided my hand.

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    + Scott + June 06, 2018 at 3:59 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @Drew-

    +

    Ugh, that sounds awful.

    +

    Apparently Rose Geranium oil will keep them away, we just got some so I’ll let you know. They’re not as bad here in the St. Louis area, but they’re definitely still around.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/05/thunder-road.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/05/thunder-road.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..abf159c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/05/thunder-road.txt @@ -0,0 +1,55 @@ +Thunder Road +============ + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 30 May 2018 + +There was a line of thunderheads just north of us and another just south, but we managed to slide right through Atlanta with hardly a drop of rain on the windshield. + +Sometimes I forget that most people drive cars that allow them to more or less disregard the weather. We don't. I can drive the bus through a storm, and I have, but if we can avoid it by staying put for a day or leaving a day early, we usually do. When we slide right between two of them, I won't lie, we feel a little more clever than usual. + +We spent our first night back on the road at a small campground somewhere in Alabama. We got up the next day and hit the road early. As is par for the course, we didn't realize it was Memorial Day until it was really too late to plan for it. Most campgrounds we could find that took reservations were already full. We went with our usual plan, find a campground with no electricity. Take away people's ability to run the air conditioning and televisions 24/7 and you're pretty much guaranteed to find an empty campground. + + + +And we did, right in the middle of the Natchez Trace, one of the oldest thoroughfares on the continent. It probably started with big game during the last ice age and then various tribes picked it up as well. By the time Europeans arrived it was pretty much a highway connecting the Choctaw, Natchez and Chickasaw nations. These days it's a smoothly paved road that doesn't allow trucks. + +The Meriwether Lewis campground is somewhere in the middle, a bit toward Nashville. It's where the explorer lived and died I believe, though honestly we never made it to the monument. + + + +The campground was one of those head scratchers for me. It's really nice, up on a ridge in the middle of a mostly beech and oak forest, cool breezes, plenty of shade and pretty level sites, a water spigot, bathrooms with flush toilets, trash pickup and yet totally free. I mean I get it, my tax dollars at work, but why not charge a few bucks to cover some of the costs? Like everyone else, I love free camping, but when something is free I don't expect luxuries like picnic tables and bathrooms. I expect to not be hassled about where I'm parked and not much else. Amenities and free together doesn't seem sustainable to me, but then I've never been over the Interior Department's books, so what do I know? + +Whatever the case we claimed a spot on Thursday and didn't leave all through the weekend. Memorial Day, survived. We didn't get a lot of sun, but we managed. By the time we left nearly a week later our batteries were way lower than you should ever let your batteries get. Somehow though ours keep on going though, sorta. + +We sat out some thunderstorms, sweating a bit in the bus. Those gloriously huge windows don't do you much good with it's storming too hard to have the awning out. + + +It wasn't all rain though, usually just a couple of thundershowers around midday and then it would be overcast, but plenty warm enough to head down to the creek and cool off playing in the water, catching frogs, chasing minnows, throwing rocks. + + + + + + + +We tried to get in the water every day to make sure we got the ticks off us. This part of Tennessee has ticks like nowhere I've ever been. Most of them are not deer ticks thankfully, but ticks suck even if they don't carry some disease. + +One afternoon I drove a few miles up the road to dump the tanks at a nearby RV park and couldn't help noticing how badly rusted our black tank straps had become. It was on my mind because someone in a Facebook group that Corrinne belongs to posted a story about their black tank falling off and smashing all over the ground while they drove through a campground. Awkward. + +We already refer to small towns we can't remember the name of by saying things like, "you know, the one where the fuel line cracked?" or "What was that place, where the rear transmission mount almost fell off?"; "What was that place where you hitchhiked to get a new alternator?" + +I really did not want to have one of these that went, "you know, that campground where we dropped the black tank on the ground?" + +When I got back from dumping I crawled under the tank with a flashlight to get serious about things and realized that one of our straps was already cracked about halfway through. It is 1969 steel so it probably had some life left in it, but I didn't want to risk it. + +I called a few auto parts stores in the area looking for fuel tank straps, but no one had anything. I ended up driving the Volvo to the nearest good size town, which had a Lowes, and bought some aluminum, some large sheet metal screws and two long drill bit extensions. A couple hours under the black tank and I had a nice new strap in place. The only problem was that when I jacked up the tank to lift it off the old strap, I cracked it. So two days later I was back at the RV park dumped it again, dried the outside and got busy with the fiberglass and resin. Fun times. + +Nothing makes a creek bath feel sweet like an afternoon of sweating, fiberglass, and resin. + +That night we were sitting around the fire after dinner when a pair of summer tanagers flew right up to us, chatting away as if we didn't exist. The male sat up in the tree, chirping away, almost like he was giving suggestions to the female that was down on the ground gather sticks and pine needles in her beak. Then they'd fly away and come back a bit later for more. + + + +The whole time they didn't seem bothered by our presence, even the kids playing quite loudly, at all. It was the start of something of a running theme the last couple weeks in Tennessee -- birds just fly right up to us. This morning a hawk landed about 10 feet from us and just sat there on the ground, occasionally looking over at us, but for the most part seemingly unconcerned about our existence. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/alberto-and-land-between-lakes.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/alberto-and-land-between-lakes.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f466e5a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/alberto-and-land-between-lakes.html @@ -0,0 +1,547 @@ + + + + + Alberto And The Land Between The Lakes - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Alberto and the Land Between the Lakes

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    Land Between the Lakes, Kentucky, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
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    +

    We outran the storms of the better part of a week, but eventually the remnants of Alberto caught up to us in northern Tennessee. We spent a couple nights at Mousetail Landing campground, mostly because it was on a ridge, no flooding to worry about. We got there early, barely lunch time. On the way up we passed this sign, which gave me pause.

    +
    + + sign, mousetail landing, TN photographed by luxagraf + +
    Uh…
    +
    + +

    I dropped it in first and we made the top. It was a pretty good grade, but not that bad. We had the campground to ourselves the first night, well most of the night. I took the kids down to the playground for a while before the rain started.

    +
    + + Playground, mousetail landings, TN photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The rain kicked in about three that afternoon and didn’t let up for about twelve hours. Luckily we keep plenty of rainy day activities on hand, though no matter how much there is to do eventually patience wears thin.

    +
    + + + + None photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + drawing in the bus photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf +
    Rain makes people grumpy.
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    + + None photographed by luxagraf +
    The first day at the playground the kids discovered tetherball, but Elliott was a little short. The next day he came prepared.
    +
    + + +     +
    + +

    At some point in the night ranger had to move Larry, the only other camper around, from the lower campground up to the ridge because the river flooded. We didn’t actually know anything about it until the next morning when we met Larry, but he had a far soggier night than we did. Aside from the front window seals, which have always leaked, there was hardly any water coming in the bus. Which means nothing, but until you remember that it makes you feel good.

    +

    The next day was still a soggy, humid one outside. We plugged in the air conditioner and tried to de-humidify and dry things out. We did a little laundry, gave Larry a ride to a grocery store (he was paddling down the Tennessee River and had no ride for a week, and no where to go now the river was way too high to run) and hung out around camp. The next morning we said our goodbyes and continued on to Land Between the Lakes, which is a rarity for American names, it is what it says on the tin.

    +
    + + travco, TN photographed by luxagraf + +
    The fifth Travco we’ve run across. These are called Travco Esprit, they’re sort of the cousin Eddie of the Travco family, but it does says Travco on the back.
    +
    + +

    Land Between the Lakes is one of the places we run across every so often that draws in semi-permanent residents. You find people well settled for the summer, rigs with full size refrigerators next to them, grills bigger than the one I had at our old house and golf carts, oh the golf carts.

    +

    We stick out like sore thumbs at these places, but that’s fine, at this point we’re pretty well used to the attention. I’m not sure it’d feel like camping if half the campground didn’t stop by to say hi and ask about the bus. Meeting new people is why I travel so I like it. Usually. I do wonder about the people who come up to me at the dump station, but otherwise. What interests me about these semi-permanent residents at campgrounds like this is that they’re actually living the way the semi-nomadic people of the world have always lived — winter in something designed for warmth, summer in something with easier access to outside. I often wonder why more of us don’t do that, it’s still fairly common in much of the world.

    +

    Land Between the Lakes is what is says it is, a huge chunk of land wedged between two large reservoirs.

    +
    + + Land Between the Lakes, TN photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Most people seem to come for the fishing and boating. We drove around a bit and more or less felt like we had the place to ourselves. We discovered a road with a bridge that was out, found a herd of buffalo, saw a bright yellow flock of Goldfinches flying through a field of wildflowers that looked like you’d imagine a prairie should look if you didn’t know what a prairie looked like, which I don’t.

    +
    + + Buffalo, Land Between the Lakes, TN photographed by luxagraf + +
    Somewhere beyond that fence, lost in the grass, are buffalo.
    +
    + +

    Then we stopped at the 1850’s era farm that’s been preserved. I find these places somewhat tedious, but Corrinne and the kids love it. I like the history aspect, especially in this case because people are actually still running the farm as it would have been run in the 1850s, in period correct clothing no less. It’s living history, and that’s pretty cool.

    +
    + + Farmhouse, Land Between the Lakes, TN photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Land Between the Lakes, TN photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    That said, it’s probably no surprise that my interests lie with the more nomadic people of history. I like the mystery of people who left only fire rings and animal bones here and there. The sort of people that left archaeological finds that tell little other than the obvious — the ship lost its anchor in this little cove, the hunting party paused for a fire in the shelter of this cave, the hazelnuts were processed at this camp by the river, the clam shells where dumped in a mound here and so on. What these people thought, believed, loved, hated, revered, despised, or just did all day — all lost in the fog of time.

    +

    As one of my favorite characters says, referring to her desire to not have a gravestone: “I do not need a marker of my passage, for my creator knows where I am…. I lived a good life, my hair turned to snow, I saw my great grandchildren, I grew my garden. That is all.”

    +

    Still, I completely understand why the rest of my family loves to visit places like the farm. It’s a way to step into the past and momentarily feel like you’re part of it.

    +
    + + Land Between the Lakes, TN photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Land Between the Lakes, TN photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Land Between the Lakes, TN photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Land Between the Lakes, TN photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We’re probably something of a letdown to the re-enactors though. We shuffle into a two room house and they say something to kids along the lines of “can you imagine if you all had to live in something this small?” The kids stare and don’t know what to say and then we explain that we actually live in something smaller right now and that two rooms is fairly palatial by our standards. Then there’s an awkward moment of silence.

    +

    And it is interesting to see how the various European immigrants did things a little differently depending on what they were used to back home. But in every case so far, when I see how people chose to live I can’t help sitting there thinking, why…? Why were you fighting against the land? Why spend all this effort reshaping the land to meet your preconceived ideas of what it should be when others had been living off it for millennia working considerably less than the average newly arrived agriculturist?

    +

    One thing that becomes apparent quickly when rummaging around in the European immigrant history of America is that only one among millions seems to have ever bothered to find out what the people already living in any area were doing. And for whatever reason those one in a million turn out pretty frequently to be French. The guiding light of settlement in most of the US seems to have been hubris and a misplaced sense of self assuredness. Basically the two American qualities that continue to irritate the rest of the world.

    +

    That’s not to say the farm didn’t have its clever ideas, and clever uses of limited resources. It certainly did and I’m glad there are people out there keeping these ideas alive. But it’s sort of funny that many of the things we do for fun — hunting, fishing, hiking/walking, going to picking berries and other fruits, etc — are the things hunting and foraging tribes, well, just do. Something to think about.

    +

    Whatever the case, the kids had fun wandering the farm and we happened to be there when they were feeding the animals and putting them in the barns for the night. We watched chickens and ducks get driven into the coop, sheep and pigs fed and led to the barn and we even managed to get let back into the big barns to see the largest mules I’ve ever come across.

    +
    + + + Land Between the Lakes, TN photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + Toys from 1850, Land Between the Lakes, TN photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Toys from 1850, Land Between the Lakes, TN photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    And of course there was the hawk I mentioned in the last post. It just flew in a hung out one morning. The minute we left Tennessee the birds stopped being so friendly. I have no explanation for that.

    +
    + + Hawk, Land Between the Lakes, TN photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    On a totally different note, a couple luxagraf readers have asked where we’re headed this summer. We’re not entirely sure, but the rough plan is to visit Wisconsin, go around the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, then back west into Minnesota and the Dakotas, then south through Nebraska, Kansas, Colorado, and down to either Texas/New Mexico. I mention this because if you’re in that route and you want to meet up, drop me an email.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/alberto-and-land-between-lakes.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/alberto-and-land-between-lakes.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2cc6b1b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/alberto-and-land-between-lakes.txt @@ -0,0 +1,86 @@ +Alberto and the Land Between the Lakes +====================================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 02 June 2018 + +We outran the storms of the better part of a week, but eventually the remnants of Alberto caught up to us in northern Tennessee. We spent a couple nights at Mousetail Landing campground, mostly because it was on a ridge, no flooding to worry about. We got there early, barely lunch time. On the way up we passed this sign, which gave me pause. + + + +I dropped it in first and we made the top. It was a pretty good grade, but not that bad. We had the campground to ourselves the first night, well most of the night. I took the kids down to the playground for a while before the rain started. + + + +The rain kicked in about three that afternoon and didn't let up for about twelve hours. Luckily we keep plenty of rainy day activities on hand, though no matter how much there is to do eventually patience wears thin. + +
    + + + + + + + + +
    + +At some point in the night ranger had to move Larry, the only other camper around, from the lower campground up to the ridge because the river flooded. We didn't actually know anything about it until the next morning when we met Larry, but he had a far soggier night than we did. Aside from the front window seals, which have always leaked, there was hardly any water coming in the bus. Which means nothing, but until you remember that it makes you feel good. + +The next day was still a soggy, humid one outside. We plugged in the air conditioner and tried to de-humidify and dry things out. We did a little laundry, gave Larry a ride to a grocery store (he was paddling down the Tennessee River and had no ride for a week, and no where to go now the river was way too high to run) and hung out around camp. The next morning we said our goodbyes and continued on to Land Between the Lakes, which is a rarity for American names, it is what it says on the tin. + + + +Land Between the Lakes is one of the places we run across every so often that draws in semi-permanent residents. You find people well settled for the summer, rigs with full size refrigerators next to them, grills bigger than the one I had at our old house and golf carts, oh the golf carts. + +We stick out like sore thumbs at these places, but that's fine, at this point we're pretty well used to the attention. I'm not sure it'd feel like camping if half the campground didn't stop by to say hi and ask about the bus. Meeting new people is why I travel so I like it. Usually. I do wonder about the people who come up to me at the dump station, but otherwise. What interests me about these semi-permanent residents at campgrounds like this is that they're actually living the way the semi-nomadic people of the world have always lived -- winter in something designed for warmth, summer in something with easier access to outside. I often wonder why more of us don't do that, it's still fairly common in much of the world. + +Land Between the Lakes is what is says it is, a huge chunk of land wedged between two large reservoirs. + + + +Most people seem to come for the fishing and boating. We drove around a bit and more or less felt like we had the place to ourselves. We discovered a road with a bridge that was out, found a herd of buffalo, saw a bright yellow flock of Goldfinches flying through a field of wildflowers that looked like you'd imagine a prairie should look if you didn't know what a prairie looked like, which I don't. + + + +Then we stopped at the 1850's era farm that's been preserved. I find these places somewhat tedious, but Corrinne and the kids love it. I like the history aspect, especially in this case because people are actually still running the farm as it would have been run in the 1850s, in period correct clothing no less. It's living history, and that's pretty cool. + + + + +That said, it's probably no surprise that my interests lie with the more nomadic people of history. I like the mystery of people who left only fire rings and animal bones here and there. The sort of people that left archaeological finds that tell little other than the obvious -- the ship lost its anchor in this little cove, the hunting party paused for a fire in the shelter of this cave, the hazelnuts were processed at this camp by the river, the clam shells where dumped in a mound here and so on. What these people thought, believed, loved, hated, revered, despised, or just did all day -- all lost in the fog of time. + +As one of my favorite characters says, referring to her desire to not have a gravestone: "I do not need a marker of my passage, for my creator knows where I am.... I lived a good life, my hair turned to snow, I saw my great grandchildren, I grew my garden. That is all." + +Still, I completely understand why the rest of my family loves to visit places like the farm. It's a way to step into the past and momentarily feel like you're part of it. + + + + + + + +We're probably something of a letdown to the re-enactors though. We shuffle into a two room house and they say something to kids along the lines of "can you imagine if you all had to live in something this small?" The kids stare and don't know what to say and then we explain that we actually live in something smaller right now and that two rooms is fairly palatial by our standards. Then there's an awkward moment of silence. + +And it is interesting to see how the various European immigrants did things a little differently depending on what they were used to back home. But in every case so far, when I see how people chose to live I can't help sitting there thinking, why...? Why were you fighting against the land? Why spend all this effort reshaping the land to meet your preconceived ideas of what it should be when others had been living off it for millennia working considerably less than the average newly arrived agriculturist? + +One thing that becomes apparent quickly when rummaging around in the European immigrant history of America is that only one among millions seems to have ever bothered to find out what the people already living in any area were doing. And for whatever reason those one in a million turn out pretty frequently to be French. The guiding light of settlement in most of the US seems to have been hubris and a misplaced sense of self assuredness. Basically the two American qualities that continue to irritate the rest of the world. + +That's not to say the farm didn't have its clever ideas, and clever uses of limited resources. It certainly did and I'm glad there are people out there keeping these ideas alive. But it's sort of funny that many of the things we do for fun -- hunting, fishing, hiking/walking, going to picking berries and other fruits, etc -- are the things hunting and foraging tribes, well, just do. Something to think about. + +Whatever the case, the kids had fun wandering the farm and we happened to be there when they were feeding the animals and putting them in the barns for the night. We watched chickens and ducks get driven into the coop, sheep and pigs fed and led to the barn and we even managed to get let back into the big barns to see the largest mules I've ever come across. + +
    + + + + + +
    + +And of course there was the hawk I mentioned in the last post. It just flew in a hung out one morning. The minute we left Tennessee the birds stopped being so friendly. I have no explanation for that. + + + +On a totally different note, a couple luxagraf readers have asked where we're headed this summer. We're not entirely sure, but the rough plan is to visit Wisconsin, go around the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, then back west into Minnesota and the Dakotas, then south through Nebraska, Kansas, Colorado, and down to either Texas/New Mexico. I mention this because if you're in that route and you want to meet up, drop me an email. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/illinois.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/illinois.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f542184 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/illinois.html @@ -0,0 +1,443 @@ + + + + + Illinois - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Illinois

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    Garden of the Gods, Illinois, U.S.

    + – Map +
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    After the City Museum there didn’t seem to be any real reason to stay in St. Louis, and the temperatures kept rising. We’re generally okay until about 95 during the day, after that it’s rough without air conditioning in this humidity. There were no electric sites left at the St. Louis campground so we headed north, to a campground just over the river in Illinois. Unfortunately that one turned out to be full, so we pushed on further north and found Beaver Dam State Park.

    +

    One of the few guidebook series I actually like is Smithsonian’s various guides to “natural” America1. The one for Illinois starts off with something to the affect: “Only one state has less public land than Illinois”. I read that back when we were in Athens and I thought, okay, well, how bad can it be really? Turns out… While it does have a few places in the southern part of the state, generally speaking, Illinois got used up before the push for public land preservation of the late 19th century could get much of it set aside.

    +

    For the most part, Illinois is a desert of corn.

    +

    From researching the seed strains and brands I saw advertised it would seem that the vast majority of the corn is not for food, but goes to the production of ethanol which (unless you’re lucky) ends up in your gas tank. Author and adventurer Craig Childs has an essay about hiking through these lifeless fields of corn in his book, Apocalyptic Planet. After two days of hiking in Iowa cornfields the only living things Childs finds, besides himself and corn, are two spiders and a species of fungus.

    +
    + + Illinois, this is what it looks like. All of it. photographed by luxagraf + +
    Illinois, this is what it looks like. All of it. Seriously.
    +
    + +

    Dotted around, almost as if someone salted some green on the map as an afterthought, are little pockets of land generally just large enough for a small lake to draw in fisherman, the bare minimum of forest necessary to grant two hunting permits a year, and a little room left over for a campground. There are generally no other attractions, nothing that warrants a ranger station, nothing that needs a map. At Beaver Dam, if you opt for the back edge of the campground, you’ll have one row of trees and then the endless expanse of cornfields spread out before you.

    +

    The kids loved Beaver Dam though, so we stayed a few days. They loved it because it was full of kids. For the first time in quite a while they made new friends. And for the first time they got to run about in a gang of kids, roaming the campground the way we used to roam the neighborhood before everyone got scared of everything and started tracking their kids’ every movement.

    +

    The kids would jump up out of bed in the morning and run to the front of the bus and tear down the curtains to see if any of their friends were out riding their bikes yet. We tried to explain to them that most people sleep past six, but they just don’t really have an context to understand that. Once there was someone else up and about they’d take off not to be heard from again until evening, except when they needed snacks.

    +
    + + Beaver Dam State Park, IL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Beaver Dam State Park, IL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Corrinne and I mostly sat around and read, there’s wasn’t anything else to do really. There were a ton of red headed woodpeckers in the campground, probably because it had the only trees for hundreds of miles, so I took probably 200 photos until I got a couple I was happy with..

    +
    + + Red Headed Woodpecker, IL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We’d made plans to meet my parents down in the southern part of the state, so after the families went home Sunday afternoon and the kid gang shrank in size to just three, we packed it up and headed south to the auspiciously named Garden of the Gods. No, not the one in Colorado. This one is the limestone remnants of where the Gulf of Mexico’s waters used to lap at the sand.

    +
    + + Garden of the Gods, IL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Garden of the Gods gives something of a glimpse of what the wooded parts of Illinois were probably like hundreds of years ago. There’s a campground up on a ridge overlooking the area, which also manages to catch a little more breeze than most of the surrounding area. There were also some pines and junipers mixed in with the hardwoods, which made it feel more like being in the mountains.

    +
    + + Garden of the Gods, IL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The geology here is such that a lot of iron got mixed into the rock and formed interesting patterns. We hiked around one day, had lunch in the woods and let the kids climb rocks for a while. If you squinted hard enough and ignored the humidity it was almost like our time in Colorado last summer.

    +
    + + Garden of the Gods, IL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Garden of the Gods, IL photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Garden of the Gods, IL photographed by luxagraf + +
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    The first campsite we had was right next to a pretty good size blackberry patch. They weren’t really ripe, but tart berries you picked yourself still beat ripe ones from the store any day.

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    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Garden of the Gods was the nicest place we saw in Illinois, but it was still brutally hot and humid. Normally I don’t complain about the heat, but here’s the thing, if it’s going to be hot there needs to be a payoff — ancient ruins, beautiful beaches, spectacular deserts, or what have you. Illinois has some trees and lots of biting insects.

    +

    So when I found out my parents might not be able to make their trip due to illness anyway, we jumped at the chance to have them reschedule to meet us elsewhere. Fortunately they were able to do it, so while the kids were disappointed they’d have to wait to see their grandparents, we were all thankful to have no reason to stay in Illinois.

    +

    Unfortunately, the minute we hit the road north, a heat wave plowed through and send the temps into the triple digits, which made our drives miserable. We somehow traversed the rest of the state in two days, but we finally gave up just outside Chicago where we got a campsite with electricity, cranked the air to high and barricaded ourselves against the heat for a few days.

    +
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      I really wish they also had a series, Guide to Unnatural America. Or would change the title of the Natural America series to “wild” America or something similar. ↩

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    + + +
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    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/illinois.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/illinois.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..954a53f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/illinois.txt @@ -0,0 +1,58 @@ +Illinois +======== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 14 June 2018 + +After the City Museum there didn't seem to be any real reason to stay in St. Louis, and the temperatures kept rising. We're generally okay until about 95 during the day, after that it's rough without air conditioning in this humidity. There were no electric sites left at the St. Louis campground so we headed north, to a campground just over the river in Illinois. Unfortunately that one turned out to be full, so we pushed on further north and found Beaver Dam State Park. + +One of the few guidebook series I actually like is Smithsonian's various guides to "natural" America[^1]. The one for Illinois starts off with something to the affect: "Only one state has less public land than Illinois". I read that back when we were in Athens and I thought, okay, well, how bad can it be really? Turns out... While it does have a few places in the southern part of the state, generally speaking, Illinois got used up before the push for public land preservation of the late 19th century could get much of it set aside. + +For the most part, Illinois is a desert of corn. + +From researching the seed strains and brands I saw advertised it would seem that the vast majority of the corn is not for food, but goes to the production of ethanol which (unless you're lucky) ends up in your gas tank. Author and adventurer Craig Childs has an essay about hiking through these lifeless fields of corn in his book, Apocalyptic Planet. After two days of hiking in Iowa cornfields the only living things Childs finds, besides himself and corn, are two spiders and a species of fungus. + + + +Dotted around, almost as if someone salted some green on the map as an afterthought, are little pockets of land generally just large enough for a small lake to draw in fisherman, the bare minimum of forest necessary to grant two hunting permits a year, and a little room left over for a campground. There are generally no other attractions, nothing that warrants a ranger station, nothing that needs a map. At Beaver Dam, if you opt for the back edge of the campground, you'll have one row of trees and then the endless expanse of cornfields spread out before you. + +The kids loved Beaver Dam though, so we stayed a few days. They loved it because it was full of kids. For the first time in quite a while they made new friends. And for the first time they got to run about in a gang of kids, roaming the campground the way we used to roam the neighborhood before everyone got scared of everything and started tracking their kids' every movement. + +The kids would jump up out of bed in the morning and run to the front of the bus and tear down the curtains to see if any of their friends were out riding their bikes yet. We tried to explain to them that most people sleep past six, but they just don't really have an context to understand that. Once there was someone else up and about they'd take off not to be heard from again until evening, except when they needed snacks. + + + + +Corrinne and I mostly sat around and read, there's wasn't anything else to do really. There were a ton of red headed woodpeckers in the campground, probably because it had the only trees for hundreds of miles, so I took probably 200 photos until I got a couple I was happy with.. + + + +We'd made plans to meet my parents down in the southern part of the state, so after the families went home Sunday afternoon and the kid gang shrank in size to just three, we packed it up and headed south to the auspiciously named Garden of the Gods. No, not the one in Colorado. This one is the limestone remnants of where the Gulf of Mexico's waters used to lap at the sand. + + + +Garden of the Gods gives something of a glimpse of what the wooded parts of Illinois were probably like hundreds of years ago. There's a campground up on a ridge overlooking the area, which also manages to catch a little more breeze than most of the surrounding area. There were also some pines and junipers mixed in with the hardwoods, which made it feel more like being in the mountains. + + + +The geology here is such that a lot of iron got mixed into the rock and formed interesting patterns. We hiked around one day, had lunch in the woods and let the kids climb rocks for a while. If you squinted hard enough and ignored the humidity it was almost like our time in Colorado last summer. + + + + + +The first campsite we had was right next to a pretty good size blackberry patch. They weren't really ripe, but tart berries you picked yourself still beat ripe ones from the store any day. + + + + +Garden of the Gods was the nicest place we saw in Illinois, but it was still brutally hot and humid. Normally I don't complain about the heat, but here's the thing, if it's going to be hot there needs to be a payoff -- ancient ruins, beautiful beaches, spectacular deserts, or what have you. Illinois has some trees and lots of biting insects. + +So when I found out my parents might not be able to make their trip due to illness anyway, we jumped at the chance to have them reschedule to meet us elsewhere. Fortunately they were able to do it, so while the kids were disappointed they'd have to wait to see their grandparents, we were all thankful to have no reason to stay in Illinois. + +Unfortunately, the minute we hit the road north, a heat wave plowed through and send the temps into the triple digits, which made our drives miserable. We somehow traversed the rest of the state in two days, but we finally gave up just outside Chicago where we got a campsite with electricity, cranked the air to high and barricaded ourselves against the heat for a few days. + + + +[^1]: I really wish they also had a series, Guide to Unnatural America. Or would change the title of the Natural America series to "wild" America or something similar. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/st-louis-city-museum.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/st-louis-city-museum.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..980317b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/st-louis-city-museum.html @@ -0,0 +1,537 @@ + + + + + St. Louis City Museum - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    St. Louis City Museum

    + +
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    Babler State Park, Missouri, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    There’s something I left out of the story of our time in Land Between the Lakes — it was brutally hot and humid. More humid than I’ve ever experienced, including Angkor Wat, Cambodia. It put us in the mood for something, well, cooler. Or at least less humid. So we headed to St. Louis. Because we’re not that bright.

    +

    Actually it was strange, we drove north, up through Kentucky, and the minute we crossed the state line the humidity dropped about 50 percent and it was actually tolerable again. I didn’t look it up, but I know what earth.nullschool.net would have told me — we’d just crossed into a mass of air moving down from the north. It was short-lived, but welcome nonetheless.

    +

    We stopped off at a mounds site on the way, and went through the somewhat creepy town of Cairo, which has more or less been abandoned. It’s about five miles of abandoned buildings slowly being taken over by vegetation.

    +
    + + The bus, illinois photographed by luxagraf + +
    If you ever wondered what the bus would look like from atop a Mississippian mound, now you know.
    +
    + +
    + + Cairo, Illinois photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We stopped for one night at the Trail of Tears State Park, which had a campground right on the Mississippi River. We ate an early dinner and spent the evening down by the shore, watching the tugboats pushing their loads up and down the river. I managed to refrain from any Clarke Griswold impersonations.

    +
    + + trail of tears state park, IL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + trail of tears state park, IL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + mississippi river, trail of tears state park, IL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    And there was a train, you can’t go wrong with kids and trains (which fortunately did not go by in the middle of the night, because you can go wrong with grownups and trains).

    +
    + + train, trail of tears state park, IL photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    By the time we made it to St. Louis it was back to being hot and humid, doubly so because it’s a city and cities are always 10 degrees hotter than anything else.

    +

    We came to St. Louis pretty much for one reason — the City Museum. Everyone who said we had to go there, and there were half a dozen of you, became real vague when we asked what it was like. And now it’s my turn to be real vague — I can’t really say what the City Museum is exactly.

    +

    It’s like Antoni Gaudí and Jules Verne got together and built an amusement park.

    +

    It’s sort of for kids. There are definitely things only kids were small enough to do, but then there’s plenty for adults too, enough that every evening it becomes 18+ and stays open until midnight. Normally I’d say that a picture is worth a thousand words and insert of few here, but it’s also a really difficult place to photograph, it’s massive, full of dark areas with hidden passageways and tunnels.

    +

    There’s a bunch of slides and wire scaffolding stretching up about five stories on the outside, with an old fire engine, a wire rocket, an old cutaway airplane and a few other odds and ends mounted near the top. It’s all connected by narrow scaffolds and slides. It’s full of sharp edges, metal stairways and a good old fashioned modicum of danger you don’t usually find in the United States of Safe and Boring.

    +
    + + + + City Museum, St Louis, MO photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + City Museum, St Louis, MO photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + City Museum, St Louis, MO photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + City Museum, St Louis, MO photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + City Museum, St Louis, MO photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + City Museum, St Louis, MO photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    Then there’s the inside. The City Museum occupies a 13 story building, though only about four of those stories are currently open to the public, others are open, but still in the process of being built. There was even an art gallery of some sort that was blocked off behind drapes and locked doors, no idea if it even had anything to do with the City Museum. It’s a very open space meant for exploring.

    +

    The best part of the inside part is a kind of dark, cave-like labyrinth, that extends for at least two, possibly three floors, with connecting tunnels you have to crawl through made of rebar and driftwood, cement, plastic, metal ribs, you name it. They sell knee pads near the ticket windows at the entrance.

    +
    + + + City Museum, St Louis, MO photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + City Museum, St Louis, MO photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + City Museum, St Louis, MO photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + City Museum, St Louis, MO photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + City Museum, St Louis, MO photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +
    + + City Museum, St Louis, MO photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + City Museum, St Louis, MO photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + City Museum, St Louis, MO photographed by luxagraf + +
    Inside is also has these really, really fun spinning top chairs. If we had a house, we’d have one of these.
    +
    + +

    Then there’s the roof, which costs a little extra, but is worth it. There’s a full size bus mounted on the corner of the roof, 13 stories up, with a door that opens into a sheer drop off (blocked off, but you can look straight down). The roof also has a Ferris wheel and a giant praying mantis.

    +
    + + + City Museum, St Louis, MO photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + City Museum, St Louis, MO photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + City Museum, St Louis, MO photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + City Museum, St Louis, MO photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + City Museum, St Louis, MO photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    The roof is also the place to catch the 10 story high spiral slide. It’s long, but not actually as much fun as some of the other slides, especially the slides so steep you briefly free-fall or the others so narrow you spend your time really hoping you don’t get stuck.

    +

    Then there’s also random things, like a 19th century-style natural history specimen collection, a barbecue joint on the patio (it is St. Louis), and a place you can train to be a circus performer.

    +

    The City Museum is unlike anywhere I’ve ever been anywhere in the world and it’s pretty damn amazing. If you’re ever in St. Louis you should go, even if you don’t have kids. Maybe especially if you don’t have kids.

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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/st-louis-city-museum.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/st-louis-city-museum.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d8cbe22 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/st-louis-city-museum.txt @@ -0,0 +1,91 @@ +St. Louis City Museum +===================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 07 June 2018 + +There's something I left out of the story of our time in Land Between the Lakes -- it was brutally hot and humid. More humid than I've ever experienced, including [Angkor Wat, Cambodia][1]. It put us in the mood for something, well, cooler. Or at least less humid. So we headed to St. Louis. Because we're not that bright. + +Actually it was strange, we drove north, up through Kentucky, and the minute we crossed the state line the humidity dropped about 50 percent and it was actually tolerable again. I didn't look it up, but I know what [earth.nullschool.net][2] would have told me -- we'd just crossed into a mass of air moving down from the north. It was short-lived, but welcome nonetheless. + +We stopped off at a mounds site on the way, and went through the somewhat creepy town of [Cairo][4], which has more or less been abandoned. It's about five miles of abandoned buildings slowly being taken over by vegetation. + + + + +We stopped for one night at the Trail of Tears State Park, which had a campground right on the Mississippi River. We ate an early dinner and spent the evening down by the shore, watching the tugboats pushing their loads up and down the river. I managed to refrain from any [Clarke Griswold impersonations][3]. + + + + + +And there was a train, you can't go wrong with kids and trains (which fortunately did not go by in the middle of the night, because you can go wrong with grownups and trains). + + + +By the time we made it to St. Louis it was back to being hot and humid, doubly so because it's a city and cities are always 10 degrees hotter than anything else. + +We came to St. Louis pretty much for one reason -- the City Museum. Everyone who said we had to go there, and there were half a dozen of you, became real vague when we asked what it was like. And now it's my turn to be real vague -- I can't really say what the City Museum is exactly. + +It's like [Antoni Gaudí][5] and Jules Verne got together and built an amusement park. + +It's sort of for kids. There are definitely things only kids were small enough to do, but then there's plenty for adults too, enough that every evening it becomes 18+ and stays open until midnight. Normally I'd say that a picture is worth a thousand words and insert of few here, but it's also a really difficult place to photograph, it's massive, full of dark areas with hidden passageways and tunnels. + +There's a bunch of slides and wire scaffolding stretching up about five stories on the outside, with an old fire engine, a wire rocket, an old cutaway airplane and a few other odds and ends mounted near the top. It's all connected by narrow scaffolds and slides. It's full of sharp edges, metal stairways and a good old fashioned modicum of danger you don't usually find in the United States of Safe and Boring. + +
    + + + + + + + + + + +
    + +Then there's the inside. The City Museum occupies a 13 story building, though only about four of those stories are currently open to the public, others are open, but still in the process of being built. There was even an art gallery of some sort that was blocked off behind drapes and locked doors, no idea if it even had anything to do with the City Museum. It's a very open space meant for exploring. + +The best part of the inside part is a kind of dark, cave-like labyrinth, that extends for at least two, possibly three floors, with connecting tunnels you have to crawl through made of rebar and driftwood, cement, plastic, metal ribs, you name it. They sell knee pads near the ticket windows at the entrance. + +
    + + + + + + + +
    + + + + + +Then there's the roof, which costs a little extra, but is worth it. There's a full size bus mounted on the corner of the roof, 13 stories up, with a door that opens into a sheer drop off (blocked off, but you can look straight down). The roof also has a Ferris wheel and a giant praying mantis. + + +
    + + + + + + + +
    + +The roof is also the place to catch the 10 story high spiral slide. It's long, but not actually as much fun as some of the other slides, especially the slides so steep you briefly free-fall or the others so narrow you spend your time really hoping you don't get stuck. + +Then there's also random things, like a 19th century-style natural history specimen collection, a barbecue joint on the patio (it is St. Louis), and a place you can train to be a circus performer. + +The City Museum is unlike anywhere I've ever been anywhere in the world and it's pretty damn amazing. If you're ever in St. Louis you should go, even if you don't have kids. Maybe especially if you don't have kids. + +[1]: https://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2006/03/angkor-wat +[2]: https://earth.nullschool.net/#current/wind/surface/level/orthographic=-92.74,40.99,3000 +[3]: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hUNMmSbkAG8 +[4]: https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/cairo-illinois +[5]: https://www.archdaily.com/519298/happy-birthday-antoni-gaudi diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/wisconsin.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/wisconsin.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..492d99c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/wisconsin.html @@ -0,0 +1,491 @@ + + + + + Wisconsin - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Wisconsin

    + +
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    Harrington State Park, Wisconsin, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
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    +
    +

    The drive from the border of Illinois to Harrington State Park, half an hour north of Milwaukee, was the most dramatic climate change we’ve experienced on this trip. It was partly weather related, but we went from temps of over 100 with 72 percent humidity to 60 degrees and not much humidity at all once the rain stopped. It was a rather amazing and welcome transition.

    +

    We stopped at Harrington because it gave reasonably easy access to Milwaukee and because if you run your finger along the edge of Lake Michigan starting at Chicago, it’s the first green spot you hit. The day we arrived it was overcast, cold enough to pull out sweatshirts and pretty much exactly what we were looking for after weeks of sweating through Tennessee, Missouri, and Illinois. We ended up staying almost a week.

    +

    As soon as we arrived and got settled I took the kids down to see the lake. We are, I think, with one possible exception, water people. Put us on a shoreline and chances are we’ll be happy. There’s one of us that insists the shoreline have salt water, but the rest of us aren’t that picky. By the time we got to the shore of Lake Michigan the storm we’d been just ahead of all day finally caught up. There was a steady drizzle and the wind was blowing hard enough to drive even the kids back the bus in short order.

    +
    + + Harrington Beach State Park, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It wasn’t only the temperature that changed, we reset the seasonal clock by a good month or two as well. Up here wildflowers still carpet the hillsides, trees haven’t been leafed out for very long and the mosquitoes haven’t hit cloud status quite yet. All the song birds are newly arrived too, still setting up house. Yellow Warblers and Cedar Waxwings were busy building nests in the trees and bushes around our site. It was the sort of campsite we haven’t seen since Patrick’s Point, heavy shrubs, most of which looked to be blueberries, or something very similar, about two feet taller than a person and far too thick to see though. The sites themselves were carved out and probably required regular maintenance to stay that way.

    +
    + + Wildflowers, Harrington Beach State Park, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Harrington Beach State Park, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It was still storming a little the next day so we decided to run our errands in Milwaukee and then we met up with some friends from Athens who recently moved to Milwaukee to take over the Woodland Pattern. We met up with them at Woodland Pattern and then headed out for Thai food. We only spent a few hours in Milwaukee, but we enjoyed it.

    +
    + + Door to nowhere, Milwakee photographed by luxagraf + +
    Milwaukee has a certain whimsy and chaos to it that reminded me of the old Athens I used to love.
    +
    + +

    We ended up hanging around Harrington Beach for a few more days so I could get some work done. I’d work in the mornings and in the afternoon we’d hike or head down to the beach for a swim. We hiked a trail called the Bobolink trail and saw bobolinks, we hiked the White-Tailed trail and saw white-tailed deer. After that I decided I had to go far enough down the birch trail to see a few birch trees.

    +
    + Harrington Beach State Park, WI photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Harrington Beach State Park, WI photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + Harrington Beach State Park, WI photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Birch Trees, Harrington Beach State Park, WI photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + Butterfly wings, Harrington Beach State Park, WI photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    Once the storm that followed us in was gone we had gloriously sunny days, highs in the mid 70s, pretty close to perfect. We ended up spending a lot of time down at the beach. Unlike the first couple of days, once the sun came out we did not have the beach to ourselves.

    +
    + + Lake Michigan Panorama, Harringtion State Park photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Lake Michigan, Harrington Beach State Park, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Lake Michigan, Harrington Beach State Park, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    Note to self, always put on bathing suits when headed to the water, cold is not going to keep them from getting in.
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    + +
    + + Lake Michigan, Harrington Beach State Park, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Playing at Lake Michigan, Harrington Beach State Park, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Playing at Lake Michigan, Harrington Beach State Park, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Harrington Beach State Park, WI photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + +
    image by Corrinne Gilbertson
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    + + Harrington Beach State Park, WI photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + +
    image by Corrinne Gilbertson
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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/wisconsin.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/wisconsin.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..833f948 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/06/wisconsin.txt @@ -0,0 +1,46 @@ +Wisconsin +========= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 24 June 2018 + +The drive from the border of Illinois to Harrington State Park, half an hour north of Milwaukee, was the most dramatic climate change we've experienced on this trip. It was partly weather related, but we went from temps of over 100 with 72 percent humidity to 60 degrees and not much humidity at all once the rain stopped. It was a rather amazing and welcome transition. + +We stopped at Harrington because it gave reasonably easy access to Milwaukee and because if you run your finger along the edge of Lake Michigan starting at Chicago, it's the first green spot you hit. The day we arrived it was overcast, cold enough to pull out sweatshirts and pretty much exactly what we were looking for after weeks of sweating through Tennessee, Missouri, and Illinois. We ended up staying almost a week. + +As soon as we arrived and got settled I took the kids down to see the lake. We are, I think, with one possible exception, water people. Put us on a shoreline and chances are we'll be happy. There's one of us that insists the shoreline have salt water, but the rest of us aren't that picky. By the time we got to the shore of Lake Michigan the storm we'd been just ahead of all day finally caught up. There was a steady drizzle and the wind was blowing hard enough to drive even the kids back the bus in short order. + + + +It wasn't only the temperature that changed, we reset the seasonal clock by a good month or two as well. Up here wildflowers still carpet the hillsides, trees haven't been leafed out for very long and the mosquitoes haven't hit cloud status quite yet. All the song birds are newly arrived too, still setting up house. Yellow Warblers and Cedar Waxwings were busy building nests in the trees and bushes around our site. It was the sort of campsite we haven't seen since Patrick's Point, heavy shrubs, most of which looked to be blueberries, or something very similar, about two feet taller than a person and far too thick to see though. The sites themselves were carved out and probably required regular maintenance to stay that way. + + + + +It was still storming a little the next day so we decided to run our errands in Milwaukee and then we met up with some friends from Athens who recently moved to Milwaukee to take over the Woodland Pattern. We met up with them at Woodland Pattern and then headed out for Thai food. We only spent a few hours in Milwaukee, but we enjoyed it. + + + +We ended up hanging around Harrington Beach for a few more days so I could get some work done. I'd work in the mornings and in the afternoon we'd hike or head down to the beach for a swim. We hiked a trail called the Bobolink trail and saw bobolinks, we hiked the White-Tailed trail and saw white-tailed deer. After that I decided I had to go far enough down the birch trail to see a few birch trees. + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +Once the storm that followed us in was gone we had gloriously sunny days, highs in the mid 70s, pretty close to perfect. We ended up spending a lot of time down at the beach. Unlike the first couple of days, once the sun came out we did not have the beach to ourselves. + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/crystal-lake.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/crystal-lake.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6d93ed9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/crystal-lake.html @@ -0,0 +1,434 @@ + + + + + The Crystal Lake - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    The Crystal Lake

    + +
    +
    +

    Washburn, Wisconsin, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    After we said goodbye to my parents, we packed up and pointed the bus west, tracing the Lake Michigan side of the Upper Peninsula. The first night we stopped at a place we’d intended to go after Wisconsin, but skipped in favor of Pictured Rocks. And I’m glad we did. It was all right for a night, but there was nothing much to make us linger for longer than that.

    +

    There are three basic things our kids can find pretty much anywhere: 1) water the swim in, 2) things to jump off, 3) mud to dig in. Little Bay de Noc had all three.

    +
    + + little bay de noc photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + little bay de noc. MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + jumping, little bay de noc, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It also had something of a rarity in our limited experience up here — west facing beaches with sunsets.

    +
    + + beach, little bay de noc, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The next day we headed north again, toward Lake Superior, but also west, back into Wisconsin. We had another one-night stopover at a place called Imp Lake, which is notable for having a nesting colony of Loons on the island in the middle of it. We were serenaded all afternoon and into the evening, if serenade is the right word for loon calls. I really wanted some of the deeper howls to be wolves, but they weren’t.

    +
    + + Imp Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Imp Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Quite a few people have asked if the mosquitoes are bad up here. In general no. At Imp Lake, yes. Bad enough that we didn’t really go out much that night. Which was fine since we got up early and hit the road again the next morning.

    +
    + + Imp Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    I’ve never seen toilet paper used in road repair before, but that is indeed toilet paper on top of tar patches. I have no idea why.
    +
    + +

    We pulled into Memorial Park in Washburn WI around 2 in the afternoon and grabbed spot. It was something of a change for us. After having been in the woods, largely alone for the better part of six weeks it was odd to be in a campground with neighbors a short distance from our door and downtown Washburn a mere five minute walk away. Luckily this part of Wisconsin is full of friendly people and we enjoyed ourselves in spite of the more crowded campground.

    +

    The campground dated from at least the 1930s from what I read on some of the signs scattered around. It had a feel to it that you don’t find much anymore. It still had an old lunch counter stand with these ingenious folding tables and chairs. No one knows who built it, the source of ingenuity is lost to the fog of time, but the lunch stand is still there, though, disappointingly, not in use anymore.

    +
    + + memorial park, washburn, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    +
    + +
    + + memorial park, washburn, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The campground also had the kids of old school playground that was made of metal and tires and wasn’t padded everywhere like some kind of outdoor asylum, which is what the modern plastic playgrounds always remind me of, the sort of you’d find outside Bedlam. Thank you Washburn for resisting, in however small a way, the notion that children should be coddled in padded plastic playgrounds.

    +
    + + Playground, memorial park, washburn, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Playground, memorial park, washburn, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We came mainly because it was the closest campground to the Madeline Island ferry, but we were also glad to be back on the shores of Lake Superior. I’ve never seen a shoreline I didn’t like, but, that said, there are certain bodies of water that seem to draw us in more than others and Lake Superior is one of them. Perhaps it’s the clarity, though it’s not nearly as clear over here, or the cold, though it’s not nearly as cold here, or maybe some more vague, impossible to define quality. Whatever the case, the shores of Lake Superior is our favorite place to be up here.

    +
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/crystal-lake.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/crystal-lake.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..099d14c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/crystal-lake.txt @@ -0,0 +1,41 @@ +The Crystal Lake +================ + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 30 July 2018 + +After we said goodbye to my parents, we packed up and pointed the bus west, tracing the Lake Michigan side of the Upper Peninsula. The first night we stopped at a place we'd intended to go after Wisconsin, but skipped in favor of Pictured Rocks. And I'm glad we did. It was all right for a night, but there was nothing much to make us linger for longer than that. + +There are three basic things our kids can find pretty much anywhere: 1) water the swim in, 2) things to jump off, 3) mud to dig in. Little Bay de Noc had all three. + + + + + +It also had something of a rarity in our limited experience up here -- west facing beaches with sunsets. + + + +The next day we headed north again, toward Lake Superior, but also west, back into Wisconsin. We had another one-night stopover at a place called Imp Lake, which is notable for having a nesting colony of Loons on the island in the middle of it. We were serenaded all afternoon and into the evening, if serenade is the right word for loon calls. I really wanted some of the deeper howls to be wolves, but they weren't. + + + + +Quite a few people have asked if the mosquitoes are bad up here. In general no. At Imp Lake, yes. Bad enough that we didn't really go out much that night. Which was fine since we got up early and hit the road again the next morning. + + + +We pulled into Memorial Park in Washburn WI around 2 in the afternoon and grabbed spot. It was something of a change for us. After having been in the woods, largely alone for the better part of six weeks it was odd to be in a campground with neighbors a short distance from our door and downtown Washburn a mere five minute walk away. Luckily this part of Wisconsin is full of friendly people and we enjoyed ourselves in spite of the more crowded campground. + +The campground dated from at least the 1930s from what I read on some of the signs scattered around. It had a feel to it that you don't find much anymore. It still had an old lunch counter stand with these ingenious folding tables and chairs. No one knows who built it, the source of ingenuity is lost to the fog of time, but the lunch stand is still there, though, disappointingly, not in use anymore. + + + + +The campground also had the kids of old school playground that was made of metal and tires and wasn't padded everywhere like some kind of outdoor asylum, which is what the modern plastic playgrounds always remind me of, the sort of you'd find outside Bedlam. Thank you Washburn for resisting, in however small a way, the notion that children should be coddled in padded plastic playgrounds. + + + + +We came mainly because it was the closest campground to the Madeline Island ferry, but we were also glad to be back on the shores of Lake Superior. I've never seen a shoreline I didn't like, but, that said, there are certain bodies of water that seem to draw us in more than others and Lake Superior is one of them. Perhaps it's the clarity, though it's not nearly as clear over here, or the cold, though it's not nearly as cold here, or maybe some more vague, impossible to define quality. Whatever the case, the shores of Lake Superior is our favorite place to be up here. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/house-lake.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/house-lake.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..77641eb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/house-lake.html @@ -0,0 +1,561 @@ + + + + + House By The Lake - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    House by the Lake

    + +
    +
    +

    Carp River Campground, Michigan, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    On our way southeast to Lake Huron we first went northwest. Because that’s how we roll. We wanted to see Whitefish point, which had a lighthouse and shipwreck museum we wanted to see. When we got there no one was into it, so we ended up skipping the indoor stuff to spend some time on the beach.

    +
    + + Whitefish point, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Whitefish point, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Whitefish point, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Corrinne wandered off in search of rocks, I stayed to keep and eye on the kids, who were amusing themselves climbing up a rock retaining wall, or embankment really, not a wall, then they’d run over to edge and jump or slide down the sandy embankment next to it. The wall was adjacent to a little boardwalk area that you could get a view of the beach without getting any sand on you, something I’ve never really understood, but whatever.

    +
    + + Whitefish point, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Whitefish point, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Whitefish point, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    At one point a family with a couple of kids came out onto the viewing platform and I overheard one of the kids ask their mom what my kids were doing. “It looks like they’re climbing,” she said. But the way she said it, there was such disdain in her voice that made it sound like climbing was the worst thing in the world.

    +

    Naturally the little boy instantly said, “I want to climb.” I was thinking, cool, maybe the kids can make a friend. And then the mom said, no, you can’t climb up that you’d hurt yourself. I felt bad for the kid, but what can you do? I wanted to say, let him climb, let him find out what he can and can’t do, let him hurt himself if he needs to, but I didn’t. I sat there and felt bad for the kid. Then his mom added, “you’ll get all dirty.”

    +

    That got me to stand up and turn around to see what sort of monster was near me. I have as much patience, and love, for these so-called helicopter parents as I do mosquitoes. Alas you cannot swat the former, so I glanced up and tried to focus on giving them my friendliest smile. It’s not their fault really, this culture handed them a bum deal, made them afraid of everything. But I hate to see them passing it on to the next generation. Sorry kid, better luck next time.

    +

    I sat back down and watched my kids climbing, getting dirty and possibly even hurting themselves. Such is life. It got me thinking about an even sadder possibility though. Possibly that parent knew their kids limitations quite well, knew they didn’t have experience climbing sharp, quarried granite rocks, and knew they really would hurt themselves badly. Maybe those parents know their kids aren’t capable of it. That’s even sadder though. Get your kids outside, let them explore and learn for themselves. Let them fall down and get scraped up, that’s how they learn. Pain tells you where the edges are so to speak, that’s where you learn the edge of your current abilities and how to get even better. You fall down, and fall down, and fall down, until eventually you stop falling down.

    +

    After we’d had our fill of Whitefish Point we finally headed south toward Huron. It wasn’t a long drive, a little over an hour and we were setting up camp at Carp River, which alas, did not have easy swimming access.

    +
    + + Carp river campground, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Instead we headed over to the cottage on the marsh that my parents had rented for the week. The first thing the kids noticed, aside from their grandparents was the spiral staircase. I shudder to think what that lady would have done when confronted with a narrow all metal staircase perfect for climbing. And climb our kids did. Up and down, up and down, up and down.

    +
    + + Pine river mouth, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I retreated to the porch and watched the red winged blackbirds diving in and out of the reeds and cattails. Whenever I see cattail fluff now I always think about how it’s perfect for lining a babies diaper, that was the go-to material for nearly any tribe who had access to it. I grew up by a marsh full of cattails and I’d never even thought of that before. Necessity is the engine of ingenuity.

    +

    We spent most of the week playing in and around the house my parents rented. It came, as most everything up here does, with a couple of canoes and kayaks, which we used to explore the river a little bit. Lilah even wanted to paddle on her own, so I dropped off the other kids and let her take me on a little canoe ride. All I did was steer, and even that I only had to do because of the wind. It reminded me of the unfortunate truth of parenting, in a few years they won’t need me around much anymore.

    +
    + + paddling canoes, pine river, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + paddling canoes, pine river, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + paddling canoes, pine river, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I finally gave in and went full tourist and picked up some smoked whitefish and lake trout, all of which turned out to be really damn good. I think we plowed through about four pounds in as many days. It took several more before the smell of smoked fish was completely gone from my fingers.

    +
    + + Carp river campground, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Carp river campground, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    The $20 Sigma 28mm I bought off Ebay turns out to have pretty decent macro capabilities. And the map on this beer eventually led us to the north shore of Lake Superior, how’s that for travel research?
    +
    + +

    I took advantage of the grassy field surrounding the rental house to give our solar panels a full day’s sun, something they had not had in nearly a month. I took care of a few bus tasks as well, pulled my spark plugs and check them out, tightened some hose clamps, a few bolts and even pulled apart the wiring to the temperature gauge, which I’d still like to get working.

    +

    I figure the gauge consists of three basic parts, the sensor and sending unit, which I can’t get to, if that’s the problem I’m screwed, the wiring, which is horrid and needs to be re-run, and gauge in the dash. Any one, or several of them could be the problem. The easiest place to start is the wiring, so I pulled out a ton of electrical tape (why do people use that stuff?) traced the wire, and realized the metal inside the little covered end that fits onto the sensor is cracked, not connected and may well be the solution to the problem. I made a note to stop in the next auto parts store I see and pick up something similar and see if that fixes the problem. Right when I figured that out though the kids needed me to do something and I went off and promptly forgot all about it until now, when I was looking over my notes and remembered. So still no working gauge, but the next auto parts store I see, I’m going to get that wire, I swear.

    +
    + + + + dolls photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + dolls photographed by luxagraf + + + + + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf +
    The closest thing the world has to Birchbark House dolls.
    +
    + + +
    + +

    There wasn’t much of a swimming beach at the rental house so one day we loaded everyone in the car and headed down the coast to Hessel, which had a little marina and swimming beach (and a wooden boat festival we’d just miss, damn it). We couldn’t leave the shores of Lake Huron without going for a swim. It turned out to be like the middle lake it is — warmer than Superior, colder than Michigan.

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    3 Comments

    + + + + + + +
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    + Patsy Wall + August 02, 2018 at 9:27 p.m. +
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    + +

    Love the pictures of the kids playing, and yes climbing and getting dirty. Darn good parenting if ask me. Get them outside let them be little!

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Andre Herrera + August 31, 2018 at 9:04 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Your family is so lovely.. and you’re a great story teller! We were your neighbors for a couple of nights while boondocking in the badlands. I wish we would have approached you guys earlier, so we could have shared some stories… Maybe next time we meet along the way. Take care and keep enjoying your journey.

    + +
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    + +
    + Scott + September 01, 2018 at 8:17 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Patsy-

    +

    Thanks, we try to get em out as much as we can.

    +

    Andre-

    +

    Wish we could have spent more time with you and your family, I followed you on Instagram, we’ll be in Mexico for 6 months, but we’ll be back on the road in March, perhaps our paths will cross again at some point. Happy travels.

    + +
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    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
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    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/house-lake.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/house-lake.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a3b1f52 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/house-lake.txt @@ -0,0 +1,62 @@ +House by the Lake +================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 23 July 2018 + +On our way southeast to Lake Huron we first went northwest. Because that's how we roll. We wanted to see Whitefish point, which had a lighthouse and shipwreck museum we wanted to see. When we got there no one was into it, so we ended up skipping the indoor stuff to spend some time on the beach. + + + + + +Corrinne wandered off in search of rocks, I stayed to keep and eye on the kids, who were amusing themselves climbing up a rock retaining wall, or embankment really, not a wall, then they'd run over to edge and jump or slide down the sandy embankment next to it. The wall was adjacent to a little boardwalk area that you could get a view of the beach without getting any sand on you, something I've never really understood, but whatever. + + + + + +At one point a family with a couple of kids came out onto the viewing platform and I overheard one of the kids ask their mom what my kids were doing. "It looks like they're climbing," she said. But the way she said it, there was such disdain in her voice that made it sound like climbing was the worst thing in the world. + +Naturally the little boy instantly said, "I want to climb." I was thinking, cool, maybe the kids can make a friend. And then the mom said, no, you can't climb up that you'd hurt yourself. I felt bad for the kid, but what can you do? I wanted to say, let him climb, let him find out what he can and can't do, let him hurt himself if he needs to, but I didn't. I sat there and felt bad for the kid. Then his mom added, "you'll get all dirty." + +That got me to stand up and turn around to see what sort of monster was near me. I have as much patience, and love, for these so-called helicopter parents as I do mosquitoes. Alas you cannot swat the former, so I glanced up and tried to focus on giving them my friendliest smile. It's not their fault really, this culture handed them a bum deal, made them afraid of everything. But I hate to see them passing it on to the next generation. Sorry kid, better luck next time. + +I sat back down and watched my kids climbing, getting dirty and possibly even hurting themselves. Such is life. It got me thinking about an even sadder possibility though. Possibly that parent knew their kids limitations quite well, knew they didn't have experience climbing sharp, quarried granite rocks, and knew they really would hurt themselves badly. Maybe those parents know their kids aren't capable of it. That's even sadder though. Get your kids outside, let them explore and learn for themselves. Let them fall down and get scraped up, that's how they learn. Pain tells you where the edges are so to speak, that's where you learn the edge of your current abilities and how to get even better. You fall down, and fall down, and fall down, until eventually you stop falling down. + +After we'd had our fill of Whitefish Point we finally headed south toward Huron. It wasn't a long drive, a little over an hour and we were setting up camp at Carp River, which alas, did not have easy swimming access. + + + +Instead we headed over to the cottage on the marsh that my parents had rented for the week. The first thing the kids noticed, aside from their grandparents was the spiral staircase. I shudder to think what that lady would have done when confronted with a narrow all metal staircase perfect for climbing. And climb our kids did. Up and down, up and down, up and down. + + + +I retreated to the porch and watched the red winged blackbirds diving in and out of the reeds and cattails. Whenever I see cattail fluff now I always think about how it's perfect for lining a babies diaper, that was the go-to material for nearly any tribe who had access to it. I grew up by a marsh full of cattails and I'd never even thought of that before. Necessity is the engine of ingenuity. + +We spent most of the week playing in and around the house my parents rented. It came, as most everything up here does, with a couple of canoes and kayaks, which we used to explore the river a little bit. Lilah even wanted to paddle on her own, so I dropped off the other kids and let her take me on a little canoe ride. All I did was steer, and even that I only had to do because of the wind. It reminded me of the unfortunate truth of parenting, in a few years they won't need me around much anymore. + + + + + + +I finally gave in and went full tourist and picked up some smoked whitefish and lake trout, all of which turned out to be really damn good. I think we plowed through about four pounds in as many days. It took several more before the smell of smoked fish was completely gone from my fingers. + + + + +I took advantage of the grassy field surrounding the rental house to give our solar panels a full day's sun, something they had not had in nearly a month. I took care of a few bus tasks as well, pulled my spark plugs and check them out, tightened some hose clamps, a few bolts and even pulled apart the wiring to the temperature gauge, which I'd still like to get working. + +I figure the gauge consists of three basic parts, the sensor and sending unit, which I can't get to, if that's the problem I'm screwed, the wiring, which is horrid and needs to be re-run, and gauge in the dash. Any one, or several of them could be the problem. The easiest place to start is the wiring, so I pulled out a ton of electrical tape (why do people use that stuff?) traced the wire, and realized the metal inside the little covered end that fits onto the sensor is cracked, not connected and may well be the solution to the problem. I made a note to stop in the next auto parts store I see and pick up something similar and see if that fixes the problem. Right when I figured that out though the kids needed me to do something and I went off and promptly forgot all about it until now, when I was looking over my notes and remembered. So still no working gauge, but the next auto parts store I see, I'm going to get that wire, I swear. + +
    + + + + + +
    + +There wasn't much of a swimming beach at the rental house so one day we loaded everyone in the car and headed down the coast to Hessel, which had a little marina and swimming beach (and a wooden boat festival we'd just miss, damn it). We couldn't leave the shores of Lake Huron without going for a swim. It turned out to be like the middle lake it is -- warmer than Superior, colder than Michigan. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/lakeside-park.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/lakeside-park.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..45622f0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/lakeside-park.html @@ -0,0 +1,480 @@ + + + + + Lakeside Park - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
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    +
    +

    Lakeside Park

    + +
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    +

    Andrus Lake, Michigan, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    +

    After the girls’ birthday we had a few extra days before we needed to head south to meet up with my parents. We decided to stick around Andrus Lake a while longer. Who can say no to your own personal beach?

    + +

    We spent most of the time enjoying the warm lake water (relative to Superior). It’s not a big lake, it’s not a deep lake, but what it lacks in size it makes up for in character. I don’t think I ever looked out at it and saw the same lake twice.

    + +

    Over the course of a full week we saw it choppy, red and frothy in the wind, glassy and mirrored, with morning fog softening the edges, silent and blue in the evenings, and completely obscured in a gray blanket of fog on our one rainy day.

    +
    + +
    + + Andrus Lake photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + lakeside camping, andrus lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + lakeside camping, andrus lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + fog, Andrus Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Most days though, it was sunny and warm, making out little private beach just about perfect.

    +
    + + swimming at Andrus Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + lakeside camping, andrus lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + swimming at Andrus Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + swimming at Andrus Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    There was also plenty of time for breaking in the new bikes.

    +
    + + camping, Andrus Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + camping, Andrus Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + camping, Andrus Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + tiny frogs, Andrus Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    All along the shore at our campsite there were tons of tiny little baby frogs.
    +
    + +

    There were a few reasons we came up this way in the first place, one of them was to see a couple sets of friends who’d moved up this way in the past year or so. Another was reason was a book series I’d read to the kids. We picked up a copy of Louise Erdrich’s The Birchbark House for the kids for Christmas, and they loved it. They obsess over it with the kind of enthusiasm and depth that only children and Shakespearean stage actors have.

    +

    The Birchbark House takes place on Madeline Island and is the story of a young Ojibwe1 girl living through the changes that happened in this part of the world between roughly 1840-1870. It’s part one of a five book series and we’ve read them all and, by popular demand, are re-reading them currently. So when Corrinne noticed there was an small Ojibwe powwow and re-enactment happening in nearby St. Ignace, we had to go.

    +

    The Ojibwa Cultural Center in St Ignace turned out to be a really nice museum, complete with replica birchbark buildings, and the powwow had a bunch of stuff for kids. Ours got to make some necklaces out of beads and sinew and could have done something I couldn’t parse out with porcupine quills. They also got the best face painting they’ve had on this trip.

    +
    + + + ojibwe festival, st ignace, mi photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + ojibwe festival, st ignace, mi photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + ojibwe festival, st ignace, mi photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + ojibwe festival, st ignace, mi photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    The fascinating part for me was realizing that in the course of reading the five books to the kids I’d picked up about the same amount of Ojibwe as I ever did Thai, Laos or even French. Which is to say that when Ojibwe speakers greeted each other, said thank you, good morning, afternoon, and all the other sorts of small greetings and polite interactions you pick up when you travel in another language, I understood them. It was sort of odd since until that day I’d never knowing met any Ojibwe before in my life.

    +

    The re-enactment portion of the festival was less captivating to the kids, but I picked up a bottle of real maple syrup that’s so dark you can’t see through it and tastes like pouring a tree on your pancakes. It has a wonderfully smokey flavor to it and is by far the best maple syrup I’ve ever had (sorry Vermont, previous home of the best maple syrup I’ve ever had). The only problem with it is that it has made all store bought syrup seem like bland sugar water. This bottle isn’t going to last forever and I have no way to get anymore like it. Always buy two.

    +

    The Ojibwe powwow itself didn’t get going until midday. We saw what I would call the opening ceremony and then our friends from Traverse City got there and we headed out to walk the streets of St Ignace. It can get pretty warm up here if you don’t have shade — the temperature difference between the sunny and shady side of the street is striking up here. We ducked in an antique store to cool off for a bit, (our friend also collects 78 records and I’m never against looking for used camera lenses. One of these days I’ll find that dusty Leica Noctilux 50mm f/1.2 for $50).

    +

    After that we decided that we needed to just sit outside in the shade and enjoy the beautiful afternoon, maybe drink a couple of beers while we’re at it. Michigan is noted for its plethora of local of breweries; we’ve been in towns with fewer than a 1000 residents that nevertheless had its own brewery. But in St Ignace the best place we could come up was a restaurant which, if it would throw a few shrimp shell buckets in the center of its table, could easily pass for a Florida seafood shack. Fortunately it had a decent selection of Michigan beers.

    +

    It’s strange to sit around “all afternoon” up here, because at 5 o’clock it still looks and feels like it’s about 2 in the afternoon. But it’s not. And we all had about an hour and half of driving to do, so we said our goodbyes, they gave us a basket of what turned out to be the best cherries we’ve ever had, and we all hit the road.

    +
    + + sign, st ignace, mi photographed by luxagraf + +
    The whole upper peninsula is full of great old signs.
    +
    + +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      There’s some variation in the spelling of Ojibwe. Louise Erdrich spells it with an e, the Ojibwa cultural center spells it with an a. I went with the e. ↩

      +
      2. +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/lakeside-park.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/lakeside-park.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..256e003 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/lakeside-park.txt @@ -0,0 +1,62 @@ +Lakeside Park +============= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 19 July 2018 + +
    +

    After the girls' birthday we had a few extra days before we needed to head south to meet up with my parents. We decided to stick around Andrus Lake a while longer. Who can say no to your own personal beach?

    + +

    We spent most of the time enjoying the warm lake water (relative to Superior). It's not a big lake, it's not a deep lake, but what it lacks in size it makes up for in character. I don't think I ever looked out at it and saw the same lake twice.

    + +

    Over the course of a full week we saw it choppy, red and frothy in the wind, glassy and mirrored, with morning fog softening the edges, silent and blue in the evenings, and completely obscured in a gray blanket of fog on our one rainy day.

    +
    + + + + + + +Most days though, it was sunny and warm, making out little private beach just about perfect. + + + + + + +There was also plenty of time for breaking in the new bikes. + + + + + + +There were a few reasons we came up this way in the first place, one of them was to see a couple sets of friends who'd moved up this way in the past year or so. Another was reason was a book series I'd read to the kids. We picked up a copy of Louise Erdrich's [The Birchbark House](https://birchbarkbooks.com/louise-erdrich/the-birchbark-house) for the kids for Christmas, and they loved it. They obsess over it with the kind of enthusiasm and depth that only children and Shakespearean stage actors have. + +The Birchbark House takes place on Madeline Island and is the story of a young Ojibwe[^1] girl living through the changes that happened in this part of the world between roughly 1840-1870. It's part one of a five book series and we've read them all and, by popular demand, are re-reading them currently. So when Corrinne noticed there was an small Ojibwe powwow and re-enactment happening in nearby St. Ignace, we had to go. + +The Ojibwa Cultural Center in St Ignace turned out to be a really nice museum, complete with replica birchbark buildings, and the powwow had a bunch of stuff for kids. Ours got to make some necklaces out of beads and sinew and could have done something I couldn't parse out with porcupine quills. They also got the best face painting they've had on this trip. + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +The fascinating part for me was realizing that in the course of reading the five books to the kids I'd picked up about the same amount of Ojibwe as I ever did Thai, Laos or even French. Which is to say that when Ojibwe speakers greeted each other, said thank you, good morning, afternoon, and all the other sorts of small greetings and polite interactions you pick up when you travel in another language, I understood them. It was sort of odd since until that day I'd never knowing met any Ojibwe before in my life. + +The re-enactment portion of the festival was less captivating to the kids, but I picked up a bottle of real maple syrup that's so dark you can't see through it and tastes like pouring a tree on your pancakes. It has a wonderfully smokey flavor to it and is by far the best maple syrup I've ever had (sorry Vermont, previous home of the best maple syrup I've ever had). The only problem with it is that it has made all store bought syrup seem like bland sugar water. This bottle isn't going to last forever and I have no way to get anymore like it. Always buy two. + +The Ojibwe powwow itself didn't get going until midday. We saw what I would call the opening ceremony and then our friends from Traverse City got there and we headed out to walk the streets of St Ignace. It can get pretty warm up here if you don't have shade -- the temperature difference between the sunny and shady side of the street is striking up here. We ducked in an antique store to cool off for a bit, (our friend also collects 78 records and I'm never against looking for used camera lenses. One of these days I'll find that dusty Leica Noctilux 50mm f/1.2 for $50). + +After that we decided that we needed to just sit outside in the shade and enjoy the beautiful afternoon, maybe drink a couple of beers while we're at it. Michigan is noted for its plethora of local of breweries; we've been in towns with fewer than a 1000 residents that nevertheless had its own brewery. But in St Ignace the best place we could come up was a restaurant which, if it would throw a few shrimp shell buckets in the center of its table, could easily pass for a Florida seafood shack. Fortunately it had a decent selection of Michigan beers. + +It's strange to sit around "all afternoon" up here, because at 5 o'clock it still looks and feels like it's about 2 in the afternoon. But it's not. And we all had about an hour and half of driving to do, so we said our goodbyes, they gave us a basket of what turned out to be the best cherries we've ever had, and we all hit the road. + + + +[^1]: There's some variation in the spelling of Ojibwe. Louise Erdrich spells it with an e, the Ojibwa cultural center spells it with an a. I went with the e. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/shipwrecks.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/shipwrecks.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..70dbd8b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/shipwrecks.html @@ -0,0 +1,503 @@ + + + + + Shipwrecks - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Shipwrecks

    + +
    +
    +

    Picture Rocks National Lakeshore, Michigan, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    We were looking for something cool to do for the girls’ birthday, something along the lines of last year’s train ride, when we stumbled across a billboard for a glass bottom boat shipwreck tour. Perfect. We checked the weather and made reservations for the next warm sunny day.

    +
    + + Shipwreck tour, near pictured rocks national seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    There is no reason for that line behind Corrinne. She just projects that former schoolteacher kind of authority that most people have been conditioned to respond to. So when she stood there, people queued up. Got us the best seats on the boat anyway.
    +
    + +

    Somewhat surprisingly the weather was actually correct and we had sun, blue skies and just enough breeze to keep things from getting too hot.

    +
    + + Shipwreck tour, near pictured rocks national seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Shipwreck tour, near pictured rocks national seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    As I’ve written before, I generally eschew guided tours because most of them suck. In this case, however, it did not suck at all. The tour guide knew her stuff and we learned a ton of stuff about Lake Superior navigation and some of its less successful practitioners. The details are mostly unimportant if you’re not actually here, but there’s one important detail that makes this place unique, perhaps in the world — the water temperature.

    +

    On average Lake Superior is 42 degrees, the day we were there it was about 55. That makes for cold swims, but it also means that most of the organisms that eat wood don’t live in Superior. That has two major side effects — the water is insanely clear, and wood lasts a really, really long time underwater because there are no organisms the eat. Lake Superior is, I’d guess, one of the very few places in the world in intact wrecks of wooden ships from the mid 19th century.

    +

    The first wreck we floated over in the glass bottom boat sunk in 1870 and was almost completely intact until a couple of years ago when one of the harshest winters on record froze the water all the way down to the wreck (7 feet of ice) and snapped off the stern railing.

    +
    + + Glass bottom boat, Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Glass bottom boat, Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    Stern of The Bermuda, sunk in 1870
    +
    + +
    + + + Shipwreck tour, near pictured rocks national seashore photographed by luxagraf + + + + + +
    + + Shipwreck tour, near pictured rocks national seashore photographed by luxagraf +
    The toilet from the captain’s quarters aboard the Herman Hettler, sunk 1926.
    +
    + + + + + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + + + +     +
    + +

    I found the first wreck to be the most interesting because it was a canal boat, a little reminder reaching across time to remind us that the only renewable kinds of energy on the planet are wind, water and animals. All three would have been used to moved this boat from Superior down to Lake Erie, across that, and then down the Erie canal to New York. Before interstate highways and fossil fuels good moved by water. After interstate highways and fossil fuels are gone I suspect the waterways will return to their former glory and boatmen will once again be able to make a living. We happen to be living in a brief span of history in which we don’t have to navigate rivers.

    +

    We didn’t do the tour out to the cliffs that give Pictured Rocks its name, but we did come up alongside some smaller ones that line the coast of Grand Island.

    +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Lighthouse, Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    Cottages on Grand Island, still no power, no running water, just like in the good old days.
    +
    + +

    One afternoon I took the kids on a hike up through the Sable Dunes, a large dune area that’s about half way to being not dune. Come back in a couple thousand, maybe even a few hundred years and you won’t even notice there are dunes here. Like almost no one notices that the entire midwest is a giant dune, temporary held down by about ten feet of soil. At the moment though there’s still a good bit of sand.

    +

    The trail was closed in some fashion, though the only clue at to which parts were closed were some tiny, faded pieces of paper printed out and nailed to trees inside plastic baggies. Apparently, that’s a real thing in Michigan. But closing an area by typing out a physical description is, well, hell if I know where they were talking about. Possibly we walked right through the closed area, possibly we did not. It was a nice hike anyway, and took us about as high above Lake Superior as you can get.

    +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Sand dunes, Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + hiking, Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The last few days we spent down by the lake, where the river comes in. I’ve noticed an increasing number of rock stacks in the world. Up here they’re everywhere, including in the middle of the river where the kids were playing. Apparently people like to stack rocks. We like to knock down stacks of rocks. Win-win.

    +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    +
    +
    + + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/shipwrecks.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/shipwrecks.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f85c923 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/shipwrecks.txt @@ -0,0 +1,63 @@ +Shipwrecks +========== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 07 July 2018 + +We were looking for something cool to do for the girls' birthday, something along the lines of [last year's train ride][1], when we stumbled across a billboard for a glass bottom boat shipwreck tour. Perfect. We checked the weather and made reservations for the next warm sunny day. + + + +Somewhat surprisingly the weather was actually correct and we had sun, blue skies and just enough breeze to keep things from getting too hot. + + + + +As I've written before, I generally eschew guided tours because most of them suck. In this case, however, it did not suck at all. The tour guide knew her stuff and we learned a ton of stuff about Lake Superior navigation and some of its less successful practitioners. The details are mostly unimportant if you're not actually here, but there's one important detail that makes this place unique, perhaps in the world -- the water temperature. + +On average Lake Superior is 42 degrees, the day we were there it was about 55. That makes for cold swims, but it also means that most of the organisms that eat wood don't live in Superior. That has two major side effects -- the water is insanely clear, and wood lasts a really, really long time underwater because there are no organisms the eat. Lake Superior is, I'd guess, one of the very few places in the world in intact wrecks of wooden ships from the mid 19th century. + +The first wreck we floated over in the glass bottom boat sunk in 1870 and was almost completely intact until a couple of years ago when one of the harshest winters on record froze the water all the way down to the wreck (7 feet of ice) and snapped off the stern railing. + + + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +I found the first wreck to be the most interesting because it was a canal boat, a little reminder reaching across time to remind us that the only renewable kinds of energy on the planet are wind, water and animals. All three would have been used to moved this boat from Superior down to Lake Erie, across that, and then down the Erie canal to New York. Before interstate highways and fossil fuels good moved by water. After interstate highways and fossil fuels are gone I suspect the waterways will return to their former glory and boatmen will once again be able to make a living. We happen to be living in a brief span of history in which we don't have to navigate rivers. + +We didn't do the tour out to the cliffs that give Pictured Rocks its name, but we did come up alongside some smaller ones that line the coast of Grand Island. + + + + + + + +One afternoon I took the kids on a hike up through the Sable Dunes, a large dune area that's about half way to being not dune. Come back in a couple thousand, maybe even a few hundred years and you won't even notice there are dunes here. Like almost no one notices that the entire midwest is a giant dune, temporary held down by about ten feet of soil. At the moment though there's still a good bit of sand. + +The trail was closed in some fashion, though the only clue at to which parts were closed were some tiny, faded pieces of paper printed out and nailed to trees inside plastic baggies. Apparently, that's a real thing in Michigan. But closing an area by typing out a physical description is, well, hell if I know where they were talking about. Possibly we walked right through the closed area, possibly we did not. It was a nice hike anyway, and took us about as high above Lake Superior as you can get. + + + + + +The last few days we spent down by the lake, where the river comes in. I've noticed an increasing number of rock stacks in the world. Up here they're everywhere, including in the middle of the river where the kids were playing. Apparently people [like to stack rocks][2]. We like to knock down stacks of rocks. Win-win. + + + + + + + + + +[1]: /jrnl/2017/07/happy-5th-birthday +[2]: https://www.hcn.org/articles/a-call-for-an-end-to-cairns-leave-the-stones-alone diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/six.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/six.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6405e05 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/six.html @@ -0,0 +1,472 @@ + + + + + Six - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Six

    + +
    +
    +

    Andrus Lake, Michigan, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    We gambled a bit for the girls’ birthday this year. We couldn’t stay in Pictured Rocks anymore, we’d hit our two week limit the day before their birthday. We considered trying to stay anyway, bribe the camp hosts or something. In the end we rolled the dice and drove on east, out to the edge of the upper peninsula hoping that the campground we’d found on the map would have a nice enough spot.

    +

    It worked out perfectly. We ended up with a spot off to ourselves, beside a smallish lake, with our own private beach — the perfect place for a sixth birthday party.

    +
    + + lakeside camping, andrus lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The kids tend to be up by 6AM these days, but on their birthday it was about 5. Don’t let the light fool you, it’s early. It’s only truly dark up here for about five hours a day.

    +
    + + Birthday at Andrus Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Birthday at Andrus Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Birthday at Andrus Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Birthday at Andrus Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    One of the upper peninsula’s endearing charms is its decided lack of consumer stuff. There’s not much in the way of stores. I had to drive almost two hours and very nearly into Canada to find the girls their new bikes.

    +
    + + Birthday at Andrus Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Elliott is still at the age where it’s really hard to accept that there’s a birthday and it’s not his. We tried to cheer him up by pointing out that we’ll be in Mexico for his birthday and that in Mexico they have exciting things like piñatas. Of course the minute that came out of my mouth the girls had to have a piñatas. You think it’s hard to find bike in the UP, try finding a piñata. Somehow though Corrinne managed to come up with the perfect tiny piñata for our tiny home.

    +
    + + + Pinata, Birthday at Andrus Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Pinata, 6th Birthday photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Pinata, Birthday at Andrus Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + + + + + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf +
    Pretty sure I have never looked worse than this.
    +
    + + + + + + Pinata, Birthday at Andrus Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + + +     +
    + +

    We have still never fixed our oven. It can probably be done, but at this point we’ve already adapted. I’m going to be buying a waffle iron in Mexico because Elliott won’t hear of not having waffle cake for his birthday. See what you started Taylor and Beth? Thanks for that.

    +
    + + Birthday at Andrus Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Birthday at Andrus Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    “Olivia, did you just lick the cake?” “No.” “Maybe.”
    +
    + +
    + + + + Birthday at Andrus Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Birthday at Andrus Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + + Birthday at Andrus Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Birthday at Andrus Lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/six.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/six.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fc6a280 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/six.txt @@ -0,0 +1,50 @@ +Six +=== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Friday, 13 July 2018 + +We gambled a bit for the girls' birthday this year. We couldn't stay in Pictured Rocks anymore, we'd hit our two week limit the day before their birthday. We considered trying to stay anyway, bribe the camp hosts or something. In the end we rolled the dice and drove on east, out to the edge of the upper peninsula hoping that the campground we'd found on the map would have a nice enough spot. + +It worked out perfectly. We ended up with a spot off to ourselves, beside a smallish lake, with our own private beach -- the perfect place for a sixth birthday party. + + + +The kids tend to be up by 6AM these days, but on their birthday it was about 5. Don't let the light fool you, it's early. It's only truly dark up here for about five hours a day. + + + + + + +One of the upper peninsula's endearing charms is its decided lack of consumer stuff. There's not much in the way of stores. I had to drive almost two hours and very nearly into Canada to find the girls their new bikes. + + + +Elliott is still at the age where it's really hard to accept that there's a birthday and it's not his. We tried to cheer him up by pointing out that we'll be in Mexico for his birthday and that in Mexico they have exciting things like piñatas. Of course the minute that came out of my mouth the girls had to have a piñatas. You think it's hard to find bike in the UP, try finding a piñata. Somehow though Corrinne managed to come up with the perfect tiny piñata for our tiny home. + +
    + + + + + + + +
    + +We have still never fixed our oven. It can probably be done, but at this point we've already adapted. I'm going to be buying a waffle iron in Mexico because Elliott won't hear of not having waffle cake for his birthday. See what you started Taylor and Beth? Thanks for that. + + + +
    + + + + + + + + +
    diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/trees.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/trees.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4b77db2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/trees.html @@ -0,0 +1,559 @@ + + + + + The Trees - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    The Trees

    + +
    +
    +

    Picture Rocks National Lakeshore, Michigan, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    I lay in the hammock looking up at the trees, watching the birch leaves fluttering in the light breeze a hundred feet above me. From down here it’s a confusion of light, color, motion, and shadow. What’s it like up there though? What would it be like to stand among those slender branches that would probably, some of them, support my weight? What kind of perspective on the world would you get up there?

    +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    People climb trees, adults I mean. Probably kids aren’t allowed to climb trees anymore. But some adults do. There are even groups that get together and go climb trees. So I’ve been told.

    +

    John Muir writes about climbing a tree in storm to see what it felt like to be blown around. He climbed a 220 foot sugar pine in a storm. “Climbing these grand trees, especially when they are waving and singing in worship in wind-storms, is a glorious experience,” writes Muir in The Yosemite. “Ascending from the lowest branch to the topmost is like stepping up stairs through a blaze of white light, every needle thrilling and shining as if with religious ecstasy.”

    +

    I plan to do that some day, but I probably won’t start with 220 foot sugar pines in the midst of a storm. I’ll probably work my way up to tall trees in storms, but I’d like to try it. One of the nice things about this life is that I can lie here in this hammock and stare up at the trees. I can think about climbing them. I can think about other trees, other hammocks.

    +

    Last summer, Colorado. A very similar vertical view. This summer it’s birch rather than aspen, jack pine rather than lodgepole and ponderosa, but the overall feel of the place is very similar to Colorado and the vertical view is very close.

    +

    A friend of luxagraf, who lives in Iran, but has traveled the desert southwest of the U.S. quite a bit has an interesting article about the visual and ecological similarities between the Sindh desert in Iran (where he lives) and the high desert region of eastern California into western Arizona.

    +

    These similarities exist everywhere. I have no doubt that if you beamed me and this hammock into the right elevation of Ural mountains in Russia or the Andes in Peru or the Himalayas of Himachal Pradesh, I would have a similar view of similar tress. The world is made up of similarities more than differences I find, and I think that’s true whether you speak of ecology, culture, religion or my preferred starting point for philosophical reflections — the vertical view from a hammock.

    +

    Significant ecological, cultural and religious differences exist as well. I think to certain extent that’s the part of traveling that I like the best, discovering these similarities and differences and holding them up before you and trying to make sense of them, finding the threads that connect places, the threads that exist only in one place and then weaving them together until in some way your journey makes sense to you. Why does the jack pine thrive here, and lodgepole pine thrive in Colorado? Why is there a massive body of fresh water here and a huge range of mountains there? Why do men and women hold hands here, men and men hold hands in India and no one holds hands in China? Why does the idea of reincarnation thrive in Himachal Pradesh and not here? Why is the arboreal forest that used to be here now over one hundred miles north of here?

    +

    It’s wrestling with these things that makes travel interesting to me. Seeing things is part of that, part of finding the unique threads of a place, the threads that bind things but that’s not the end of it by any means. Round the world sailor and author Teresa Carey calls this kind of inquiry “a far greater adventure” than just traveling.

    +
    + + Laying in the hammock, Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    If you only have two weeks in a place, I guess I understand that drive to get out there and try to see everything you can. We watch people pulling out every morning to go do things while we’re still cooking breakfast1. A lot of people seem to go somewhere every morning. But then if your time is limited, you want to see what you came to see, I suppose. I’d still probably spend at least half my time “sitting around” because without the chance to daydream and reflect, to pull it all together what’s the point?

    +

    But then we’re fortunate enough to be able to more or less stay anywhere we like as long as we choose. Camping limitations do exist, but otherwise we’re pretty open ended. Consequently we don’t tend to rush out and see everything right away, if we see it at all. For instance, we’ve been in Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore for well over a week and haven’t seen the eponymous rocks yet. And I’ll be fine if we never do, that’s not a thread that happens to interest me.

    +

    These days I’m content with trees, hammocks (when I get some time in one), sitting here in the forest, watching the wind play in the leaves, the birds sharing food and building nests, the kids digging up earthworms for pets. As more than a few writers have demonstrated, you can spend years obsessing over a single square meter of forest and not exhaust everything it has to teach2.

    +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    At the same time, you can take that too far. We don’t sit around all the time, we don’t refuse to “see the sights”. Some long term travelers I’ve met seem to look down on seeing things, like that’s the status symbol that sets them above the common traveler — they’re too cool to see the sights. I think that’s equally as silly as running around like the proverbial headless chicken trying to see it all. The opposite of one bad idea is often another bad idea. If I no long care what’s around the next bend, over the top of that rise or on the other side of the horizon then I’d stop traveling. There is always a third option; some sitting around, some seeing what’s around the bend.

    +

    In our case we walk around quite a bit. I walk slowly, the rest of my family not so much. Sometimes I can convince Lilah to hang back with me though, that makes for nice hikes. The world is more fun when you have someone to share it with.

    +

    Here there’s a good 3 mile round trip trail out to a lighthouse. That’s about what Elliott is comfortable doing these days, three to four miles. At the end there was a lighthouse and a few outbuildings connected with the lighthouse. We forgot the money for the tour of the lighthouse, but it seemed closed anyway. We marched right on past and scrambled down some rocks to the lake shore for a little lunch. The sandstone shelf we sat on extended nearly half mile out into the water without getting much more than six feet deep. Hence the need for a lighthouse.

    +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    There was a fog bank to the east of the lighthouse that day, a thin layer that obscured all but the top of the dunes just to east of us, dunes that sit some five hundred feet above the lake. The first four hundred feet were hidden by a fog bank that stretched out over the lake and curved back toward the lighthouse, losing density as it neared the point we sat on. We ate our food and watched wisps of wet cloud blow by us and down the coast, seemingly circling back down toward the dunes.

    +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It wasn’t particularly warm and only Lilah and I hung around after lunch we finished lunch. We explored the shoreline to the east for a while, looking for interesting signs of life. There weren’t many. Lake Superior is cold, clear, and not exactly teeming with life. I’ve seen a few fish, including a huge trout in very shallow water, and Lilah and I found some curious insects, around the rocks, but for the most part it’s pretty quiet around here, biologically speaking. At least on the water. The water average 42 degrees, there’s just enough life to support a fair number of fish, and the birds that feed on them, but not much more than that.

    +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    It’s difficult to convey just how absolutely clear the water of Lake Superior is, this is the best I could come up with, that’s about six feet deep.
    +
    + +

    But what it lacks in life it makes up for in weather. The weather here is the most unusual and dramatically changing weather I’ve ever experienced anywhere on the planet thus far. It’s completely left field. One minute it’s hot, the next it’s cold. And a good percent of the time that’s just barely hyperbolic.

    +

    A good bit of my early travels were in the Sierra Nevada mountains of California. I’ve backpacked several hundred miles worth of trails and seen a good bit of “interesting weather”. Lightning so close your hair stands up? Check. Hail the size of small oranges? Check. Snow in mid July? Check. Rapid drops in temperature as a storm approaches? Check. Well, maybe not check.

    +

    I thought I had experiences some rapid temperature drops, but Lake Superior is a different class with those. One morning, a particularly warm, humid morning, it was 8 AM and the temperature was already climbing steadily. It can get surprisingly hot and muggy around here, and I figured it was going to be a really hot day. But then, about five minutes later the sky was so dark it looked more like night than night, the temperature had dropped well below 55, and the wind was tossing the leafy crowns of the birch trees around like a salad spinner. It was the most complete reversal of weather I’ve ever experienced anywhere in the world.

    +

    It was also very localized and didn’t last long. The wind faded quickly and within an hour the nice cool temperatures were gone as if it had never happened. Curiously though, it happened again around 2PM and again around 8PM. My best guess is that somewhere inland it’s heating up enough to pull some air off the middle of the lake and the lake is definitely cold enough to drop the air temp by 30-40 degrees. That particular day the last lake effect cooling timed nicely with bedtime. I still woke up sweating by 1AM, but at least we got to go to bed with a nice cool breeze blowing through.

    +

    When it is hot here, and it is more than I expected it would be, especially after our experience in Wisconsin, at least there’s a freezing cold lake to cool off in. And it is cold, cold enough that even the kids haven’t been past their waists. I went under, but it took some effort. Lake Superior is the coldest large body of water I’ve ever swam in. The water temp right now is 55 degrees, but honestly it feels even colder. It’s almost as cold as the Sierra lakes I used to swim in during the early season when there were still fields of snow leading down into them on the north facing slopes.

    +

    When its 85-90 out though Superior feels refreshing and nice. At least for a minute or two. Then you get out and the air around you feels insanely humid and hot and you want to slip back into the lake, but then it starts to be too much, you get a sort of pins and needles sensation in your feet after a while. So you climb out, sit on the rocks, and play with the kids until you get hot enough that you want to try getting back in the lake again.

    +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The second time we went down to the shore line to beat the heat we learned something else about the wind in these parts. When it blows onshore it keeps the black flies at bay. When it blows offshore, look out.

    +
    + + Playing in Lake Superior, Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Playing in Lake Superior, Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    For whatever reason I have no problem with mosquitoes. Some recently asked what we do about mosquitoes and I told them we have Thermacell, which works well enough, and we use it during the times of day the mozzies are really bad, but the rest of the time, honestly, I don’t bother much. They bite me. I swat them when it hurts, and if I’m in malaria/dengue/etc areas I take mosquitoes more seriously, but mosquitoes are supposed to bite, that’s what they do.

    +

    Where I come from though flies are completely benign, perhaps that’s why biting flies bother me. It seems extra cruel to take an ubiquitous and already fairly annoying creature and then make it capable of a painful bite. Screw that. I hate black flies. But then I hate when black flies drive me away from something I want to do, so I tend to stick it out until they get real bad. If you keep moving they don’t bother you as much, so we spent most of our beach time walking, climbing rocks, looking for agates, good skipping rocks, gnarled driftwood, birds, fish and whatever else captures out attention.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      Not that we’re late risers, by the time we make breakfast I’ve usually been out birding, meditated and drank my way through at least two moka pots worth of coffee and Corrinne has generally walked 5 miles or so. ↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      This is, to me, the best argument against traveling — it doesn’t allow for the sort of depth of study, be it ecological, cultural, whatever, that’s possible when you stay in one place. For me though, staying in one place leads to complacency, less awareness and a tendency to take the world for granted. ↩

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    2 Comments

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    + DREW ELDRIDGE + July 16, 2018 at 11:07 a.m. +
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    + +

    I am 100% the chicken with its head cut off traveler. I sit here in my cube 50% of my waking hours on this planet it seems. The other 50% im trying to see as much as possible. On our upcoming trip the sun rises at 5AM and sets at 1030pm and I plan to use it all.

    +

    Awesome perspective- if I had the time- I would love to chill and reflect. But ill wait until im back in my cube to do that. +Until then, I will continue to live through you all- Carry on!

    + +
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    + +
    + Scott + July 26, 2018 at 10:19 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    DREW-

    +

    I’m naturally drawn to the chicken approach myself. It’s taken me about 10 months to let go of that need to always be doing something. I’m still not entirely there. We’ll be passing through a huge city later this year, we have about 5, maybe 7 days. I’ve already got a list of about 25 places I want to visit. :)

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    Thoughts?

    +

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/trees.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/trees.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4d85b03 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/07/trees.txt @@ -0,0 +1,93 @@ +The Trees +========= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 02 July 2018 + +I lay in the hammock looking up at the trees, watching the birch leaves fluttering in the light breeze a hundred feet above me. From down here it's a confusion of light, color, motion, and shadow. What's it like up there though? What would it be like to stand among those slender branches that would probably, some of them, support my weight? What kind of perspective on the world would you get up there? + + + +People climb trees, adults I mean. Probably kids aren't allowed to climb trees anymore. But some adults do. There are even groups that get together and go climb trees. So I've been told. + +John Muir writes about climbing a tree in storm to see what it felt like to be blown around. He climbed a 220 foot sugar pine in a storm. "Climbing these grand trees, especially when they are waving and singing in worship in wind-storms, is a glorious experience," writes Muir in The Yosemite. "Ascending from the lowest branch to the topmost is like stepping up stairs through a blaze of white light, every needle thrilling and shining as if with religious ecstasy." + +I plan to do that some day, but I probably won't start with 220 foot sugar pines in the midst of a storm. I'll probably work my way up to tall trees in storms, but I'd like to try it. One of the nice things about this life is that I can lie here in this hammock and stare up at the trees. I can think about climbing them. I can think about other trees, other hammocks. + +Last summer, Colorado. A very similar vertical view. This summer it's birch rather than aspen, jack pine rather than lodgepole and ponderosa, but the overall feel of the place is very similar to Colorado and the vertical view is very close. + +A friend of luxagraf, who lives in Iran, but has traveled the desert southwest of the U.S. quite a bit has an interesting article about the [visual and ecological similarities][4] between the Sindh desert in Iran (where he lives) and the high desert region of eastern California into western Arizona. + +These similarities exist everywhere. I have no doubt that if you beamed me and this hammock into the right elevation of Ural mountains in Russia or the Andes in Peru or the Himalayas of Himachal Pradesh, I would have a similar view of similar tress. The world is made up of similarities more than differences I find, and I think that's true whether you speak of ecology, culture, religion or my preferred starting point for philosophical reflections -- the vertical view from a hammock. + +Significant ecological, cultural and religious differences exist as well. I think to certain extent that's the part of traveling that I like the best, discovering these similarities and differences and holding them up before you and trying to make sense of them, finding the threads that connect places, the threads that exist only in one place and then weaving them together until in some way your journey makes sense to you. Why does the jack pine thrive here, and lodgepole pine thrive in Colorado? Why is there a massive body of fresh water here and a huge range of mountains there? Why do men and women hold hands here, men and men hold hands in India and no one holds hands in China? Why does the idea of reincarnation thrive in Himachal Pradesh and not here? Why is the arboreal forest that used to be here now over one hundred miles north of here? + +It's wrestling with these things that makes travel interesting to me. Seeing things is part of that, part of finding the unique threads of a place, the threads that bind things but that's not the end of it by any means. Round the world sailor and author [Teresa Carey][3] calls this kind of inquiry "a far greater adventure" than just traveling. + + + +If you only have two weeks in a place, I guess I understand that drive to get out there and try to see everything you can. We watch people pulling out every morning to go do things while we're still cooking breakfast[^1]. A lot of people seem to go somewhere every morning. But then if your time is limited, you want to see what you came to see, I suppose. I'd still probably spend at least half my time "sitting around" because without the chance to daydream and reflect, to pull it all together what's the point? + +But then we're fortunate enough to be able to more or less stay anywhere we like as long as we choose. Camping limitations do exist, but otherwise we're pretty open ended. Consequently we don't tend to rush out and see everything right away, if we see it at all. For instance, we've been in Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore for well over a week and haven't seen the eponymous rocks yet. And I'll be fine if we never do, that's not a thread that happens to interest me. + +These days I'm content with trees, hammocks (when I get some time in one), sitting here in the forest, watching the wind play in the leaves, the birds sharing food and building nests, the kids digging up earthworms for pets. As more than a few writers have [demonstrated][1], you can spend years obsessing over a [single square meter][2] of forest and not exhaust everything it has to teach[^2]. + + + + + +At the same time, you can take that too far. We don't sit around all the time, we don't refuse to "see the sights". Some long term travelers I've met seem to look down on seeing things, like that's the status symbol that sets them above the common traveler -- they're too cool to see the sights. I think that's equally as silly as running around like the proverbial headless chicken trying to see it all. The opposite of one bad idea is often another bad idea. If I no long care what's around the next bend, over the top of that rise or on the other side of the horizon then I'd stop traveling. There is always a third option; some sitting around, some seeing what's around the bend. + +In our case we walk around quite a bit. I walk slowly, the rest of my family not so much. Sometimes I can convince Lilah to hang back with me though, that makes for nice hikes. The world is more fun when you have someone to share it with. + +Here there's a good 3 mile round trip trail out to a lighthouse. That's about what Elliott is comfortable doing these days, three to four miles. At the end there was a lighthouse and a few outbuildings connected with the lighthouse. We forgot the money for the tour of the lighthouse, but it seemed closed anyway. We marched right on past and scrambled down some rocks to the lake shore for a little lunch. The sandstone shelf we sat on extended nearly half mile out into the water without getting much more than six feet deep. Hence the need for a lighthouse. + + + + +There was a fog bank to the east of the lighthouse that day, a thin layer that obscured all but the top of the dunes just to east of us, dunes that sit some five hundred feet above the lake. The first four hundred feet were hidden by a fog bank that stretched out over the lake and curved back toward the lighthouse, losing density as it neared the point we sat on. We ate our food and watched wisps of wet cloud blow by us and down the coast, seemingly circling back down toward the dunes. + + + + +It wasn't particularly warm and only Lilah and I hung around after lunch we finished lunch. We explored the shoreline to the east for a while, looking for interesting signs of life. There weren't many. Lake Superior is cold, clear, and not exactly teeming with life. I've seen a few fish, including a huge trout in very shallow water, and Lilah and I found some curious insects, around the rocks, but for the most part it's pretty quiet around here, biologically speaking. At least on the water. The water average 42 degrees, there's just enough life to support a fair number of fish, and the birds that feed on them, but not much more than that. + + + +But what it lacks in life it makes up for in weather. The weather here is the most unusual and dramatically changing weather I've ever experienced anywhere on the planet thus far. It's completely left field. One minute it's hot, the next it's cold. And a good percent of the time that's just barely hyperbolic. + +A good bit of my early travels were in the Sierra Nevada mountains of California. I've backpacked several hundred miles worth of trails and seen a good bit of "interesting weather". Lightning so close your hair stands up? Check. Hail the size of small oranges? Check. Snow in mid July? Check. Rapid drops in temperature as a storm approaches? Check. Well, maybe not check. + +I thought I had experiences some rapid temperature drops, but Lake Superior is a different class with those. One morning, a particularly warm, humid morning, it was 8 AM and the temperature was already climbing steadily. It can get surprisingly hot and muggy around here, and I figured it was going to be a really hot day. But then, about five minutes later the sky was so dark it looked more like night than night, the temperature had dropped well below 55, and the wind was tossing the leafy crowns of the birch trees around like a salad spinner. It was the most complete reversal of weather I've ever experienced anywhere in the world. + +It was also very localized and didn't last long. The wind faded quickly and within an hour the nice cool temperatures were gone as if it had never happened. Curiously though, it happened again around 2PM and again around 8PM. My best guess is that somewhere inland it's heating up enough to pull some air off the middle of the lake and the lake is definitely cold enough to drop the air temp by 30-40 degrees. That particular day the last lake effect cooling timed nicely with bedtime. I still woke up sweating by 1AM, but at least we got to go to bed with a nice cool breeze blowing through. + +When it is hot here, and it is more than I expected it would be, especially after our experience in Wisconsin, at least there's a freezing cold lake to cool off in. And it is cold, cold enough that even the kids haven't been past their waists. I went under, but it took some effort. Lake Superior is the coldest large body of water I've ever swam in. The water temp right now is 55 degrees, but honestly it feels even colder. It's almost as cold as the Sierra lakes I used to swim in during the early season when there were still fields of snow leading down into them on the north facing slopes. + +When its 85-90 out though Superior feels refreshing and nice. At least for a minute or two. Then you get out and the air around you feels insanely humid and hot and you want to slip back into the lake, but then it starts to be too much, you get a sort of pins and needles sensation in your feet after a while. So you climb out, sit on the rocks, and play with the kids until you get hot enough that you want to try getting back in the lake again. + + + + + +The second time we went down to the shore line to beat the heat we learned something else about the wind in these parts. When it blows onshore it keeps the black flies at bay. When it blows offshore, look out. + + + + +For whatever reason I have no problem with mosquitoes. Some recently asked what we do about mosquitoes and I told them we have Thermacell, which works well enough, and we use it during the times of day the mozzies are really bad, but the rest of the time, honestly, I don't bother much. They bite me. I swat them when it hurts, and if I'm in malaria/dengue/etc areas I take mosquitoes more seriously, but mosquitoes are supposed to bite, that's what they do. + +Where I come from though flies are completely benign, perhaps that's why biting flies bother me. It seems extra cruel to take an ubiquitous and already fairly annoying creature and then make it capable of a painful bite. Screw that. I hate black flies. But then I hate when black flies drive me away from something I want to do, so I tend to stick it out until they get real bad. If you keep moving they don't bother you as much, so we spent most of our beach time walking, climbing rocks, looking for agates, good skipping rocks, gnarled driftwood, birds, fish and whatever else captures out attention. + + + + + +[^1]: Not that we're late risers, by the time we make breakfast I've usually been out birding, meditated and drank my way through at least two moka pots worth of coffee and Corrinne has generally walked 5 miles or so. +[^2]: This is, to me, the best argument against traveling -- it doesn't allow for the sort of depth of study, be it ecological, cultural, whatever, that's possible when you stay in one place. For me though, staying in one place leads to complacency, less awareness and a tendency to take the world for granted. + +[1]: /books/gathering-moss +[2]: /books/the-forest-unseen +[3]: http://teresacarey.com/ +[4]: http://newslinemagazine.com/is-it-california-or-is-it-sindh/ diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/grassland.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/grassland.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a7a9433 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/grassland.html @@ -0,0 +1,470 @@ + + + + + Grassland - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    + + +
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    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Grassland

    + +
    +
    +

    Pawnee National Grassland, Colorado, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The vastness of the prairie sky is addictive. Once you’ve spent a while surrounded by nothing but grass and sky you start to feel closed in whenever there is something else near you. We tried to go back to regular campgrounds, but you find yourself wanting more space, asking why are these things blocking my sky?

    +

    It took me a while, but I eventually I realized that what draws me in about the prairie is that it’s the only landscape that offers the vast unbroken horizon of the sea. This is why almost no one can come here without remarking on the “sea of grass” or the “islands” of trees within it. The grasslands are the land playing at being the sea.

    +

    We went to the other side of Buffalo Gap National Grasslands to a little campground called French Creek. It was a strange little campground, surrounded by a fence, but with a big gate. I figured it was tent-only, but there were no signs saying that, and the gate was open. As a U.S. taxpayer this is technically speaking, my land, so I drove the bus in and parked next to picnic table.

    +
    + + the bus, french creek campground, buffalo gap national grasslands photographed by luxagraf + +
    Seems like a legit place to camp to me.
    +
    + +

    The ranger who came by the next morning did not like that one bit. I wasn’t rude, but I did tell him if he didn’t want people parking in the campground then maybe consider signs and a lock.

    +

    French Creek is near the town of Fairburn, home to about 100 people. We came here because Corrinne is a rock hound and this is the one and only place on earth to find something called a Fairburn agate. Corrinne went rock hunting the first evening we were there, but came up empty. The next morning she took the kids out to the agate beds and Olivia promptly found a Fairburn. She spent the rest of day teaching everyone else how to find one. Daddy, you have to look…

    +
    + + + + None photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + fairburn agate photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +
    + +

    We left the next day, headed for another national grassland in Nebraska. Corrinne and kids drove ahead to the campground while I dumped and filled our water tank in the nearby town of Crawford NE. I was just about to head down the 20 miles of dirt road when Corrinne called to say it was tent-only. Hey, at least this one had signs.

    +

    We ended up staying in Crawford at the city park. It was deserted, pretty close to free, had two playgrounds and a livestock auction that was could listen to all afternoon.

    +
    + + City park, Crawford, NE photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Livestock auction, Crawford, NE photographed by luxagraf + +
    A few of the brands on sale at the Crawford livestock market.
    +
    + +
    + + random buttes, near crawforn, NE photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The next day we pushed on to the third grassland on our list, Pawnee Grassland, just over the Colorado border. Here, finally, we again found something as nice as Buffalo Gap near Wall. The road in was one of the roughest we’ve done, but we made it more or less intact. The first night we just pulled off the road, but then the rig that had been on the ridge overlooking the whole grasslands packed up and left so we swooped in and grabbed the spot.

    +
    + + Welcome to Colorado photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pawnee Grasslands, Colorado photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + The bus, near Pawnee Buttes, Pawnee Grasslands, Colorado photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Cow, Pawnee Grasslands, Colorado photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Cows, Pawnee Grasslands, Colorado photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It was a pleasant place to stay for a week. I could work, the kids played. The cows came by to investigate us. There’s something about this sea of grass that makes it seem as though just watching it is enough. You don’t need to do anything, just observe the land, the sky, the ever changing light.

    +
    + + Pawnee Buttes, Pawnee Grasslands, Colorado photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pawnee Grasslands, Colorado photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Sunset over Pawnee Grasslands, CO photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + The bus, near Pawnee Buttes, Pawnee Grasslands, Colorado photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pawnee Buttes, Pawnee Grasslands, Colorado photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Storm clouds over the Pawnee Grasslands, Colorado photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We’d have stayed longer, but unlike our spot outside of Wall, in Pawnee Buttes the nearest water and dump facilities are over an hour away, and it’s a rough road in and out. Too rough to risk when your main goal is get to a specific place at a specific time. We stayed as long as we could, but when the water tank ran dry we fired her up and pointed our nose south.

    +
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    + + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
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    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/grassland.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/grassland.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a3f1179 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/grassland.txt @@ -0,0 +1,54 @@ +Grassland +========= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 27 August 2018 + +The vastness of the prairie sky is addictive. Once you've spent a while surrounded by nothing but grass and sky you start to feel closed in whenever there is something else near you. We tried to go back to regular campgrounds, but you find yourself wanting more space, asking why are these things blocking my sky? + +It took me a while, but I eventually I realized that what draws me in about the prairie is that it's the only landscape that offers the vast unbroken horizon of the sea. This is why almost no one can come here without remarking on the "sea of grass" or the "islands" of trees within it. The grasslands are the land playing at being the sea. + +We went to the other side of Buffalo Gap National Grasslands to a little campground called French Creek. It was a strange little campground, surrounded by a fence, but with a big gate. I figured it was tent-only, but there were no signs saying that, and the gate was open. As a U.S. taxpayer this is technically speaking, my land, so I drove the bus in and parked next to picnic table. + + + +The ranger who came by the next morning did not like that one bit. I wasn't rude, but I did tell him if he didn't want people parking in the campground then maybe consider signs and a lock. + +French Creek is near the town of Fairburn, home to about 100 people. We came here because Corrinne is a rock hound and this is the one and only place on earth to find something called a Fairburn agate. Corrinne went rock hunting the first evening we were there, but came up empty. The next morning she took the kids out to the agate beds and Olivia promptly found a Fairburn. She spent the rest of day teaching everyone else how to find one. *Daddy, you have to **look**...* + +
    + + + +
    + + + +We left the next day, headed for another national grassland in Nebraska. Corrinne and kids drove ahead to the campground while I dumped and filled our water tank in the nearby town of Crawford NE. I was just about to head down the 20 miles of dirt road when Corrinne called to say it was tent-only. Hey, at least this one had signs. + +We ended up staying in Crawford at the city park. It was deserted, pretty close to free, had two playgrounds and a livestock auction that was could listen to all afternoon. + + + + + +The next day we pushed on to the third grassland on our list, Pawnee Grassland, just over the Colorado border. Here, finally, we again found something as nice as Buffalo Gap near Wall. The road in was one of the roughest we've done, but we made it more or less intact. The first night we just pulled off the road, but then the rig that had been on the ridge overlooking the whole grasslands packed up and left so we swooped in and grabbed the spot. + + + + + + + +It was a pleasant place to stay for a week. I could work, the kids played. The cows came by to investigate us. There's something about this sea of grass that makes it seem as though just watching it is enough. You don't need to do anything, just observe the land, the sky, the ever changing light. + + + + + + + + + +We'd have stayed longer, but unlike our spot outside of Wall, in Pawnee Buttes the nearest water and dump facilities are over an hour away, and it's a rough road in and out. Too rough to risk when your main goal is get to a specific place at a specific time. We stayed as long as we could, but when the water tank ran dry we fired her up and pointed our nose south. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/island-golden-breasted-woodpecker.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/island-golden-breasted-woodpecker.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c5bb4a5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/island-golden-breasted-woodpecker.html @@ -0,0 +1,546 @@ + + + + + Island Of The Golden Breasted Woodpecker - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Island of the Golden Breasted Woodpecker

    + +
    +
    +

    Moningwanekaaning, Wisconsin, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The wind is light, the air still cool and heavy with the morning dew. Already though the sunlight is warm on our backs. The crisp, clean smell of Lake Superior’s cold waters fills the air. Ring-billed gulls fight over pier pylons. Occasionally one launches out over the lake, perhaps in search of a less contested perch. Beyond the pier sailboats are already unfurling sails and heading north, up the coast, currently downwind. The ferry shudders underfoot, the diesel engine coming to life for the short passage to Madeline Island.

    +
    + + Madeline Island Ferry, Bayside, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Lake Superior on the way to Madeline Island, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Madeline Island Ferry, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Madeline Island Ferry, Bayside, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    Fellow paper map users unite!
    +
    + +

    The Ojibwe, who were here when the first Europeans paddled through, call Madeline Island Moningwanekaaning, which translates to Island of the Golden Breasted Woodpecker. Today, a more literal translation might be Island of the Northern Flicker, but that just doesn’t have the same ring to it.

    +

    Moningwanekaaning is one of twelve islands clustered near the western end of Lake Superior, off the coast of present day Wisconsin. Moningwanekaaning is the only one that’s not part of the Apostle Islands National Seashore (the name Apostle Islands comes courtesy of the Jesuits). This is where the bulk of the action takes place in the first three novels of Louise Erdrich’s Birchbark House Series, which, as I’ve mentioned before, our kids are obsessed with. It’s one of the reasons that we came up here, to see where the characters of those books walked and ate and slept and swam.

    +

    To some people that might sound strange, traveling somewhere because a historical novel happens to be set there, but it’s not the first time I’ve done it. All the little “how do you decide where to go” things I’ve written about previously take a backseat the number of times I’ve gone somewhere because I read a book about it.

    +

    Books fire the imagination in ways that travel guides and glossy magazines can’t. If I’d never read Henry Miller I’d probably have cared less about Paris. Prague would have meant less to me without Kafka. I couldn’t help noticing all the places in London that I knew about because Slothrop had affairs near them. And I’m never in New Orleans or near the Louisiana coast without thinking of The Awakening, A Confederacy of Dunces and The Yellow Wallpaper.

    +

    The desire to visit more than a few places I’d still like to visit can be traced to novels I’ve read — Tangier Morocco, Dublin Ireland, and Varanasi India to name a few.

    +

    The only problem with going to places you’ve read about is that they’ll never measure up to what you’ve read, which is to say they’ll never compare to what you’ve created for them in your imagination. I’ve spent the last month or so making sure the kids understood that Madeline Island is not currently like Moningwanekaaning is in the books.

    +

    They didn’t seem disappointed wandering around Madeline Island. Part of that could be that Madeline Island, save for the town of Laporte, actually hasn’t changed much since the 1830s, when the novel is set.

    +

    After a short ferry ride over we stopped in at the Madeline Island Museum, which traces the history of the island, but is also part of that history. The museum was made by joining four historic log structures end to end, part of a small 1835 American Fur Company warehouse, the former La Pointe jail, a Scandinavian-style barn of somewhat mysterious origin, and a building known as the Old Sailors’ Home, which was apparently a memorial to a sailor who drown. From what I could tell the museum is in four of the oldest remaining buildings on the island.

    +
    + + Madeline Island Museum, WI photographed by Madeline Island Museum + +
    image by
    +
    + +

    The museum was somewhat unique in our experience for having by far the most knowledgable, friendly staff we’ve encountered anywhere. I didn’t ask a single question that someone didn’t know the answer to. At one point I was pretty sure there was a private tour happening in one of the rooms, the guide was going into way too much detail and answered way too many questions, but no, it turned out to just be one of the staff whose sole job appeared to be hanging out on the artifacts room answering questions and telling stories. He was an Ojibwe historian and seemed to know not only the origin of every artifact in the room, but roughly the year it would have been created and used.

    +

    One of the women who worked there gave us a kind of personalized tour, pointing out artifacts and telling us not only the story of the artifact, what it was, where it came from and so on, but also how it came to be in the museum’s hands.

    +
    + + Birchbark House, Madeline Island, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    After reading about birchbark houses and seeing a few mockups, the kids finally got to go inside one.
    +
    + +
    + + Deer antlers locked together, Madeline Island, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    My favorite exhibit at the museum had nothing to do with artifacts. These deer locked antlers while fighting and died that way. There’s a lesson here.
    +
    + +

    I’ll be honest, I don’t generally like museums much because everything is under glass and out of context. I’d rather find a tiny potsherd hiking in the backcountry than see a whole pot in a museum. Even the best museums that do try to get some context in their displays still leave out the modern context, who found it? What were they doing when the found it and so on. While none of the context is necessarily on display at the Madeline Island Museum, the staff seem to have all the information in their heads and if they see you studying something there’s a good chance they’ll come up and offer the full story of the artifact, what it is, what it was for, where it was found, who found it, what they were doing when they found it and how it ended up in the museum.

    +

    I would have stayed another couple hours in the museum and really it was only three rooms, but the kids were hungry and wanting to swim so at the advice of one of the museum staff, we wandered down to a little park with a nice beach the kids could swim at. We made sandwiches and went swimming to cool off.

    +
    + + Madeline Island, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    There’s a hand drawn map at the beginning of each of the Birchbark Series books, showing roughly where the birchbark house was, where other characters lived and where various events took place. I, perhaps more than the kids even, wanted to see some of the places. I’d spent enough time studying the map to know roughly where they were.

    +

    After the kids had swam for awhile I convinced them to get out of the water (no small task) and we drove around the island to roughly where one of their favorite character’s house would have been. We walked through the wood along the shoreline and wondered about what it all would have looked like in 1837. Probably, I’d guess, not all that different than it does now.

    +
    + + + Madeline Island, WI photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Madeline Island, WI photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + Madeline Island, WI photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Madeline Island, WI photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    We’d looked into camping on the island, and the campground happens to be roughly where one of the character’s houses was, but it was booked full for the entire month of August. We had to content ourselves with a day trip and after our short hike, we headed back to catch the ferry back to the mainland.

    +

    The next day was supposed to be our last day at Lake Superior. We set out reasonably early for a little beach a local woman told us about and spent the morning playing on the shore and swimming.

    +
    + + lake superior near, washburn, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + lake superior near, washburn, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + lake superior near, washburn, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + lake superior near, washburn, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + lake superior near, washburn, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    At lunch time Corrinne went back to the bus and brought some food over to the beach because no one wanted to leave yet. I realized I was really going to miss Lake Superior. I don’t know what it is exactly, some bodies of water just get under your skin. The UP is nice, Wisconsin was fun too, but really the best part of our summer was Lake Superior. Somehow we just couldn’t bear the thought of saying goodbye to it just yet. And since we’re fortunate enough to not really have to be anywhere, we decided to change our plans a bit and head up into Minnesota to check out one more side of Lake Superior — the north shore.

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    3 Comments

    + + + + + + +
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    + DREW ELDRIDGE + August 18, 2018 at 2:59 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Ill raise you one “buck”. I had read about this years ago. +https://www.fieldandstream.com/photos/gallery/hunting/deer-hunting/2010/12/triple-tragedy-three-bucks-drown-antlers-locked

    + +
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    + +
    + +
    + Gwen + August 19, 2018 at 2:46 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Love the name of this island! Just wondering why you think of The Yellow Wallpaper when you are in Louisiana…

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + August 19, 2018 at 6:10 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Drew-

    +

    That’s a much more confusing lesson.

    +

    Gwen-

    +

    Ha! I was wondering if anyone would notice that. There’s one person, who I think reads this site, who will understand it. But I’m sorry, everyone else will just have to wonder.

    + +
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    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/island-golden-breasted-woodpecker.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/island-golden-breasted-woodpecker.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..98bb3ee --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/island-golden-breasted-woodpecker.txt @@ -0,0 +1,73 @@ +Island of the Golden Breasted Woodpecker +======================================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 02 August 2018 + +The wind is light, the air still cool and heavy with the morning dew. Already though the sunlight is warm on our backs. The crisp, clean smell of Lake Superior's cold waters fills the air. Ring-billed gulls fight over pier pylons. Occasionally one launches out over the lake, perhaps in search of a less contested perch. Beyond the pier sailboats are already unfurling sails and heading north, up the coast, currently downwind. The ferry shudders underfoot, the diesel engine coming to life for the short passage to Madeline Island. + + + + + + +The Ojibwe, who were here when the first Europeans paddled through, call Madeline Island Moningwanekaaning, which translates to Island of the Golden Breasted Woodpecker. Today, a more literal translation might be Island of the Northern Flicker, but that just doesn't have the same ring to it. + +Moningwanekaaning is one of twelve islands clustered near the western end of Lake Superior, off the coast of present day Wisconsin. Moningwanekaaning is the only one that's not part of the Apostle Islands National Seashore (the name Apostle Islands comes courtesy of the Jesuits). This is where the bulk of the action takes place in the first three novels of Louise Erdrich's [Birchbark House][1] Series, which, as I've mentioned before, our kids are obsessed with. It's one of the reasons that we came up here, to see where the characters of those books walked and ate and slept and swam. + +To some people that might sound strange, traveling somewhere because a historical novel happens to be set there, but it's not the first time I've done it. All the little "how do you decide where to go" things I've written about previously take a backseat the number of times I've gone somewhere because I read a book about it. + +Books fire the imagination in ways that travel guides and glossy magazines can't. If I'd never read Henry Miller I'd probably have cared less about Paris. Prague would have meant less to me without Kafka. I couldn't help noticing all the places in London that I knew about because Slothrop had affairs near them. And I'm never in New Orleans or near the Louisiana coast without thinking of The Awakening, A Confederacy of Dunces and The Yellow Wallpaper. + +The desire to visit more than a few places I'd still like to visit can be traced to novels I've read -- Tangier Morocco, Dublin Ireland, and Varanasi India to name a few. + +The only problem with going to places you've read about is that they'll never measure up to what you've read, which is to say they'll never compare to what you've created for them in your imagination. I've spent the last month or so making sure the kids understood that Madeline Island is not currently like Moningwanekaaning is in the books. + +They didn't seem disappointed wandering around Madeline Island. Part of that could be that Madeline Island, save for the town of Laporte, actually hasn't changed much since the 1830s, when the novel is set. + +After a short ferry ride over we stopped in at the Madeline Island Museum, which traces the history of the island, but is also part of that history. The museum was made by joining four historic log structures end to end, part of a small 1835 American Fur Company warehouse, the former La Pointe jail, a Scandinavian-style barn of somewhat mysterious origin, and a building known as the Old Sailors’ Home, which was apparently a memorial to a sailor who drown. From what I could tell the museum is in four of the oldest remaining buildings on the island. + + + +The museum was somewhat unique in our experience for having by far the most knowledgable, friendly staff we've encountered anywhere. I didn't ask a single question that someone didn't know the answer to. At one point I was pretty sure there was a private tour happening in one of the rooms, the guide was going into way too much detail and answered way too many questions, but no, it turned out to just be one of the staff whose sole job appeared to be hanging out on the artifacts room answering questions and telling stories. He was an Ojibwe historian and seemed to know not only the origin of every artifact in the room, but roughly the year it would have been created and used. + +One of the women who worked there gave us a kind of personalized tour, pointing out artifacts and telling us not only the story of the artifact, what it was, where it came from and so on, but also how it came to be in the museum's hands. + + + + + +I'll be honest, I don't generally like museums much because everything is under glass and out of context. I'd rather find a tiny potsherd hiking in the backcountry than see a whole pot in a museum. Even the best museums that do try to get some context in their displays still leave out the modern context, who found it? What were they doing when the found it and so on. While none of the context is necessarily on display at the Madeline Island Museum, the staff seem to have all the information in their heads and if they see you studying something there's a good chance they'll come up and offer the full story of the artifact, what it is, what it was for, where it was found, who found it, what they were doing when they found it and how it ended up in the museum. + +I would have stayed another couple hours in the museum and really it was only three rooms, but the kids were hungry and wanting to swim so at the advice of one of the museum staff, we wandered down to a little park with a nice beach the kids could swim at. We made sandwiches and went swimming to cool off. + + + +There's a hand drawn map at the beginning of each of the Birchbark Series books, showing roughly where the birchbark house was, where other characters lived and where various events took place. I, perhaps more than the kids even, wanted to see some of the places. I'd spent enough time studying the map to know roughly where they were. + +After the kids had swam for awhile I convinced them to get out of the water (no small task) and we drove around the island to roughly where one of their favorite character's house would have been. We walked through the wood along the shoreline and wondered about what it all would have looked like in 1837. Probably, I'd guess, not all that different than it does now. + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +We'd looked into camping on the island, and the campground happens to be roughly where one of the character's houses was, but it was booked full for the entire month of August. We had to content ourselves with a day trip and after our short hike, we headed back to catch the ferry back to the mainland. + +The next day was supposed to be our last day at Lake Superior. We set out reasonably early for a little beach a local woman told us about and spent the morning playing on the shore and swimming. + + + + + + + + +At lunch time Corrinne went back to the bus and brought some food over to the beach because no one wanted to leave yet. I realized I was really going to miss Lake Superior. I don't know what it is exactly, some bodies of water just get under your skin. The UP is nice, Wisconsin was fun too, but really the best part of our summer was Lake Superior. Somehow we just couldn't bear the thought of saying goodbye to it just yet. And since we're fortunate enough to not really have to be anywhere, we decided to change our plans a bit and head up into Minnesota to check out one more side of Lake Superior -- the north shore. + +[1]: https://birchbarkbooks.com/louise-erdrich/the-birchbark-house diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/northern-sky.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/northern-sky.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e6ddb00 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/northern-sky.html @@ -0,0 +1,449 @@ + + + + + Northern Sky - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Northern Sky

    + +
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    Nine Mile Lake Campground, Minnesota, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Unable to leave Lake Superior behind, we decided to head west and north, out of Wisconsin, into Minnesota, through Duluth and up to the north shore of Lake Superior.

    +

    Here, for the first time in our Lake Superior travels, we hit real crowds. There aren’t that many camping spots along the shore up here and nearly all of them offer online reservations, which means they’re full most of the summer.

    +

    We ended up heading inland, further north, up toward the Boundary Waters area. Once you get away from highway 61, which hugs the shore of Superior, it’s mostly wilderness up here, and mostly dirt roads, which keeps the summer tourists away. We cut inland without any real clue where we were headed, but you rarely go wrong with fourteen miles of dirt road that looks like this:

    +
    + + drive into nine mile lake, MN photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Eventually we found a campground on the edge of a smallish lake. It was relatively secluded and the water was plenty warm for swimming.

    +
    + + nine mile lake, MN photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The only downside was that Lake Superior was the better part of an hour away. We ended up only going down once, to Tettegouche State Park, to have one last day on the lake and say goodbye to Superior. I stopped in at the visitor center and asked the ranger if there was a good swimming beach around and she directed us a “nice beach, good for kids,” at a little oxbow a ways up the river. Uh, yeah, we don’t want to swim in a river. I had another of those increasingly common moments when I realize how much people underestimate children these days.

    +

    I studied the map and didn’t see any reason we couldn’t hike the cliff side trail and figure out some way down to the water. As it turned out, plenty of people have had the very same idea and there was a well worn trail that led down to a nice rocky point sticking out into Superior. The kids scrambled over the rocks and were out of their clothes and into bathing suits fast enough to put a superhero to shame.

    +

    And then they stuck their feet in the water. Cold, very, very cold. The north shore of Superior is much colder than around Madeline Island. No one went in past their knees, but we did have a nice lunch and a rocky point all to ourselves for most of the day.

    +
    + + + Tettegouche State Park,MN photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + + + + + Tettegouche State Park,MN photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + Tettegouche State Park,MN photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Tettegouche State Park,MN photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + Tettegouche State Park,MN photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + + +
    + +

    You can’t have the most prominent rocky headland to yourself for long in these parts though. By the time we were done eating there were a dozen other people on the beach and rocks around us. We packed it up and headed back up the dirt road to Ninemile Lake for warmer swimming.

    +
    + + nine mile lake, MN photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + nine mile lake, MN photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The lake was enough to entertain the kids for a few days, but eventually the weather took a turn.

    +
    + + nine mile lake, MN photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Faced with three more days of rain and a dirt road out, we decided to go ahead and push on, south, out of the north woods and into the plains, which just so happens to parallel the journey that makes up the last three books of the Birchbark House series.

    +
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/northern-sky.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/northern-sky.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..43e41bd --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/northern-sky.txt @@ -0,0 +1,45 @@ +Northern Sky +============ + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 05 August 2018 + +Unable to leave Lake Superior behind, we decided to head west and north, out of Wisconsin, into Minnesota, through Duluth and up to the north shore of Lake Superior. + +Here, for the first time in our Lake Superior travels, we hit real crowds. There aren't that many camping spots along the shore up here and nearly all of them offer online reservations, which means they're full most of the summer. + +We ended up heading inland, further north, up toward the Boundary Waters area. Once you get away from highway 61, which hugs the shore of Superior, it's mostly wilderness up here, and mostly dirt roads, which keeps the summer tourists away. We cut inland without any real clue where we were headed, but you rarely go wrong with fourteen miles of dirt road that looks like this: + + + +Eventually we found a campground on the edge of a smallish lake. It was relatively secluded and the water was plenty warm for swimming. + + + +The only downside was that Lake Superior was the better part of an hour away. We ended up only going down once, to Tettegouche State Park, to have one last day on the lake and say goodbye to Superior. I stopped in at the visitor center and asked the ranger if there was a good swimming beach around and she directed us a "nice beach, good for kids," at a little oxbow a ways up the river. Uh, yeah, we don't want to swim in a river. I had another of those increasingly common moments when I realize how much people underestimate children these days. + +I studied the map and didn't see any reason we couldn't hike the cliff side trail and figure out some way down to the water. As it turned out, plenty of people have had the very same idea and there was a well worn trail that led down to a nice rocky point sticking out into Superior. The kids scrambled over the rocks and were out of their clothes and into bathing suits fast enough to put a superhero to shame. + +And then they stuck their feet in the water. Cold, very, very cold. The north shore of Superior is much colder than around Madeline Island. No one went in past their knees, but we did have a nice lunch and a rocky point all to ourselves for most of the day. + +
    + + + + + + + +
    + +You can't have the most prominent rocky headland to yourself for long in these parts though. By the time we were done eating there were a dozen other people on the beach and rocks around us. We packed it up and headed back up the dirt road to Ninemile Lake for warmer swimming. + + + + +The lake was enough to entertain the kids for a few days, but eventually the weather took a turn. + + + +Faced with three more days of rain and a dirt road out, we decided to go ahead and push on, south, out of the north woods and into the plains, which just so happens to parallel the journey that makes up the last three books of the Birchbark House series. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/range-life.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/range-life.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..14757b9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/range-life.html @@ -0,0 +1,718 @@ + + + + + Range Life - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Range Life

    + +
    +
    +

    Buffalo Gap National Grassland, South Dakota, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    There’s something about wide open spaces that makes time slow down. The vastness of the sky stretching around the endless hoop of the horizon overwhelms and dims our sense of clock time. There are only four times out here: sunrise, sunset, night and day. After that all is one open expanse of light and land dancing around together, indifferent to anything so mundane as the railroad time schedules that form the basis of our concept of “time”.

    +

    The vastness and timelessness of the Badlands makes the improbable seem less. Wall Drug, I’m pretty sure, would never have worked anywhere else.

    +

    After land and light there is only wind. It never stops, or at least it didn’t in the two weeks we were here. It ranged from a gentle breeze to a howl that drowned out every other sound and whipped a fine dust into the air. The sky was often hazy from the smoke of fires in California and elsewhere in the west.

    +
    + + Sunset over the Badlands, SD photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + the bus, buffalo gap national grasslands, wall, sd photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + panorama, buffalo gap national grasslands, wall, sd photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + the bus, buffalo gap national grasslands, wall, sd photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Camping in Buffalo Gap National Grasslands, the area south of Wall SD, known as “the wall” is unique. Free camping with a view, less than ten minutes from to a town that has a dump station, free water, free swimming pool and a small, but decent grocery store is not something you find very often, which might explain why we stayed two weeks.

    +

    The first week we were out here was hot, in the high 90s. We can only run our air conditioner if we have hookups, which we obviously did not have, so the free public pool in Wall was a daily necessity. Every afternoon the kids and I would pile in the car and drive the ten minutes to Wall and go swimming in the deliciously icy cold pool for a couple of hours.

    +
    + + + buffalo gap, near Wall, SD photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + buffalo gap, near Wall, SD photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + the bus, buffalo gap national grasslands, wall, sd photographed by luxagraf + + + + + +
    + + snake, buffalo gap, near Wall, SD photographed by luxagraf +
    This little guy seemed to think the magnatiles box was the best collection of rocks he’d ever slithered through, I must have chased him (or her) out five times.
    +
    + + + + + + pool, wall, SD photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + pool, wall, SD photographed by luxagraf + + + + +
    + + eating pork chops photographed by luxagraf +
    I love this photo because there’s no plate, no silverware, no napkins. It makes it seem like we just eat giant slabs of greasy meat with our hands. Which, apparently, we do.
    +
    + + + + +
    + + eating pork chops photographed by luxagraf +
    And this is how we all look most of the time, wild-eyed, feral and covered in grease.
    +
    + + +
    + +

    Lest you think we’ve given up on seeing the sights, we did one day drive into the Badlands National Park proper. The first overlook on the drive in gives you a view of the other side of the Badlands from what we could see at our camp. After that you wind down into some of the more colorful of the formations.

    +
    + + panorama, badlands np overlook. photographed by luxagraf + +
    Sorry for the poor panoramic stitching, but this was the only photo that even halfway turned out.
    +
    + +
    + + Badlands NP photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Badlands NP photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It was pretty, but also very crowded. I’ll take a slightly less expansive view and no crowds any day. We did get to have a close encounter with some big horned sheep though. It started off normal enough, Olivia spotted some bighorns up on a hill and we stopped to watch them for a minute. They’d wandered by our camp a few times already, but they never got too close.

    +
    + + Bit Horned Sheep, Badlands NP photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Eventually a Yellowstone-style traffic jam started to happen as more and more cars stopped to watch the sheep. We jumped back in the car and went on to the visitor center. On our way back the sheep had decided to come down to the road.

    +
    + + + + Big Horned Sheep, Badlands NP photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Big Horned Sheep, Badlands NP photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    One day Lilah and Elliott and I decided to go for a hike in the Badlands. We found a trail that lead out to a juniper flat about three miles away and was somewhat off the beaten path. It turns out though that nearly everything beyond pavement is well off the beaten path in the Badlands.

    +
    + + hiking, Badlands NP photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + hiking, Badlands NP photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    This is not a place people hike. It might be that after mid morning there’s absolutely no shade anywhere until late evening. The midday sun is fairly intense, and after an hour or two you want a break. We went a couple of miles and in that distance saw no one and found only a single cottonwood tree to rest under. It was the only shade for miles and all the grass under it was trampled down and matted with clumps of fur from sheep, cattle and quite a few other things that had rested under the same tree.

    +

    We ate our snacks, contemplated going the rest of the way to the juniper flats, but we remembered resting under a juniper tree in Chaco and decided the cottonwood was a good as it was going to get for shade, so we started back.

    +

    Lilah’s shoes were giving her a blister so she walked all the way back barefoot, which I think made to two hikers we met at the trailhead, who were geared up with all the latest tech from REI, feel a little foolish, which, let’s face it, they should.

    +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + baby cliff swallow, badlands, np photographed by luxagraf + +
    At the trailhead there was a pair of cliff swallows nesting under the overhang of the sign.
    +
    + +

    A day or two after our hike, storms started to blow in more regularly and we got not just a break from the heat, but downright chilly, especially at night when it started dropping into the 40s — a little reminder that winter comes early up here.

    +
    + + Storms over the Badlands, SD photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    From our campsite at Buffalo Gap we watched a lot people come and go. Most people only stayed the night, but a few hung around longer. The sort of people who come camp out in a place like this for more than a night are generally our sort of people, which is to say, people who live full time on the road.

    +

    One day a family with some kids pulled past us and parked their rig in a spot a little ways beyond us. They stopped by to say hi one evening and we got to talking and next thing you know all the kids had made friends and were roaming the range in a pack, the way I think kids should.

    +

    If I have any hesitations about living the way we do its the occasional thought that I should be giving our kids more opportunities to roam the neighborhood with a pack of friends the way we did growing up. There’s two problems with this notion of mine though. One is that no one back home lets their kids roam anywhere, let alone wander the neighborhood by themselves, so if we hadn’t done this our kids still wouldn’t be roaming the world in packs they way I think they should.

    +

    The other problem is that the whole idea that this is what kids should do is predicated on the assumption that my childhood was somehow a “correct” one, which, for all I know, is completely wrong.

    +

    One thing I do know is that this trip has erased any sense of shyness in our kids. They’ll march up to pretty much any kid they see and try to make friends with them, which they didn’t do before we left, and is really more than I can say for myself.

    +

    Whatever the case, I do love it when we meet people our kids can hang out with for a while, it’s even better when we get along with the parents too, which we did. We hung around Buffalo Gap a little longer so the kids could have more time together. Community is harder to come by when you live on the road, but when you find it, it tends to be tighter knit and you value it more I think. At least I do.

    +

    At the same time those moments of friendship and community don’t last as long and before too long we needed to start south and Mike, Jeri and their family needed to get to west before the cold comes, and it comes early up here.

    +

    After two weeks Buffalo Gap had started to feel a bit like home, much like every place where we’ve spent more than a few days. But we did what travelers do: we pack up, say our goodbyes, and head down the road for the next place we’ll call home.

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    8 Comments

    + + + + + + +
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    + Jeri + September 16, 2018 at 10:31 a.m. +
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    + +

    Beautifully written article Scott! I didn’t even know you wrote!

    +

    We loved meeting you and the girls still talk about their “friends in the blue camper” all the time. I hope you have a great trip to Mexico and that we can meet up again in the spring!

    +

    Jeri

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + September 16, 2018 at 2:26 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Jeri-

    +

    Thanks for stopping by, tell your kids that ours say hi. Hope y’all have fun making your way west. We’ll email you when we get back to the states. hopefully we can meet up again somewhere.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Gwen + September 16, 2018 at 3:33 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Great pictures. David and I loved the Badlands.

    +

    I just want to say that my kids and their friends roam the neighborhood on bikes and scooters and on foot, sometimes armed with Nerf guns. 🙂

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + September 17, 2018 at 2:22 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Gwen-

    +

    That’s awesome. I hope that more kids do than my experience would lead me to believe. I lived in Athens for over ten years and I’m pretty sure I only ever saw one kid who roamed the neighborhood we lived in. But then, that’s part of why we sold our house, it just wasn’t the neighborhood for us.

    + +
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    + DREW ELDRIDGE + September 17, 2018 at 2:40 p.m. +
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    + +

    Your snake- juvenile Eastern Yellow-Bellied Racer

    + +
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    + Scott + September 17, 2018 at 3:17 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Drew-

    +

    Nice. That means I finally caught a racer.

    +

    I once chased a really mean black racer around a pile of rocks in Arizona for about two hours (because what else is there to do in AZ when you’re 12?). It bit me like ten times, but it was so damn fast I could never get more than a hand on it (which would send it whipping around to bite my arm, once my face, which is when I finally quit). Good times. Anyway, thanks for IDing it.

    + +
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    + DREW ELDRIDGE + September 18, 2018 at 11:22 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Black racers are very “spirited”- I have a pic somewhere that Sam took of my reaching toward one and it in full strike. It didnt hit me, but it was darn close. I leave the getting bit part to 12 year olds!

    + +
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    + Scott + September 19, 2018 at 7:52 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Yeah I haven’t caught a single snake we’ve seen, but mostly because I think the kids are a bit young to be chasing after them and I already know they’ll do pretty much anything I do.

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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/range-life.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/range-life.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..82e1b1c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/range-life.txt @@ -0,0 +1,87 @@ +Range Life +========== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 22 August 2018 + +There's something about wide open spaces that makes time slow down. The vastness of the sky stretching around the endless hoop of the horizon overwhelms and dims our sense of clock time. There are only four times out here: sunrise, sunset, night and day. After that all is one open expanse of light and land dancing around together, indifferent to anything so mundane as the railroad time schedules that form the basis of our concept of "time". + +The vastness and timelessness of the Badlands makes the improbable seem less. Wall Drug, I'm pretty sure, would never have worked anywhere else. + +After land and light there is only wind. It never stops, or at least it didn't in the two weeks we were here. It ranged from a gentle breeze to a howl that drowned out every other sound and whipped a fine dust into the air. The sky was often hazy from the smoke of fires in California and elsewhere in the west. + + + + + + +Camping in Buffalo Gap National Grasslands, the area south of Wall SD, known as "the wall" is unique. Free camping with a view, less than ten minutes from to a town that has a dump station, free water, free swimming pool and a small, but decent grocery store is not something you find very often, which might explain why we stayed two weeks. + +The first week we were out here was hot, in the high 90s. We can only run our air conditioner if we have hookups, which we obviously did not have, so the free public pool in Wall was a daily necessity. Every afternoon the kids and I would pile in the car and drive the ten minutes to Wall and go swimming in the deliciously icy cold pool for a couple of hours. + +
    + + + + + + + + + + +
    + +Lest you think we've given up on seeing the sights, we did one day drive into the Badlands National Park proper. The first overlook on the drive in gives you a view of the other side of the Badlands from what we could see at our camp. After that you wind down into some of the more colorful of the formations. + + + + + +It was pretty, but also very crowded. I'll take a slightly less expansive view and no crowds any day. We did get to have a close encounter with some big horned sheep though. It started off normal enough, Olivia spotted some bighorns up on a hill and we stopped to watch them for a minute. They'd wandered by our camp a few times already, but they never got too close. + + + +Eventually a Yellowstone-style traffic jam started to happen as more and more cars stopped to watch the sheep. We jumped back in the car and went on to the visitor center. On our way back the sheep had decided to come down to the road. + +
    + + + + +
    + +One day Lilah and Elliott and I decided to go for a hike in the Badlands. We found a trail that lead out to a juniper flat about three miles away and was somewhat off the beaten path. It turns out though that nearly everything beyond pavement is well off the beaten path in the Badlands. + + + + +This is not a place people hike. It might be that after mid morning there's absolutely no shade anywhere until late evening. The midday sun is fairly intense, and after an hour or two you want a break. We went a couple of miles and in that distance saw no one and found only a single cottonwood tree to rest under. It was the only shade for miles and all the grass under it was trampled down and matted with clumps of fur from sheep, cattle and quite a few other things that had rested under the same tree. + +We ate our snacks, contemplated going the rest of the way to the juniper flats, but we remembered [resting under a juniper tree in Chaco](/jrnl/2017/06/arc-time) and decided the cottonwood was a good as it was going to get for shade, so we started back. + +Lilah's shoes were giving her a blister so she walked all the way back barefoot, which I think made to two hikers we met at the trailhead, who were geared up with all the latest tech from REI, feel a little foolish, which, let's face it, they should. + + + + +A day or two after our hike, storms started to blow in more regularly and we got not just a break from the heat, but downright chilly, especially at night when it started dropping into the 40s -- a little reminder that winter comes early up here. + + + +From our campsite at Buffalo Gap we watched a lot people come and go. Most people only stayed the night, but a few hung around longer. The sort of people who come camp out in a place like this for more than a night are generally our sort of people, which is to say, people who live full time on the road. + +One day a family with some kids pulled past us and parked their rig in a spot a little ways beyond us. They stopped by to say hi one evening and we got to talking and next thing you know all the kids had made friends and were roaming the range in a pack, the way I think kids should. + +If I have any hesitations about living the way we do its the occasional thought that I should be giving our kids more opportunities to roam the neighborhood with a pack of friends the way we did growing up. There's two problems with this notion of mine though. One is that no one back home lets their kids roam anywhere, let alone wander the neighborhood by themselves, so if we hadn't done this our kids still wouldn't be roaming the world in packs they way I think they should. + +The other problem is that the whole idea that this is what kids should do is predicated on the assumption that my childhood was somehow a "correct" one, which, for all I know, is completely wrong. + +One thing I do know is that this trip has erased any sense of shyness in our kids. They'll march up to pretty much any kid they see and try to make friends with them, which they didn't do before we left, and is really more than I can say for myself. + +Whatever the case, I do love it when we meet people our kids can hang out with for a while, it's even better when we get along with the parents too, which we did. We hung around Buffalo Gap a little longer so the kids could have more time together. Community is harder to come by when you live on the road, but when you find it, it tends to be tighter knit and you value it more I think. At least I do. + +At the same time those moments of friendship and community don't last as long and before too long we needed to start south and Mike, Jeri and their family needed to get to west before the cold comes, and it comes early up here. + +After two weeks Buffalo Gap had started to feel a bit like home, much like every place where we've spent more than a few days. But we did what travelers do: we pack up, say our goodbyes, and head down the road for the next place we'll call home. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/superior.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/superior.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bf454d1 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/superior.html @@ -0,0 +1,626 @@ + + + + + Superior - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    Superior

    + +
    +
    +

    Moningwanekaaning, Wisconsin, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    In the coldest parts of Lake Superior it takes discipline to convince yourself to swim. Just walking out knee deep in that water which looks no cloudier than air, but feels like a vise of cold squeezing at ever pore of your skin, takes concerted effort.

    +

    After a few steps your feet are numb. A few more and they begin to hurt. I never made it deep enough dive in at the coldest of the beaches, around Pictured Rocks, instead you lie down quickly, and then jump up, more of a baptism than a swim.

    +

    After the gasping subsides, and you climb back out of the water to lie on the warm brown and apricot rocks, the sun slowing draws the blood out of your core and back to the edges of yourself with a prickling, almost painful feeling, like the rock is needling at your skin.

    +

    This is the story of Lake Superior: water, rock, weather, and life.

    +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Playing in Lake Superior, Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Playing in Lake Superior, Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Swimming in Lake Superior, Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    This is of course the story of everywhere as well. The world we experience with our senses is made up of water, rock, weather, life, and the relationships between them. Or, to use more familiar, but perhaps less fashionable terms, Water, Earth, Fire, Air and Spirit.

    +

    On the shores of Lake Superior, Water and Earth are the most obvious. Nothing is written here without taking them into account. The shoreline is the story of rock and water moving through time. “The journey of the rock is never ended,” writes poet Lorine Niedecker in a journal kept during a 1966 road trip around Lake Superior. “In every tiny part of any living thing are materials that once were rock that turned to soil,” she reminds us. “Your teeth and bones were once coral.”

    +

    Niedecker does something here that few have done in recent times — she makes us part of the story. Because we are part of the story, and have always been part of the story. Especially here. The “environmental” historian1 William Cronon writes of what he calls “historical wilderness,”2 an effort to remember that no matter what our ideologies and beliefs may claim, we are nature. Nature is not something outside of us and to pretend otherwise is to sell yourself a pack of lies that will leave you very confused about your place in the world.

    +

    We have always been part of the story, the question is how are we part of the story?

    +

    As California is slowly starting to realize, John Muir’s vision of untrammeled wilderness has always been about personal ideology more than anything else — Man as the special snowflake that lies outside nature, though in this case the snowflake ruins everything. The problem with that vision is that it’s demonstrably wrong. Muir’s beloved Yosemite Valley was the beautiful vast meadow he writes about because the people who lived in it used controlled burns to keep it that way. It was a garden because they made it a garden. Muir and his ilk kicked those people out, put fences around the trees and now wonder why it all burns down.

    +

    Here on the shores of Superior humans have been part of the story for longer than anyone can remember, which helps stop ideologies that espouse otherwise. Once this was the land of the people we call Sioux, who were driven out by the Ojibwe, who in turn were driven out by European settlers, who in turn will be driven out by someone. We’re all temporary.

    +

    Right now though, this moment in history, is a good one for Superior. Somewhere in the elaborate dance between people and place that’s been happening here for thousands of years is a feeling that’s difficult to pin down, but is clear when you experience it.

    +

    Lake Superior is one of those places where we immediately felt at home. The landscape, the forests, the water, the towns, everything up here feels welcoming and, for lack of the better word, good. In the 1960s, when it was still widely acknowledged that there were human experiences that did not fit into the world as defined by modern industrial society, people called this the “vibe” of a place (or person, or thing).

    +

    The more closely you examine this feeling, the more complex the experience of it becomes. For those of us passing through it often feels more like a color or hue that seems to hand over the place. And Lake Superior is a place of many hues, literally and figuratively. Its water alone can be twenty different shades of blue and green in a single day.

    +
    + + Shipwreck tour, near pictured rocks national seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Lighthouse, Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Shipwreck tour, near pictured rocks national seashore photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Madeline Island, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + + + Tettegouche State Park,MN photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Madeline Island, WI photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + lake superior near, washburn, WI photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Madeline Island Ferry, Bayside, WI photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + Madeline Island, WI photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + lake superior near, washburn, WI photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    The notion that Lake Superior has a single vibe to it is of course a simplification. It has many shores, many faces, many vibes. It’s also a place of moods that can turn on a dime. Sometimes it’s warm and humid and icy waters are a relief, but then ten minutes later you might find the sky shrouded in clouds that bring near darkness and leave you shivering in the wind.

    +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Whitefish point, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Part of Lake Superior’s charm is that it has somehow escaped the “progress” of the world since about the early 1980s. Don’t get me wrong, I think humans are part of the story, but lately I think we’ve been doing a really bad job of writing it. Curiously though, much of the crap that’s come to infest our lives in the past few decades hasn’t come here.

    +

    It’s not just that there’s no Starbucks, no strip malls, almost no chain companies at all, though for the most part there are not, it’s more that it has somehow retained that previous world, carried it through the recent past and left it alone. Old metal playgrounds abound, the family-owned single story motel still provides 99 percent of the lodging, supermarkets are usually locally owned, co-ops are common, and even elements of far older eras persist, like the supper clubs that still seem to function. Houses remain simple, small and cozy, the McMansions found in most other parts of the country simply aren’t here.

    +

    It’s a place that seem to have recognized the difference between genuine human progress and technological advancement for its own sake and opted to stick with the former. Like the denizens of the Lake Superior region, I don’t think we’ve seen much of real progress in technology since about 19783 and even that would be pushing it. I can make a strong case for the early 1940s being the peak of human technological advancement, but I won’t bore you with it.

    +
    + + old school motel photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + vagabond motel, near andrus lake, MI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + sign, st ignace, mi photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + sign, st ignace, mi photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Signs near Duluth, MN photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Playground, memorial park, washburn, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Playground, memorial park, washburn, WI photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We would probably have lingered in the Lake Superior area longer, but unlike last year’s completely open-ended travels, this year we have an appointment to keep. We must be in Dallas by September 26th and we needed to pass through South Dakota on our way. Eventually we packed it up, took a last look at Lake Superior as we drove down the Minnesota coast, and then headed west, away from the water, the forest, the rock, the water, the weather and the life of Lake Superior.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      Environmental historian is an interesting term, it implies, correctly I’d argue, that our conception of history is so woefully incompletely we neglect to even include the environment in our reckoning of it. It’s no wonder we completely fail to understand the past in any meaningful way — we can’t even construct a reasonably complete story of it. ↩

      +
      2. +
    2. +

      Cronon, William. “The Riddle of the Apostle Islands: How do you manage a wilderness full of human stories?” Orion May-June 2003: 36-42 ↩

      +
      3. +
    3. +

      But what about the internet? I give it a maybe. Future generations can decide that one. ↩

      +
      4. +
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    3 Comments

    + + + + + + +
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    + +
    + classical_liberal + September 03, 2018 at 2:24 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    “Go’en Up Nort”. That’s what a native Minnesotan calls their trip from the Twin Cities to Superior.

    +

    Glad you enjoyed your time up here and a soon to be congrats on your shiny new SD residency?

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Jonathan + September 03, 2018 at 10:44 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    What do you mean by “the world as defined by modern industrial society”

    + +
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    + +
    + Scott + September 04, 2018 at 4:48 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    classic_liberal-

    +

    We did, we loved it. In 50-100 years, when the winters aren’t so bad, I’d move up there. :)

    +

    And yes, we did get SD licenses, almost a month ago now, but I look so old apparently that no one has asked for it yet.

    +

    jonathan-

    +

    That is a bit vague isn’t it? I mean the fairly narrowly defined world of scientific materialism and the general idea that everything is progressing toward something. I have nothing against scientific materialism though, it’s very good at what it defines. What I reject is its premise that that’s all there is in the world.

    +

    And I very much have a problem with the belief that time is somehow the inevitable march of progress. That’s superstitious hogwash that’s based on poorly understood notions of evolution and is demonstrably false.

    + +
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    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/superior.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/superior.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d122ceb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/superior.txt @@ -0,0 +1,87 @@ +Superior +======== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Tuesday, 14 August 2018 + +In the coldest parts of Lake Superior it takes discipline to convince yourself to swim. Just walking out knee deep in that water which looks no cloudier than air, but feels like a vise of cold squeezing at ever pore of your skin, takes concerted effort. + +After a few steps your feet are numb. A few more and they begin to hurt. I never made it deep enough dive in at the coldest of the beaches, around Pictured Rocks, instead you lie down quickly, and then jump up, more of a baptism than a swim. + +After the gasping subsides, and you climb back out of the water to lie on the warm brown and apricot rocks, the sun slowing draws the blood out of your core and back to the edges of yourself with a prickling, almost painful feeling, like the rock is needling at your skin. + +This is the story of Lake Superior: water, rock, weather, and life. + + + + + + + + + +This is of course the story of everywhere as well. The world we experience with our senses is made up of water, rock, weather, life, and the relationships between them. Or, to use more familiar, but perhaps less fashionable terms, Water, Earth, Fire, Air and Spirit. + +On the shores of Lake Superior, Water and Earth are the most obvious. Nothing is written here without taking them into account. The shoreline is the story of rock and water moving through time. "The journey of the rock is never ended," writes poet Lorine Niedecker in a journal kept during a 1966 road trip around Lake Superior. "In every tiny part of any living thing are materials that once were rock that turned to soil," she reminds us. "Your teeth and bones were once coral." + +Niedecker does something here that few have done in recent times -- she makes us part of the story. Because we are part of the story, and have always been part of the story. Especially here. The "environmental" historian[^1] William Cronon writes of what he calls "historical wilderness,"[^2] an effort to remember that no matter what our ideologies and beliefs may claim, we are nature. Nature is not something outside of us and to pretend otherwise is to sell yourself a pack of lies that will leave you very confused about your place in the world. + +We have always been part of the story, the question is *how* are we part of the story? + +As California is slowly starting to realize, John Muir's vision of untrammeled wilderness has always been about personal ideology more than anything else -- Man as the special snowflake that lies outside nature, though in this case the snowflake ruins everything. The problem with that vision is that it's demonstrably wrong. Muir's beloved Yosemite Valley was the beautiful vast meadow he writes about because the people who lived in it used controlled burns to keep it that way. It was a garden because they made it a garden. Muir and his ilk kicked those people out, put fences around the trees and now wonder why it all burns down. + +Here on the shores of Superior humans have been part of the story for longer than anyone can remember, which helps stop ideologies that espouse otherwise. Once this was the land of the people we call Sioux, who were driven out by the Ojibwe, who in turn were driven out by European settlers, who in turn will be driven out by someone. We're all temporary. + +Right now though, this moment in history, is a good one for Superior. Somewhere in the elaborate dance between people and place that's been happening here for thousands of years is a feeling that's difficult to pin down, but is clear when you experience it. + +Lake Superior is one of those places where we immediately felt at home. The landscape, the forests, the water, the towns, everything up here feels welcoming and, for lack of the better word, good. In the 1960s, when it was still widely acknowledged that there were human experiences that did not fit into the world as defined by modern industrial society, people called this the "vibe" of a place (or person, or thing). + +The more closely you examine this feeling, the more complex the experience of it becomes. For those of us passing through it often feels more like a color or hue that seems to hand over the place. And Lake Superior is a place of many hues, literally and figuratively. Its water alone can be twenty different shades of blue and green in a single day. + + + + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + +
    + +The notion that Lake Superior has a single vibe to it is of course a simplification. It has many shores, many faces, many vibes. It's also a place of moods that can turn on a dime. Sometimes it's warm and humid and icy waters are a relief, but then ten minutes later you might find the sky shrouded in clouds that bring near darkness and leave you shivering in the wind. + + + + + + +Part of Lake Superior's charm is that it has somehow escaped the "progress" of the world since about the early 1980s. Don't get me wrong, I think humans are part of the story, but lately I think we've been doing a really bad job of writing it. Curiously though, much of the crap that's come to infest our lives in the past few decades hasn't come here. + +It's not just that there's no Starbucks, no strip malls, almost no chain companies at all, though for the most part there are not, it's more that it has somehow retained that previous world, carried it through the recent past and left it alone. Old metal playgrounds abound, the family-owned single story motel still provides 99 percent of the lodging, supermarkets are usually locally owned, co-ops are common, and even elements of far older eras persist, like the supper clubs that still seem to function. Houses remain simple, small and cozy, the McMansions found in most other parts of the country simply aren't here. + +It's a place that seem to have recognized the difference between genuine human progress and technological advancement for its own sake and opted to stick with the former. Like the denizens of the Lake Superior region, I don't think we've seen much of real progress in technology since about 1978[^3] and even that would be pushing it. I can make a strong case for the early 1940s being the peak of human technological advancement, but I won't bore you with it. + + + + + + + + + +We would probably have lingered in the Lake Superior area longer, but unlike last year's completely open-ended travels, this year we have an appointment to keep. We must be in Dallas by September 26th and we needed to pass through South Dakota on our way. Eventually we packed it up, took a last look at Lake Superior as we drove down the Minnesota coast, and then headed west, away from the water, the forest, the rock, the water, the weather and the life of Lake Superior. + +[^1]: Environmental historian is an interesting term, it implies, correctly I'd argue, that our conception of history is so woefully incompletely we neglect to even include the environment in our reckoning of it. It's no wonder we completely fail to understand the past in any meaningful way -- we can't even construct a reasonably complete story of it. +[^2]: Cronon, William. “The Riddle of the Apostle Islands: How do you manage a wilderness full of human stories?” Orion May-June 2003: 36-42 +[^3]: But what about the internet? I give it a maybe. Future generations can decide that one. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/wall-drug.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/wall-drug.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..28481cc --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/wall-drug.html @@ -0,0 +1,623 @@ + + + + + West To Wall Drug - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    West to Wall Drug

    + +
    +
    +

    Buffalo Gap National Grassland, South Dakota, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    We left Lake Superior the historically correct way — heading west, watching the trees thin out until they’re gone and the there is only grass and sky.

    +

    To be truly historically correct you must be driven out by someone else. This is how the Ojibwe left when they were driven out by the United States, how the Sioux went when they were driven out by the Ojibwe, and how whomever the Sioux drove out probably went as well. These days we have it easy, we get driven out by our own engines.

    +

    Over the course of a couple of days driving, the trees disappear and then, rather suddenly, you find yourself surrounded by sky, on the seemingly limitless plains of South Dakota.

    +
    + + Welcome to south dakota photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The first night out of the Great Lakes region every campground we tried was full. We ended up in a hotel. Driven out by crowds.

    +

    After that we spent a couple nights at a South Dakota state park, mainly for the receipt, which we needed to become residents of South Dakota.

    +

    Just as Delaware is home to corporations, who come for the tax breaks and whatnot, South Dakota is home for full time RVers who don’t want to pay state taxes anymore. All you need to do is sign up for a mailing address (which forwards your mail to you), stay one night in a hotel, RV park or anywhere that give you a receipt with your name on it, and your previous ID. We’re now legally residents of South Dakota, though we’ll always be Georgians in our hearts.

    +

    With our receipt in hand we headed west, stopping off at the Missouri river for a night.

    +
    + + swimming in the missouri river, SD photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + swimming in the missouri river, SD photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + sunset over the missouri river, SD photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    After that we abandoned the back roads we usually stick to and headed down I-90 toward the Badlands and South Dakota’s other famous landmark: Wall Drug.

    +

    Wall SD is one of those places that no one would have ever stopped in were it not for one woman who gave them a reason to stop there. Ted Hustead bought Wall Drug in 1931. At the time Wall had 231 residents and pretty much nothing to entice anyone else to ever come into Hustead’s new drug store. His wife hit on the idea of offering free ice water to travelers headed for the newly opened travesty monument, Mount Rushmore. Back before air conditioning, ice water was no small enticement in these parts and it worked. And if water worked, think how many more people 5¢ coffee will bring, think how many more a giant jackalope will bring and so on until the tourist phenomena of Wall Drug had become something significantly more than a drug store should ever really hope to be.

    +

    Today Wall somehow manages to be terribly touristy, yet charming in its quaintness, even if that quaintness is itself a well-crafted enticement. Some things when examined too closely threaten to accidentally unravel the entire universe. Don’t dig too deep into these things. Still, the billboards are small, understated and feature photos of food seemingly lifted straight out of the illustrated pages of the 1953 Sears, Roebuck and Company catalog. It’s quaint.

    +
    + + Wall Drug billboard photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Wall Drug billboard photographed by luxagraf + +
    Not lying, the coffee really is 5¢ and it’s on the honor system, drop a nickel in the wooden box, grab a cup.
    +
    + +

    The even stranger part is that inside the display cases of Wall Drug — the cases themselves looking not unlike something that might have been sold in that 1953 catalog — the food really does look just like the pictures. I still can’t figure out how they pull that off.

    +

    Wall Drug is more or less a full city block of tourist junk and food, and yes there’s still free ice water, and the coffee is still 5 cents. The donuts are pretty good too. Bill Bryson sums up Wall Drug perfectly in The Lost Continent: “It’s an awful place, one of the world’s worst tourist traps, but I loved it and I won’t have a word said against it.”

    +
    + + + wall drug, wall, SD photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + wall drug, wall, SD photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + wall drug, wall, SD photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + wall drug, wall, SD photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + wall drug, wall, SD photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    You can’t pass through these parts without stopping at Wall Drug. Something will entice you in. For me it was the donuts, though later I discovered the gas station sold them too, so I didn’t have the wade through Wall Drug just to buy a donut in the morning.

    +
    + + view of the badlands, buffalo gap national grasslands, wall, sd photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Head due south of Wall and you’ll run into the west entrance to Badlands National Park. About a mile before you get to the national park entrance there’s an unmarked dirt road with a barbed wire gate and small sign that says “Please Close Gate” and has a small logo of the National Forest Service. Open that gate — close it behind you! — and then you’re free to camp just about anywhere inside Buffalo Gap National Grasslands.

    +
    + + buffalo gap, near Wall, SD photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    There are “campsites” along the dirt road, which threads the edge main ridge that becomes the center of the Badlands. Pretty much anywhere there’s enough space to pull off the dirt road and not slide down the cliff there’s signs of someone having camped. We grabbed a small pullout about half way down the road that had amazing views of the canyons and ridges that make up the Badlands.

    +
    + + playground with a view, buffalo gap national grasslands, wall, sd photographed by luxagraf + +
    Playing with a view.
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    + + Sunrise over the Badlands, Wall, SD photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + sunrise over the bus, buffalo gap national grasslands, wall, sd photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We liked it so much we stayed for two weeks. We’d have stayed even longer if we could have, but two weeks is the limit for federal land. It’s probably just as well, otherwise we might be there still.

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    6 Comments

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    + Patsy Wall + September 12, 2018 at 12:30 p.m. +
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    Loved the pictures, we were at Wall Drugstore in June on our trek to Yellowstone. Yes we did get the free water and 5 cent coffee. It was fun and the badlands are amazingly beautiful. Enjoy your journey!

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    + Scott + September 12, 2018 at 8:08 p.m. +
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    Patsy-

    +

    Glad you made it to Wall Drug, it’s well worth the visit. Hope you enjoyed the rest of your trip.

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    + DREW ELDRIDGE + September 13, 2018 at 10:35 a.m. +
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    Have you read Neil Gaimans American Gods?

    +

    If so, Wall Drug should have def been a setting in that book- its a place that pulls you in although it really shouldnt. Things are at play there that you cant see.

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    If not, I think you would like it. Its a fun read.

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    + Scott + September 13, 2018 at 12:22 p.m. +
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    Drew-

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    That’s the one and only audiobook I’ve ever listened to and I hated it (the audiobook part) enough that I’ve blocked it out. But I sort of remember the book seemed pretty good. I should go back and read it, thanks for the suggestion.

    +

    For all my obsession with the nature of places and the way they affect us, I actually hadn’t really given it much though with regard to Wall Drug. I’ll have to ponder that. I mean I thought all it took to get me in was a picture of donuts and 5¢ coffee, but perhaps there was something more at work there.

    +

    The book I kept thinking about out here was Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. And Willa Cather’s pioneer stories.

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    + classical_liberal + September 16, 2018 at 1:20 a.m. +
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    Glad you enjoyed the badlands. A wholey unappreciated area for most travelers IMO. I love it there. ND badlands are equally enticing, but with more wildlife.

    +

    Wall drug… after hundreds of miles of flat land and signs, anyone who doesn’t stop is a communist! Still, the only thing there I really enjoy is all of the old photos. The lives that were once lived on those prairies are amazing and thought provoking.

    +

    Were you in Chamberlain, SD in the Mo river pictures? I actual did a short contract at the critical access hospital there.

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    + Scott + September 16, 2018 at 8:41 a.m. +
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    classical_liberal-

    +

    Wish we’d have had time to make it to north dakota, but you know, you have to save something for next time.

    +

    And no, we were south of Chamberlain in those images, but that morning we cut up from 44 up to 90 and went through Chamberlain. I remember it becaase there’s that big sculpture, Dignity, at the rest area on the other side of the river that’s pretty cool.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/wall-drug.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/wall-drug.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..475d4ff --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/08/wall-drug.txt @@ -0,0 +1,66 @@ +West to Wall Drug +================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 18 August 2018 + +We left Lake Superior the historically correct way -- heading west, watching the trees thin out until they're gone and the there is only grass and sky. + +To be truly historically correct you must be driven out by someone else. This is how the Ojibwe left when they were driven out by the United States, how the Sioux went when they were driven out by the Ojibwe, and how whomever the Sioux drove out probably went as well. These days we have it easy, we get driven out by our own engines. + +Over the course of a couple of days driving, the trees disappear and then, rather suddenly, you find yourself surrounded by sky, on the seemingly limitless plains of South Dakota. + + + +The first night out of the Great Lakes region every campground we tried was full. We ended up in a hotel. Driven out by crowds. + +After that we spent a couple nights at a South Dakota state park, mainly for the receipt, which we needed to become residents of South Dakota. + +Just as Delaware is home to corporations, who come for the tax breaks and whatnot, South Dakota is home for full time RVers who don't want to pay state taxes anymore. All you need to do is sign up for a mailing address (which forwards your mail to you), stay one night in a hotel, RV park or anywhere that give you a receipt with your name on it, and your previous ID. We're now legally residents of South Dakota, though we'll always be Georgians in our hearts. + +With our receipt in hand we headed west, stopping off at the Missouri river for a night. + + + + + +After that we abandoned the back roads we usually stick to and headed down I-90 toward the Badlands and South Dakota's other famous landmark: Wall Drug. + +Wall SD is one of those places that no one would have ever stopped in were it not for one woman who gave them a reason to stop there. Ted Hustead bought Wall Drug in 1931. At the time Wall had 231 residents and pretty much nothing to entice anyone else to ever come into Hustead's new drug store. His wife hit on the idea of offering free ice water to travelers headed for the newly opened travesty monument, Mount Rushmore. Back before air conditioning, ice water was no small enticement in these parts and it worked. And if water worked, think how many more people 5¢ coffee will bring, think how many more a giant jackalope will bring and so on until the tourist phenomena of Wall Drug had become something significantly more than a drug store should ever really hope to be. + +Today Wall somehow manages to be terribly touristy, yet charming in its quaintness, even if that quaintness is itself a well-crafted enticement. Some things when examined too closely threaten to accidentally unravel the entire universe. Don't dig too deep into these things. Still, the billboards are small, understated and feature photos of food seemingly lifted straight out of the illustrated pages of the 1953 Sears, Roebuck and Company catalog. It's quaint. + + + + +The even stranger part is that inside the display cases of Wall Drug -- the cases themselves looking not unlike something that might have been sold in that 1953 catalog -- the food really does look just like the pictures. I still can't figure out how they pull that off. + +Wall Drug is more or less a full city block of tourist junk and food, and yes there's still free ice water, and the coffee is still 5 cents. The donuts are pretty good too. Bill Bryson sums up Wall Drug perfectly in The Lost Continent: "It's an awful place, one of the world's worst tourist traps, but I loved it and I won't have a word said against it." + +
    + + + + + + + +
    + + +You can't pass through these parts without stopping at Wall Drug. Something will entice you in. For me it was the donuts, though later I discovered the gas station sold them too, so I didn't have the wade through Wall Drug just to buy a donut in the morning. + + + +Head due south of Wall and you'll run into the west entrance to Badlands National Park. About a mile before you get to the national park entrance there's an unmarked dirt road with a barbed wire gate and small sign that says "Please Close Gate" and has a small logo of the National Forest Service. Open that gate -- close it behind you! -- and then you're free to camp just about anywhere inside Buffalo Gap National Grasslands. + + + +There are "campsites" along the dirt road, which threads the edge main ridge that becomes the center of the Badlands. Pretty much anywhere there's enough space to pull off the dirt road and not slide down the cliff there's signs of someone having camped. We grabbed a small pullout about half way down the road that had amazing views of the canyons and ridges that make up the Badlands. + + + + + +We liked it so much we stayed for two weeks. We'd have stayed even longer if we could have, but two weeks is the limit for federal land. It's probably just as well, otherwise we might be there still. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/09/big-exit.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/09/big-exit.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..37b6b03 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/09/big-exit.html @@ -0,0 +1,406 @@ + + + + + Big Exit - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Big Exit

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    Cuidad Mexico, Mexico

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The blue-gray light of the distant dawn filters down the canyons of building to the city streets outside the window. I’ve been awake for hours already, listening to the city. The grinding staccato of diesel engines, the pop and sharp hiss of hydraulic arms raised and lowered, the clatter of metal doors rolling up, the clanging rattle of chains banging against them, shops entered, and the rattle and clang again as the doors close behind the shop keepers.

    +

    Later comes the soft hiss of brooms on the sidewalk, the splash of water thrown out a bucket, and the louder hiss of the broom in the soapy water, the jangle of handcart wheels rolling over uneven stone of sidewalks. Last comes the rush of cars, the muted voices of workers emptying trash, and the blue gray light turning to the white of day.

    +

    This is no longer the largest city on earth. Last time I was here it was, but that, as my wife regularly reminds me, was a long time ago. Now Chongqing China is three times as large as this. Still, Mexico City is a hell of a city. Larger than any other on this continent. And there is something about here that is more alive than anywhere else on the continent. It is big, loud, overwhelming, incomprehensible. Wonderful in its way.

    +

    We arrived yesterday afternoon, made it through customs and caught a cab to our rental apartment. The first thing we did was head out for tacos. Just kidding. The first food we went for was Indian. Corrinne and I have a kind of tradition of eating in immigrant restaurants. Our first meal in Nicaragua was at a Palestinian restaurant. Our favorite meal in Paris was at an Iraqi restaurant. For Mexico City we went Indian. Then we walked down to the zócalo and watched the sun fade away and the blue twilight descend.

    +
    + + Zocala, Mexico city, Mexico photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Zocala, Mexico city, Mexico photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Zocala, Mexico city, Mexico photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It was a great end cap to a long day of travel, which was surprisingly smooth all things considered. Our kids are pretty great at entertaining themselves anywhere, using almost nothing, so airports and airplanes were, relatively speaking, pretty much non-stop entertainment. Just the notion that we’re floating above the planet was enough to keep them enthralled for a three hour flight.

    +
    + + + dallas airport, leaving on a jet plane photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + dallas airport, waiting on a jet plane photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + flying to mexico city. photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + on the plane to mexico city photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    I was a little worried about going through customs, someone saying the wrong thing, being grumpy and throwing a fit, etc, but everyone was fine, we coasted right on through without missing a beat.

    +

    I won’t lie, I felt my spirits lift considerably after the rather bored customs official stamped the last of our stack of passports and waved us out of no-man’s-land and into Mexico. I get a giddy feeling every time I leave the United States, a feeling that I’ve somehow managed to survive something, though exactly what is unclear to me.

    +

    I don’t want to write some cliche bit about how the United States sucks or what have you. I like the United States, it has its upsides — mostly that nearly everyone we know and love lives there — but one thing that I think universally irks travelers and expats is the smug satisfaction that folks back home have about how “free” they are. If Americans have a blind spot, it’s this. We believe we’re free.

    +

    We are not free at all relative to the rest of the world. Oh sure, we have the right to assemble, which is often lacking elsewhere, but in terms of daily life, the United States is the most micromanaged, regulated country I’ve ever been to.

    +

    I’ll be honest, it feels good to leave that behind for a while. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

    +
    + + + + Walking the streets of Mexico City photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + mural, mexico city photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + mural, mexico city, mexico photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    We explored Mexico City for a few days, adjusted to city life as opposed to roaming the wilds of the United States, and then, we were done. Or rather we weren’t done, but we were ready to get to something more permanent. We ended up cutting our time in Mexico City a little short and jumping a bus for San Miguel de Allende. The biggest festival of the year was about to start in San Miguel and we didn’t want to miss it.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/09/big-exit.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/09/big-exit.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..34586b1 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/09/big-exit.txt @@ -0,0 +1,49 @@ +Big Exit +======== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 29 September 2018 + +The blue-gray light of the distant dawn filters down the canyons of building to the city streets outside the window. I've been awake for hours already, listening to the city. The grinding staccato of diesel engines, the pop and sharp hiss of hydraulic arms raised and lowered, the clatter of metal doors rolling up, the clanging rattle of chains banging against them, shops entered, and the rattle and clang again as the doors close behind the shop keepers. + +Later comes the soft hiss of brooms on the sidewalk, the splash of water thrown out a bucket, and the louder hiss of the broom in the soapy water, the jangle of handcart wheels rolling over uneven stone of sidewalks. Last comes the rush of cars, the muted voices of workers emptying trash, and the blue gray light turning to the white of day. + +This is no longer the largest city on earth. Last time I was here it was, but that, as my wife regularly reminds me, was a long time ago. Now Chongqing China is three times as large as this. Still, Mexico City is a hell of a city. Larger than any other on this continent. And there is something about here that is more alive than anywhere else on the continent. It is big, loud, overwhelming, incomprehensible. Wonderful in its way. + +We arrived yesterday afternoon, made it through customs and caught a cab to our rental apartment. The first thing we did was head out for tacos. Just kidding. The first food we went for was Indian. Corrinne and I have a kind of tradition of eating in immigrant restaurants. Our first meal in Nicaragua was at a Palestinian restaurant. Our favorite meal in Paris was at an Iraqi restaurant. For Mexico City we went Indian. Then we walked down to the zócalo and watched the sun fade away and the blue twilight descend. + + + + + +It was a great end cap to a long day of travel, which was surprisingly smooth all things considered. Our kids are pretty great at entertaining themselves anywhere, using almost nothing, so airports and airplanes were, relatively speaking, pretty much non-stop entertainment. Just the notion that *we're floating above the planet* was enough to keep them enthralled for a three hour flight. + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +I was a little worried about going through customs, someone saying the wrong thing, being grumpy and throwing a fit, etc, but everyone was fine, we coasted right on through without missing a beat. + +I won't lie, I felt my spirits lift considerably after the rather bored customs official stamped the last of our stack of passports and waved us out of no-man's-land and into Mexico. I get a giddy feeling every time I leave the United States, a feeling that I've somehow managed to survive something, though exactly what is unclear to me. + +I don't want to write some cliche bit about how the United States sucks or what have you. I like the United States, it has its upsides -- mostly that nearly everyone we know and love lives there -- but one thing that I think universally irks travelers and expats is the smug satisfaction that folks back home have about how "free" they are. If Americans have a blind spot, it's this. We *believe* we're free. + +We are not free at all relative to the rest of the world. Oh sure, we have the right to assemble, which is often lacking elsewhere, but in terms of daily life, the United States is the most micromanaged, regulated country I've ever been to. + +I'll be honest, it feels good to leave that behind for a while. And that's all I'm going to say about that. + +
    + + + + + +
    + +We explored Mexico City for a few days, adjusted to city life as opposed to roaming the wilds of the United States, and then, we were done. Or rather we weren't done, but we were ready to get to something more permanent. We ended up cutting our time in Mexico City a little short and jumping a bus for San Miguel de Allende. The biggest festival of the year was about to start in San Miguel and we didn't want to miss it. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/09/southbound.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/09/southbound.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6193918 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/09/southbound.html @@ -0,0 +1,483 @@ + + + + + Southbound - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Southbound

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    Plano, Texas, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    From our perch on the Colorado high plateau we descended southward, to the small little town of Limon where we waited out a two day heat wave in a motel, with a swimming pool. Once it cooled down we broke from our usual back roads ways, jumped on the interstate and spent the next two weeks slowly working our way across Kansas, which we really liked, then down through Oklahoma, which we were less fond of, and finally to Dallas to visit family.

    +
    + + Driving in Kansas photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Old hwy 40, Kansas photographed by luxagraf + +
    I ended up on this stretch of road that was labeled old highway 40, but was just off present day I70. Guessing that I70 took over and I40 was built to the south.
    +
    + +

    It was about 900 miles in all, which we spread out over two weeks. The first two weeks of September were a wet two weeks in this part of the country. I think we saw the sun maybe two days in that time, and even then, not for long. It was probably the least interesting two weeks of our trip thus far. At least for me. I was either working or driving, which quickly makes Jack a dull boy as it were. I didn’t realize just how busy I had been until I went back and looked for pictures to post and realized I only had a few.

    +

    It probably wasn’t a whole lot more exciting for Corrinne and the kids, though they did sneak off into Wichita to a children’s museum once, and the kids made some friends in our favorite weekend stopover, the small town of Ellis Kansas, where we met a lot of really nice people.

    +
    + + cardboard Chinese New Year dragoon. photographed by luxagraf + +
    Chinese New Year dragoon.
    +
    + +
    + + cardboard Chinese New Year dragoon. photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + scooter gang photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    You might be wondering, why did they spend two weeks doing almost nothing, driving through the midwest?

    +

    Well, first off, I would say that until we got to Wichita, Kansas is very much the west. It looks like the west, it feels like the west. And then somewhere in there you cross that invisible line, which some say is the 100th meridian, but which I think is far too ephemeral and shifting to pin down that precisely, and the humidity is back, the undergrowth lusher, and you’re in the east again.

    +

    But, the real answer to that question requires going back to the very beginning, before we ever had the bus.

    +

    One day Corrinne came into my office at our house in Athens and said she thought we should move abroad, to Nicaragua, which we both enjoyed when we spent a couple months there. A friend of ours had moved down there recently and really liked it. At the time the girls were still babies and Elliott hadn’t been born yet. I said sure, let’s move to Nicaragua. I mean why not?

    +

    But I’ve always thought the United States, despite its many flaws, is a very beautiful place and I wanted the kids to see it before we left. So I said, okay, let’s move abroad, but first let’s get an old camper and drive around the U.S for a while so the kids can see it. My wife, as I recall, said, I don’t know about that. But I started to do some research on old trailers.

    +

    In the process I discovered the bus. Not our bus, not right away anyway, but the Travco more generally, and, well, you know how that ends. But this was just before Elliott was born, Corrinne wasn’t sold on the bus idea yet. It wasn’t until about four months later, we were down in Apalachicola, and one day Corrinne came up from the beach and said, okay, I could travel for a while. About a month later we found the bus for sale and bought it.

    +

    The rest of the story is documented here already. The point is though that, for us, traveling around the U.S. was always a temporary precursor to going abroad.

    +

    So, after over a year and half of living in the bus we decided the time had come to head abroad for a while. In those 19 months though many things have changed. We’re not going to Nicaragua, which has become decidedly unstable in recent months, but we are storing the bus for a few months and heading down the Mexico. Corrinne’s parents retired to San Miguel de Allende earlier this year and we thought we’d visit and let the presence of loved ones ease the transition a little for the kids. We are, in other words, sticking to what has always been our rough plan1.

    +

    We could have driven the bus down to Mexico, and someday we might. In fact I’d really like to do the west coast of Mexico in the bus as some point. But since our plan is to stay in one place for a while, bringing the bus didn’t make sense. My brother-in-law’s parents have some land outside Dallas that they said we could store the bus on, so we decided to leave it for a while (many thanks to Terry and Gram for taking care of our baby while we’re gone). No, we’re not done with it yet. I don’t think. Certainly no one wanted to leave it, but different places demand different travel strategies, and the bus was not the best strategy for what we want to do for the next six months. We’ll miss the bus, it still feels like our home, but now it’s time for something different.

    +

    Before we caught a flight south though we got to spend a week with family around Dallas, swimming, running some last minutes errands and somehow managing to squeak in some fishing and swimming time out at the lake.

    +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    One Halloween my brother-in-l;aw dressed up as cousin Eddie from the vacation series so we recreated the famous “shitter’s full” scene with the bus.
    +
    + +
    + + belongings photographed by luxagraf + +
    Our life in six boxes. Not pictured: the three medium size bags and two daypack that we brought to Mexico, and cooking stuff in the bus. But otherwise this is it.
    +
    + +
    + + The beach at the lake photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + The beach at the lake photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    Cousins.
    +
    + +
    + + Fishing at the lake photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    And then, before we really knew it, we were in the air.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      The idea that we have a plan is completely laughable. What we have is more like a collection of ideas that float around our heads like balloons and every now and then we grab one and float away on it for a while. These ideas are often contradictory and impossible. I think it was Eisenhower who said plans are useless, but planning is essential. ↩

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    1 Comment

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    + DREW ELDRIDGE + October 04, 2018 at 8:52 a.m. +
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    Thanks for letting us ride on your balloons with you. Cant wait to see where the next one leads “us”….

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/09/southbound.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/09/southbound.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..33022d5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/09/southbound.txt @@ -0,0 +1,56 @@ +Southbound +========== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Tuesday, 25 September 2018 + +From our perch on the Colorado high plateau we descended southward, to the small little town of Limon where we waited out a two day heat wave in a motel, with a swimming pool. Once it cooled down we broke from our usual back roads ways, jumped on the interstate and spent the next two weeks slowly working our way across Kansas, which we really liked, then down through Oklahoma, which we were less fond of, and finally to Dallas to visit family. + + + + +It was about 900 miles in all, which we spread out over two weeks. The first two weeks of September were a wet two weeks in this part of the country. I think we saw the sun maybe two days in that time, and even then, not for long. It was probably the least interesting two weeks of our trip thus far. At least for me. I was either working or driving, which quickly makes Jack a dull boy as it were. I didn't realize just how busy I had been until I went back and looked for pictures to post and realized I only had a few. + +It probably wasn't a whole lot more exciting for Corrinne and the kids, though they did sneak off into Wichita to a children's museum once, and the kids made some friends in our favorite weekend stopover, the small town of Ellis Kansas, where we met a lot of really nice people. + + + + + + + + +You might be wondering, why did they spend two weeks doing almost nothing, driving through the midwest? + +Well, first off, I would say that until we got to Wichita, Kansas is very much the west. It looks like the west, it feels like the west. And then somewhere in there you cross that invisible line, which some say is the 100th meridian, but which I think is far too ephemeral and shifting to pin down that precisely, and the humidity is back, the undergrowth lusher, and you're in the east again. + +But, the real answer to that question requires going back to the very beginning, before we ever had the bus. + +One day Corrinne came into my office at our house in Athens and said she thought we should move abroad, to Nicaragua, which we both enjoyed when we spent a couple months there. A friend of ours had moved down there recently and really liked it. At the time the girls were still babies and Elliott hadn't been born yet. I said sure, let's move to Nicaragua. I mean why not? + +But I've always thought the United States, despite its many flaws, is a very beautiful place and I wanted the kids to see it before we left. So I said, okay, let's move abroad, but first let's get an old camper and drive around the U.S for a while so the kids can see it. My wife, as I recall, said, I don't know about that. But I started to do some research on old trailers. + +In the process I discovered the bus. Not our bus, not right away anyway, but the Travco more generally, and, well, you know how that ends. But this was just before Elliott was born, Corrinne wasn't sold on the bus idea yet. It wasn't until about four months later, we were down in Apalachicola, and one day Corrinne came up from the beach and said, okay, I could travel for a while. About a month later we found the bus for sale and bought it. + +The rest of the story is documented here already. The point is though that, for us, traveling around the U.S. was always a temporary precursor to going abroad. + +So, after over a year and half of living in the bus we decided the time had come to head abroad for a while. In those 19 months though many things have changed. We're not going to Nicaragua, which has become decidedly unstable in recent months, but we are storing the bus for a few months and heading down the Mexico. Corrinne's parents retired to San Miguel de Allende earlier this year and we thought we'd visit and let the presence of loved ones ease the transition a little for the kids. We are, in other words, sticking to what has always been our rough plan[^1]. + +We could have driven the bus down to Mexico, and someday we might. In fact I'd really like to do the west coast of Mexico in the bus as some point. But since our plan is to stay in one place for a while, bringing the bus didn't make sense. My brother-in-law's parents have some land outside Dallas that they said we could store the bus on, so we decided to leave it for a while (many thanks to Terry and Gram for taking care of our baby while we're gone). No, we're not done with it yet. I don't think. Certainly no one wanted to leave it, but different places demand different travel strategies, and the bus was not the best strategy for what we want to do for the next six months. We'll miss the bus, it still feels like our home, but now it's time for something different. + +Before we caught a flight south though we got to spend a week with family around Dallas, swimming, running some last minutes errands and somehow managing to squeak in some fishing and swimming time out at the lake. + + + + + + + + + + +And then, before we really knew it, we were in the air. + + +[^1]: The idea that we have a plan is completely laughable. What we have is more like a collection of ideas that float around our heads like balloons and every now and then we grab one and float away on it for a while. These ideas are often contradictory and impossible. I think it was Eisenhower who said plans are useless, but planning is essential. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/10/alborada.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/10/alborada.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6223d22 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/10/alborada.html @@ -0,0 +1,605 @@ + + + + + Alborada - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Alborada

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    San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

    + – Map +
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    We left Mexico City earlier than we’d planned in part to make it back to San Miguel in time to catch the weekend-long Alborada festival. We grabbed the fancy fast bus from MXCD to San Miguel, which came complete with seat-back movie screens that the kids used to watch some cartoons in Spanish. I watched the countryside roll by and, by force of habit, kept track of campgrounds via the ioverlander site.

    +

    Since we got to San Miguel four days early, we had nowhere to stay. Fortunately Corrinne’s parents squeezed us in and we spent the next day wandering around, getting a feel for our new home.

    +
    + + + walking the streets of san miguel photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + bell tower, san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + main square san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Jardin at night, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + + + +
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    A day later the Alborada began. At 4 AM in the morning. Actually it was closer to 2 AM. The Jardin was packed, there was plenty of music and then thousands and thousands of fireworks. Not that I saw it, but I did periodically wake up to volleys of fireworks between 3 and 5 AM.

    +

    I’ve been in quite a few large scale parties — Songkran, Chinese New Year, New Year’s Eve in New York. San Miguel’s Alborada deserves a spot among those, it’s a hell of a party and it lasts for four or five days.

    +

    There’s way too much to keep track of as an outsider, but we managed to see a couple parades, hours and hours of dancing, drumming and music, a blessing of the horses, which saw at least a thousand horses and riders come into town one afternoon (technically I don’t think the horses are part of Alborada, but it happened the same weekend this year), giant paper maché dolls dancing, and the “Voladores de Papantla” which are people spinning on ropes around a 100 foot high pole, slowly lowering to the ground.

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    + + Alborada festival, san miguel de allende, mexico photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + blessing of the horses san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + blessing of the horses san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + +
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    From what I’ve read, the central premise of the festival/party is, well, it depends a little on who you are, how Catholic you are and how far back into history you want to reach. Ostensibly though the parade at least is the story of St Michael, patron saint of San Miguel, defeating um, something. How exactly the very indigenous parts of the festival — the Chichimecas are the local tribe in this area — fit with that is a little mysterious to me.

    +

    The dancing groups are highly organized in a hierarchy of seniority, with each group of dancers having two elders who represent the Aztec gods Cipactonal and Oxomoco, who handed down the various rites to humanity. And at least some of the dances represent the various tribes asking for forgiveness for “misunderstandings and mistreatments” from the other tribes.

    +

    That much a bit of research can teach you, but how that all fits together with the post-conquest Catholic symbolism and the festival of St Miguel is something you’d have to be born into to really understand in any meaningful way.

    +

    As an outsider all you can really do is watch. So we did. And there were conchero dancers, huge xúchiles (floral arrangements with palm fronds and lots of marigolds mounted on bamboo frames), and more traditional parade-style floats, all going up our street to the church and square at the top of the hill, the parroquia.

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    + + dancers, Alborada festival, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + dancers, Alborada festival, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + dancers, Alborada festival, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + dancers, Alborada festival, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + dancers, Alborada festival, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
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    The dancing lasts late into the night. We, for most part, did not last very late into the night. One night after the kids were asleep Corrinne and I walked up to the parroquia and watched the Voladores.

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    The next day everyone was back up in the parroquia area and the dancing picked up roughly where it left off. We went up so the kids could see the Voladores, but their patience isn’t quite up to Mexican standards just yet.

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    + + watching the dancers, Alborada festival, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + dancers, Alborada festival, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + dancers, Alborada festival, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + dancers, Alborada festival, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    This guy was on of the best best dancers in this group, plus, red contacts.
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    + + dancers, Alborada festival, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + dancers, Alborada festival, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    I imagine dancing all day and all night is exhausting, especially in these clothes, in this sun. By day three not everyone was into it anymore.
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    + + dancers, Alborada festival, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + dancers, Alborada festival, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + dancers, Alborada festival, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
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    It went on for at least one more day, in some cases two, perhaps even three, depending on who you are and what you were celebrating. We pretty much gave up after Saturday night, we were exhausted. Clearly we’ll have to work ourselves up to Mexican levels of celebration before Día de Muertos rolls around.

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    2 Comments

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    + Gwen + October 25, 2018 at 8:33 a.m. +
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    Thanks for the fascinating description of the Alborada festival. I love all the vibrant colors in your pictures, and the video of the Volardores was great.

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    + Scott + October 25, 2018 at 10:22 a.m. +
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    Gwen-

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    Thanks, glad you enjoyed the post.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/10/alborada.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/10/alborada.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1032aa5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/10/alborada.txt @@ -0,0 +1,69 @@ +Alborada +======== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 06 October 2018 + +We left Mexico City earlier than we'd planned in part to make it back to San Miguel in time to catch the weekend-long Alborada festival. We grabbed the fancy fast bus from MXCD to San Miguel, which came complete with seat-back movie screens that the kids used to watch some cartoons in Spanish. I watched the countryside roll by and, by force of habit, kept track of campgrounds via the [ioverlander](http://ioverlander.com/) site. + +Since we got to San Miguel four days early, we had nowhere to stay. Fortunately Corrinne's parents squeezed us in and we spent the next day wandering around, getting a feel for our new home. + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +A day later the Alborada began. At 4 AM in the morning. Actually it was closer to 2 AM. The Jardin was packed, there was plenty of music and then thousands and thousands of fireworks. Not that I saw it, but I did periodically wake up to volleys of fireworks between 3 and 5 AM. + +I've been in quite a few large scale parties -- Songkran, Chinese New Year, New Year's Eve in New York. San Miguel's Alborada deserves a spot among those, it's a hell of a party and it lasts for four or five days. + +There's way too much to keep track of as an outsider, but we managed to see a couple parades, hours and hours of dancing, drumming and music, a blessing of the horses, which saw at least a thousand horses and riders come into town one afternoon (technically I don't think the horses are part of Alborada, but it happened the same weekend this year), giant paper maché dolls dancing, and the "Voladores de Papantla" which are people spinning on ropes around a 100 foot high pole, slowly lowering to the ground. + + + + + +From what I've read, the central premise of the festival/party is, well, it depends a little on who you are, how Catholic you are and how far back into history you want to reach. Ostensibly though the parade at least is the story of St Michael, patron saint of San Miguel, defeating um, something. How exactly the very indigenous parts of the festival -- the Chichimecas are the local tribe in this area -- fit with that is a little mysterious to me. + +The dancing groups are highly organized in a hierarchy of seniority, with each group of dancers having two elders who represent the Aztec gods Cipactonal and Oxomoco, who handed down the various rites to humanity. And at least some of the dances represent the various tribes asking for forgiveness for "misunderstandings and mistreatments" from the other tribes. + +That much a bit of research can teach you, but how that all fits together with the post-conquest Catholic symbolism and the festival of St Miguel is something you'd have to be born into to really understand in any meaningful way. + +As an outsider all you can really do is watch. So we did. And there were conchero dancers, huge xúchiles (floral arrangements with palm fronds and lots of marigolds mounted on bamboo frames), and more traditional parade-style floats, all going up our street to the church and square at the top of the hill, the parroquia. + + + + + + + +The dancing lasts late into the night. We, for most part, did not last very late into the night. One night after the kids were asleep Corrinne and I walked up to the parroquia and watched the Voladores. + +
    + +
    + + +The next day everyone was back up in the parroquia area and the dancing picked up roughly where it left off. We went up so the kids could see the Voladores, but their patience isn't quite up to Mexican standards just yet. + + + + + + + + + + + + +It went on for at least one more day, in some cases two, perhaps even three, depending on who you are and what you were celebrating. We pretty much gave up after Saturday night, we were exhausted. Clearly we'll have to work ourselves up to Mexican levels of celebration before Día de Muertos rolls around. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/10/como-se-goza-en-el-barrio.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/10/como-se-goza-en-el-barrio.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ecb1fb4 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/10/como-se-goza-en-el-barrio.html @@ -0,0 +1,556 @@ + + + + + Como Se Goza En El Barrio - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Como Se Goza En El Barrio

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    San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

    + – Map +
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    Every morning I get up, put on my coffee, and walk all the way to the front of the house to swing open the two oaken doors that serve as our window onto the street below. I can tell the time by what’s happening outside. Usually the eastern sky is already glowing pink behind the hill, but the streetlights are still on and the western sky a deep purplish blue with three stars still visible. The rock pigeons and white-winged doves will be just arriving, pausing here and there on rooftops as they make their way uphill. Most mornings a quiet pair of little Inca doves sit on drain pipes two stories up, eye level with me, watching the street below. Sometimes we watch each other, the doves and I.

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    + + Early morning, Canal st, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Even in the half light the street is always filled with people. If it’s very early I’ll see the sweepers making their way up, cleaning the night’s debris. After them come the workers, walking up the hill to their jobs, munching tamales or breads, rolls, containers of fruit, some with cups of coffee or bottles of coke. There’s a rhythm to their movement, like rivulets of water bouncing over stone sidewalks. It’s a rhythm that’s matched by another coming down the hill — buses wheeze and groan making the turn onto San Antonio just before our house, and cars and motorcycles weave in and out and around, dropping off spouses to work, children to school. Snatches of conversation drift up to the window where I sit, goodbyes and hellos floating around the ever-brightening day.

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    + + Early morning, Canal st, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Early morning, Canal st, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
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    Sometimes, if I’m late to the window the vendors are already pulling in their carts, setting up for the day — the fruit sellers, the juice lady, and somewhere down the street, the tamale lady.

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    + + Early morning, Canal st, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
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    Nearly always there is music. It is loudest between 12AM and 2AM when people seem to leave the bars and head back out to wherever they live, speakers throbbing. But people walk with music playing on phones in the morning too. No one plays music quietly. It’s my kind of place in that sense because even if I don’t like the music, which I usually do, but even if I don’t, I still like it loud. Occasionally someone walks up the street playing guitar and singing. Once Elliott and I sat in a chair at the window and watched a lone drummer come up in the middle of the day, pounding out a beat for no apparent reason other than he wanted to play the drum. This morning a small parade of indecipherable origin or destination wandered by with horns, drums and guitars.

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    For all its constancy though, we get little continuity. Music drifts up from the street and into our house in little staccato bursts, the time it takes for a car or bus or motorcycle to pass by with its ranchero, samba, salsa or more modern, less drifting, more wall shaking sounds of pop, rock and rap, and then it’s gone, on down the hill.

    +

    At first the constant noise was annoying, but we adjusted. Now it feels slightly strange on the rare occasions when I hear no squeal of worn brakes, rattle and growl of engines in various states of collapse, or shouts or cries or clangs or dings or clamor, when I hear silence.

    +

    It might sound strange, given how much time we’ve spent away from the clamor of cities, to know that I like it. It surprises me a bit, but there are some qualifications worth mentioning. For instance, this is a real city, not a sanitized one. The streets here are where people live out their lives to a large degree. People rule the streets, not cars. Food is everywhere. There are no huge stores, there are tiny stores selling single things well. To get everything you need you’ll need to visit a dozen of them, talk to dozen people, interact with a dozen more coming and going. Life is more public, but more fun too. There’s only one place in America I can think of that even comes close — New Orleans, but even it lacks the street food.

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    We do miss being outside all the time, and it might bother me more if I didn’t know that I’ll be returning to outside life again.

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    And it did take a little adjusting to being in a city.

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    + + + Bar Casanova, Canal st, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + + + + + +
    + + Wiring, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf +
    This one is for my friend Clay who’s an electrician.
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    + + + + + + Church dome, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + + +     +
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    There is always that period of shock when you first arrive somewhere new, especially if its outside your birth culture. I think what people mean when they say “culture shock” is the severe cognitive dissidence that comes from realizing that everything you think is true, and “just the way things are” turns out to be neither.

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    Everything you believe, do, say, and think is relative to the culture you were raised in.

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    We say that a lot — everything is relative — and we think we know what it means, but by and large we don’t live it. Go abroad and you will suddenly live it.

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    The simplest things in life become grand adventures. You either thrive on this or you have a rough time until you figure out the new world you’re in. Or you go home. Even if you enjoy it like I do, it can still be overwhelming at times.

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    + + + Canal st, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + Streets San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Sunset from the jardin, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + + + +
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    This is why, generally speaking, people spend their vacation in little islands of their own culture that have established themselves abroad. People from the United States go to Cancun because there’s an entire industry set up to insulate them from having to deal with the vast difference between their culture and the local culture. Australians go to Bali for the same reason. The British love India. The Japanese have enclaves that put a little bit of Tokyo in Bangkok. You can rest assured that every place you think of as a tourist destination, every place that’s on the cover of a glossy travel magazine, is a place your culture has established a kind of bulkhead.

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    A lot of people on the internet turn up their noses at these sort of places, “tourist traps” is the snob’s term for them. Some people seem to think they lack authenticity, as if some things in the world were somehow more real than others. That doesn’t mean you should spend your time (or any money) in tourist traps. I don’t. But they have their place and they have value.

    +

    Tourist traps — bulkheads if you will — are important gateways between worlds. If there wasn’t some way to smooth over cultural differences nearly everyone who ever left their own culture would be back the next day. I know this because I made the rookie mistake of avoiding tourist traps on my first trip abroad, and my first week in India was pretty rough.

    +

    It’s really hard to relearn every assumption you’ve ever made about the world. No one wants to spend their precious two to six weeks of vacation a year doing that. It’s not most people’s idea of fun. Good tourist bulkheads smooth some of this over, allow in just enough outside culture to whet your appetite for more, but not so much that you spend an entire day struggling to find toothpaste.

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    I happen to be one of those weird people that thrives on turning my world upside down. I like spending the day trying to figure out how the hell to buy toothpaste. Then the next day, you don’t have to worry about toothpaste, you can move on to the next thing. Little by little you find the things you want and you form these little patterns, you walk over here to get tortillas, over here to get coffee, over there to get roast pollo, up the hill for the gordita lady, around the corner to the flouta lady, to the market downhill for veggies, but the market uphill for fruit and meat. You figure things out, day by day, little by little. Until, if you’re me, you start to notice your little patterns.

    +

    Sometimes I see myself like I imagine a hawk sees the patterns of a field mouse moving to and fro, getting seeds here, roots other there, all by traveling well-worn trenches in the grass that are obvious to good eyes even 2000 feet in the air. If you’re me you notice these trails and you force yourself out of them, force yourself to find a new fruit vendor, a new butcher, a new gordita stand, a new place with better salsa, a new queso stand in the mercado, a new pollo rostizado seller. Actually, no, I’m loyal to the chicken lady. We have an understanding. You have to have some patterns.

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    Eventually though you parse out a place and start to find yourself in it, start to understand it in some way. Not the way the people born into it do, but in your way.

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    + + El pollo rostizado, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    Left to my own devices I’d just get a chicken from here every other day and live happily ever after. Alas, the rest of my family believes in this thing called variety.
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    That’s a common expat mistake, thinking you understand a place like the locals. That’s impossible. I will never understand San Miguel the way the locals do. And they’ll never understand the Los Angeles area the way I do. But you do start to develop your own understanding. Finding your places helps you find your place. And surprisingly quickly a place can come to feel like home, whether it’s the wilds of Lake Superior, the barren emptiness of the Badlands, or the main drag in San Miguel de Allende. Home is where you are.

    +

    [Note: Most of the titles on luxagraf come from songs, I rarely point it out, but in this case, since it’s in Spanish, I thought I’d mention the translation: Como Se Goza En El barrio translates literally to “how you enjoy in the neighborhood”. The song is by the great Cuban musician Arsenio Rodríguez and comes from the album of the same name, which is well worth getting if you enjoy Cuban son, mambo and similar styles of music.]

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    2 Comments

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    + DREW ELDRIDGE + November 01, 2018 at 8:42 a.m. +
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    I love the gateway analogy! Awesome article.

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    If I were in your situation right now I think I would have to draw a map of the hood so I didnt forget my way and cool things I saw day to day.

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    + Scott + November 01, 2018 at 11:40 a.m. +
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    Drew-

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    That’s a good idea, I have not done that. I’ve been walking different routes in specific patterns to organize things in my head, and taking random bus routes just to see what’s along them. But I haven’t drawn anything yet.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/10/como-se-goza-en-el-barrio.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/10/como-se-goza-en-el-barrio.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5487afc --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/10/como-se-goza-en-el-barrio.txt @@ -0,0 +1,84 @@ +Como Se Goza En El Barrio +========================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Tuesday, 23 October 2018 + +Every morning I get up, put on my coffee, and walk all the way to the front of the house to swing open the two oaken doors that serve as our window onto the street below. I can tell the time by what's happening outside. Usually the eastern sky is already glowing pink behind the hill, but the streetlights are still on and the western sky a deep purplish blue with three stars still visible. The rock pigeons and white-winged doves will be just arriving, pausing here and there on rooftops as they make their way uphill. Most mornings a quiet pair of little Inca doves sit on drain pipes two stories up, eye level with me, watching the street below. Sometimes we watch each other, the doves and I. + + + +Even in the half light the street is always filled with people. If it's very early I'll see the sweepers making their way up, cleaning the night's debris. After them come the workers, walking up the hill to their jobs, munching tamales or breads, rolls, containers of fruit, some with cups of coffee or bottles of coke. There's a rhythm to their movement, like rivulets of water bouncing over stone sidewalks. It's a rhythm that's matched by another coming down the hill -- buses wheeze and groan making the turn onto San Antonio just before our house, and cars and motorcycles weave in and out and around, dropping off spouses to work, children to school. Snatches of conversation drift up to the window where I sit, goodbyes and hellos floating around the ever-brightening day. + + + + +Sometimes, if I'm late to the window the vendors are already pulling in their carts, setting up for the day -- the fruit sellers, the juice lady, and somewhere down the street, the tamale lady. + + + +Nearly always there is music. It is loudest between 12AM and 2AM when people seem to leave the bars and head back out to wherever they live, speakers throbbing. But people walk with music playing on phones in the morning too. No one plays music quietly. It's my kind of place in that sense because even if I don't like the music, which I usually do, but even if I don't, I still like it loud. Occasionally someone walks up the street playing guitar and singing. Once Elliott and I sat in a chair at the window and watched a lone drummer come up in the middle of the day, pounding out a beat for no apparent reason other than he wanted to play the drum. This morning a small parade of indecipherable origin or destination wandered by with horns, drums and guitars. + +
    + +
    + +For all its constancy though, we get little continuity. Music drifts up from the street and into our house in little staccato bursts, the time it takes for a car or bus or motorcycle to pass by with its ranchero, samba, salsa or more modern, less drifting, more wall shaking sounds of pop, rock and rap, and then it's gone, on down the hill. + +At first the constant noise was annoying, but we adjusted. Now it feels slightly strange on the rare occasions when I hear no squeal of worn brakes, rattle and growl of engines in various states of collapse, or shouts or cries or clangs or dings or clamor, when I hear silence. + +It might sound strange, given how much time we've spent away from the clamor of cities, to know that I like it. It surprises me a bit, but there are some qualifications worth mentioning. For instance, this is a real city, not a sanitized one. The streets here are where people live out their lives to a large degree. People rule the streets, not cars. Food is everywhere. There are no huge stores, there are tiny stores selling single things well. To get everything you need you'll need to visit a dozen of them, talk to dozen people, interact with a dozen more coming and going. Life is more public, but more fun too. There's only one place in America I can think of that even comes close -- New Orleans, but even it lacks the street food. + +We do miss being outside all the time, and it might bother me more if I didn't know that I'll be returning to outside life again. + +And it did take a little adjusting to being in a city. + +
    + + + + + +
    + +There is always that period of shock when you first arrive somewhere new, especially if its outside your birth culture. I think what people mean when they say "culture shock" is the severe cognitive dissidence that comes from realizing that everything you think is true, and "just the way things are" turns out to be neither. + +Everything you believe, do, say, and think is relative to the culture you were raised in. + +We say that a lot -- everything is relative -- and we think we know what it means, but by and large we don't *live* it. Go abroad and you will suddenly live it. + +The simplest things in life become grand adventures. You either thrive on this or you have a rough time until you figure out the new world you're in. Or you go home. Even if you enjoy it like I do, it can still be overwhelming at times. + +
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    + + +This is why, generally speaking, people spend their vacation in little islands of their own culture that have established themselves abroad. People from the United States go to Cancun because there's an entire industry set up to insulate them from having to deal with the vast difference between their culture and the local culture. Australians go to Bali for the same reason. The British love India. The Japanese have enclaves that put a little bit of Tokyo in Bangkok. You can rest assured that every place you think of as a tourist destination, every place that's on the cover of a glossy travel magazine, is a place your culture has established a kind of bulkhead. + +A lot of people on the internet turn up their noses at these sort of places, "tourist traps" is the snob's term for them. Some people seem to think they lack authenticity, as if some things in the world were somehow more real than others. That doesn't mean you should spend your time (or any money) in tourist traps. I don't. But they have their place and they have value. + +Tourist traps -- bulkheads if you will -- are important gateways between worlds. If there wasn't some way to smooth over cultural differences nearly everyone who ever left their own culture would be back the next day. I know this because I made the rookie mistake of avoiding tourist traps on my first trip abroad, and my first week in India was pretty rough. + +It's really hard to relearn every assumption you've ever made about the world. No one wants to spend their precious two to six weeks of vacation a year doing that. It's not most people's idea of fun. Good tourist bulkheads smooth some of this over, allow in just enough outside culture to whet your appetite for more, but not so much that you spend an entire day struggling to find toothpaste. + +I happen to be one of those weird people that thrives on turning my world upside down. I like spending the day trying to figure out how the hell to buy toothpaste. Then the next day, you don't have to worry about toothpaste, you can move on to the next thing. Little by little you find the things you want and you form these little patterns, you walk over here to get tortillas, over here to get coffee, over there to get roast pollo, up the hill for the gordita lady, around the corner to the flouta lady, to the market downhill for veggies, but the market uphill for fruit and meat. You figure things out, day by day, little by little. Until, if you're me, you start to notice your little patterns. + +Sometimes I see myself like I imagine a hawk sees the patterns of a field mouse moving to and fro, getting seeds here, roots other there, all by traveling well-worn trenches in the grass that are obvious to good eyes even 2000 feet in the air. If you're me you notice these trails and you force yourself out of them, force yourself to find a new fruit vendor, a new butcher, a new gordita stand, a new place with better salsa, a new queso stand in the mercado, a new pollo rostizado seller. Actually, no, I'm loyal to the chicken lady. We have an understanding. You have to have some patterns. + +Eventually though you parse out a place and start to find yourself in it, start to understand it in some way. Not the way the people born into it do, but in your way. + + + +That's a common expat mistake, thinking you understand a place like the locals. That's impossible. I will never understand San Miguel the way the locals do. And they'll never understand the Los Angeles area the way I do. But you do start to develop your own understanding. Finding your places helps you find your place. And surprisingly quickly a place can come to feel like home, whether it's the wilds of Lake Superior, the barren emptiness of the Badlands, or the main drag in San Miguel de Allende. Home is where you are. + +[Note: Most of the titles on luxagraf come from songs, I rarely point it out, but in this case, since it's in Spanish, I thought I'd mention the translation: *Como Se Goza En El barrio* translates literally to "how you enjoy in the neighborhood". The song is by the great Cuban musician [Arsenio Rodríguez](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arsenio_Rodríguez) and comes from the album of the same name, which is well worth getting if you enjoy Cuban son, mambo and similar styles of music.] diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/11/food-table-tonight.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/11/food-table-tonight.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1d3199b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/11/food-table-tonight.html @@ -0,0 +1,603 @@ + + + + + There’ll Be Food On The Table Tonight - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    There’ll be Food on the Table Tonight

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    San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

    + – Map +
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    We abandoned all pretense of traditional American fare for Thanksgiving this year and instead went full Mexican — tamale pie, chayote squash, ensalda pepino and plenty of salsas. This was partly because none of us like roast turkey anyway and partly because we wanted to eat what was around us. To me if you aren’t eating what’s around you, if you’re always hunting out the familiar foods from back home, you’re missing out on one of the best things about travel.

    +

    There are, to my mind three great things in the physical world: phylos1, sex and food. There are many other great things, but most of them are subcategories of these three. The first two you’ll have to figure out for yourself, but food… food is life. Food powers economies, shapes ecology, dictates religious rituals, causes wars, drives the explorations of the unknown, determines the size and shape of our bodies, and, to an extent we are only beginning to realize, shapes how we act, how we think, and even how we see the world.

    +

    Food has always been a big part of our travels, even if I don’t often write about it much. Sometimes we refer to places we’ve been by which foods were really good there. Colorado and its Palisade peaches. The UP and its cherries. Louisiana and its boudin. Florida and its gulf shrimp.

    +
    + + mercado san juan de dio, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    In Mexico it’s the guavas and green apples and strawberries. But even more than any specific foods, in Mexico food permeates nearly every aspect of life. Food is everywhere all the time. Sometimes for just dinner, sometimes for ceremony, sometimes for sale. I doubt you could walk more than 20 feet down any street without passing some sort of food. There are so many things to try that we’ve been here months and I haven’t even scratched the surface of what’s available.

    +

    Partly that’s because I tend toward a slow, systematic exploration of food. While I love eating prepared food, especially street food, what I really love is the markets. I didn’t plan it, but it just some happened that our first place was a block from one of the bigger markets in town. It’s not necessarily the nicest, nor does it have the best stuff, but Mercado de San Juan de Dios is still my favorite.

    +
    + + mercado san juan de dio, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + mercado san juan de dio, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + mercado san juan de dio, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I like to go and search out things I don’t recognize, and then buy them. But then rather than rush in I get one new thing every time I go. I always start with fruit because there’s really no such thing as a bad fruit. Once I’ve tried all the fruit on offer I move into vegetables and after that different cuts of meat. Lately I’ve been exploring Mexican cheeses, working my way through a variety of queso oaxaca, quesa fresca, and some other round one I haven’t even learned the name of yet. I’m also on the hunt for a good cotija cheese.

    +

    But it’s not just exploring the variety of foods, I also like to try things from each vendor to see who has what I like the best, at the best price. I get perhaps a little obsessed. I’ve had dreams about buying fruit. I recognize that this is a little odd to most people.

    +

    But sampling and talking to people is what makes it fun. To me that’s the point of exploring food in another culture, to get to understand the people growing it, selling it and making it. It’s a way into a culture, for me particularly I guess. I’m not always that outgoing so sometimes I can make connections with people through food much easier than talking. And to me there is no better way to start to understand the daily lives of the people around you than to go to the local market and see what’s there, the food, the people, how it all fits together.

    +
    + + mercado san juan de dio, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + mercado san juan de dio, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    When I first got here I went to the center of the market, bought a couple tacos and a coke and sat and watched. I watched what people bought, how they examined it, what they picked, what they rejected, what they asked the vendor to get, what they insisted on getting themselves. I watched how they handled it, what was delicate, what was not, who was careful with what they were picking out, who was not (the latter were probably buying it for someone else).

    +

    I came back the next day and spent another half hour watching. Then another. Then I walked around the every stall, looking things over, figuring out who had the best of what, how things changed from day to day, what time the new stuff arrived, how it was rotated, who cared if you grabbed the fresh stuff in the bins under the display and who didn’t, who pulled their their borderline fruits and veggies, who didn’t, which butcher got whole animals and cut them down, which got the halves and quarters already cut. All these details tell you stories about the people behind them, and if you want the best possible local ingredients you have to go out and learn these stories.

    +
    + + mercado san juan de dio, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Sometimes of course you do things even though you know better. I buy most of my fruit from a woman who is slow to rotate things and I have to carefully look over every piece I buy, but I like her, she teaches me the Spanish words of veggies I don’t know and I sometimes help her translate words in her daughter’s English homework. People are more important than ingredients.

    +

    When I finally had a few ideas about what was going on in the market, I dove in. I started to buy all the things I didn’t recognize, didn’t understand, and didn’t normally eat. I figured out how to eat cactus — it’s delicious, though tricky, like a strange combination of asparagus and okra — then I went for chayote, except that while I was studying it there on the counter at home, trying to decide what to do with it, Corrinne dove in and fried it up with potatoes, onions, garlic and mint. The kids, who had never seen a guava until about two months ago now plow through about 10 a day. At first we scooped the seeds out, but then we noticed the locals never do that so now we just eat them whole, seeds and all. They’re also big fans of the elote, boiled corn on the cob you can get on just about every corner.

    +

    I head over to market generally every day, partly to get out of the house, but partly because there’s still so much there I don’t understand yet, so many foods in so many stalls, it’ll take me months to get through them all, and that’s only one market in one town. It would take years just to even scratch the surface of one place. Because after I figure out what I like and where to get it I like to figure out where it’s coming from, who’s growing it? What do they do? Why? How? You pull at one tiny thread and you can follow it forever. Like I said, I recognize that this is a little odd, even obsessive.

    +

    Luckily my family is usually game to go with me and try new foods. The other day I came back from the big market outside of town with a cup full of dried, salted, chili-covered sardines and even my kids all had one. Only one of them actually like it, and in this case, I think she liked them more than even I did, but it makes me happy that they’re all willing to at least try new things. That’s long been my motto: try anything twice.

    +
    + + eating tacos in mercado san juan de dio, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + eating tacos in mercado san juan de dio, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    My daughter’s favorite taco stand in the market. You can get 5 little tacos for 30 pesos (about $1.50 US). She’s on her second plate in this photo.
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    + +

    A lot of people seem to obsess over food in other ways. Like health. I seems like nearly everyday there’s some new food discovery that either kills you or cures you of everything. Then there’s the whole fear of foreign food. You see this when chefs talk about “elevating” street food (so they can overcharge you for it). You also see it in people’s fear of getting sick from food they’re not totally comfortable with. I’ve overheard tourists around here telling each other not to the street food, but yet they go to the restaurant up the hill and sit down to a dinner made from the same ingredients, from the same markets, coming from a kitchen they can’t see. That’s far more likely to get you sick than the stalls in the market where you can see for yourself every step of the process.

    +
    + + mercado san juan de dio, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    This is what a clean kitchen looks like. Yes, it’s a stall in a market, but trust me, this is where you should eat if you don’t want to get sick.
    +
    + +

    Sometimes it blows my mind how little people understand food and, more importantly, food preparation. I do have an advantage I suppose, having worked in the restaurant industry for about six years, but most of what helps me comes from learning the basics of microbiology. All the restaurant experience did was provide practical examples of microbiology in action. If you food is bad, you’ll smell it. Trust me.

    +

    Contrary to what you’ve probably seen on TV, most of running a restaurant does not involve cooking. There is some of that, but mostly you stand around and wait. Technically you’re chopping stuff, but after a few years you can do that without thinking about it. So really you’re just standing around. Then for about three hours you’re so busy and focused it feels like only ten minutes went by. But mostly you wait. You smoke a lot and stand around a lot. And for me, standing around smoking, I needed something to read. There’s not a lot to read in restaurant, so I read all the bizarre food industry trade magazines that would arrive every day in the mail.

    +

    One of the things that you learn from reading these bizarre magazines — which would have cover stories on strange things like how to entice millennials with foods that remind them of their favorite sitcoms — is that real food poisoning, the outbreaks that the CDC tracks, not the ones where you mistakenly attribute some diarrhea to whatever bizarre food you ate most recently, the real outbreaks, almost always come from vegetables, particularly vegetables that grow on the ground and have to be harvested by hand. Because the people harvesting the food don’t get paid enough to take bathroom breaks, so, well, you do the math. From my anecdotal observations, if you really want genuine food poisoning, a bout of salmonella say, eat asparagus, preferably raw.

    +

    Which is why I find it hilarious that so many people here are deathly afraid of street food, but in the next breath tell me how they don’t need to wash their veggies because they get them at the organic market. WAT?! And no, I never say anything. It’s not my place to shatter anyone’s carefully constructed delusions. Though I did write this. So now you know. Wash your veggies, eat where you can see the kitchen. You’ll mostly likely be fine.

    +

    That said, I eat unwashed strawberries all the time and regularly get gorditas from a place where they use dirty rags from god knows where to sop up the grease just before handing it to you. But I have a stomach of steel. I’m not sure which came first though, my stomach of steel or my willingness to eat anything at least twice.

    +

    But more importantly than a strong stomach, I eat at that place because I see the people around me doing it too. They’re still here so it must be fine. That’s the part of food that a lot of people seem to forget — ingredients are nothing, people are what matter. I could spend the next ten years practicing making tamales, but I’ll never be as good at it as the abuelas sitting on every street corner here (don’t buy their tamales though, they aren’t selling the good ones).

    +

    When Thanksgiving rolled around we wanted the foods we were excited about and that happened to be tamales, chayote and tomatillos, so that’s what we made, and man was it good. So good it makes you thankful that you have the opportunity to explore food rather than be ruled by it, by the need for it, as so many are here and everywhere. Thankful that another country would even let you come to it, let alone have free run of the place to meet its people enjoy its foods.

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      Greek, “to love”. ↩

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    6 Comments

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    + Jonathan + December 27, 2018 at 7:45 a.m. +
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    Midnight Oil?

    +

    Also, did you ask people if you could take those photos :)

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    + Scott + December 27, 2018 at 7:49 a.m. +
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    Jonathan-

    +

    Yes, not one of my favorite songs of theirs, but it happened to come on Pandora while I was writing it, and it fit.

    +

    As for the photos, no I did not. But I didn’t shove my camera in anyone’s face. I wasn’t talking about street photography in that piece.

    +

    While cultural norms regarding public spaces vary, I haven’t seen anyone here balk at being in the background in anyone’s photos so I don’t think anyone cares.

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    + DREW ELDRIDGE + January 02, 2019 at 2:36 p.m. +
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    All good thoughts on the “street meat”, but what about the water? When in India they didnt warn us too much about the food, but the water on the other hand could and would clean you out.

    +

    So, if you are washing your veggies in waste water, whats the point, and you may be doing more harm than good in some cases.

    +

    Are you sticking to bottled and filtered, or are you all drinking whatever, whenever?

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    + Scott + January 02, 2019 at 2:57 p.m. +
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    Drew-

    +

    So, water. Definitely more complex than meat. Short answer, we use bottled water. The longer answer ended up too long for a comment, so I put up a new article on drinking water in Mexico

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    + DREW ELDRIDGE + January 03, 2019 at 9:14 a.m. +
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    You just happened to sit next to a PhD student studying water management heading to San Miguel….. I guess now you know why you got on the flight you got on. Maybe by making that contact it will save you or your family some tummy aches down the road. Good stuff.

    +

    So weird how everything seems connected at times. I always think of the article you wrote on the Aspen grove. there is an Aspen grove feel to this world.

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    + Scott + January 03, 2019 at 9:48 a.m. +
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    Drew-

    +

    True enough. Another thing I learned, 44 is approaching the age where you can stop worrying about metals in your body. By 50-55, you’re unlikely to ingest enough heavy metal to have any effect before you die anyway (statistically speaking anyway). Unless you’re somewhere things are off the charts, like Detroit. Or on a Navajo reservation. For the kids though, metals/chemicals in the water definitely matters.

    +

    As for the Aspen grove, I also think about about that all time. That idea is actually one of the cornerstones of the book I’m working on. I definitely think everything is connected. And even if it’s often very difficult or even impossible to see the connections, the process of looking for them makes life a lot more fun and exciting. To me anyway.

    +

    [For anyone else reading this, that does not mean everything happens for a reason, the world is far more complex than empty platitudes will ever allow for.]

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/11/food-table-tonight.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/11/food-table-tonight.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e4f7c0c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/11/food-table-tonight.txt @@ -0,0 +1,68 @@ +There'll be Food on the Table Tonight +===================================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 26 November 2018 + +We abandoned all pretense of traditional American fare for Thanksgiving this year and instead went full Mexican -- tamale pie, chayote squash, ensalda pepino and plenty of salsas. This was partly because none of us like roast turkey anyway and partly because we wanted to eat what was around us. To me if you aren't eating what's around you, if you're always hunting out the familiar foods from back home, you're missing out on one of the best things about travel. + +There are, to my mind three great things in the physical world: *phylos*[^1], sex and food. There are many other great things, but most of them are subcategories of these three. The first two you'll have to figure out for yourself, but food... food is life. Food powers economies, shapes ecology, dictates religious rituals, causes wars, drives the explorations of the unknown, determines the size and shape of our bodies, and, to an extent we are only beginning to realize, shapes how we act, how we think, and even how we see the world. + +Food has always been a big part of our travels, even if I don't often write about it much. Sometimes we refer to places we've been by which foods were really good there. Colorado and its Palisade peaches. The UP and its cherries. Louisiana and its boudin. Florida and its gulf shrimp. + + + +In Mexico it's the guavas and green apples and strawberries. But even more than any specific foods, in Mexico food permeates nearly every aspect of life. Food is everywhere all the time. Sometimes for just dinner, sometimes for ceremony, sometimes for sale. I doubt you could walk more than 20 feet down any street without passing some sort of food. There are so many things to try that we've been here months and I haven't even scratched the surface of what's available. + +Partly that's because I tend toward a slow, systematic exploration of food. While I love eating prepared food, especially street food, what I really love is the markets. I didn't plan it, but it just some happened that our first place was a block from one of the bigger markets in town. It's not necessarily the nicest, nor does it have the best stuff, but *Mercado de San Juan de Dios* is still my favorite. + + + + + +I like to go and search out things I don't recognize, and then buy them. But then rather than rush in I get one new thing every time I go. I always start with fruit because there's really no such thing as a bad fruit. Once I've tried all the fruit on offer I move into vegetables and after that different cuts of meat. Lately I've been exploring Mexican cheeses, working my way through a variety of queso oaxaca, quesa fresca, and some other round one I haven't even learned the name of yet. I'm also on the hunt for a good cotija cheese. + +But it's not just exploring the variety of foods, I also like to try things from each vendor to see who has what I like the best, at the best price. I get perhaps a little obsessed. I've had dreams about buying fruit. I recognize that this is a little odd to most people. + +But sampling and talking to people is what makes it fun. To me that's the point of exploring food in another culture, to get to understand the people growing it, selling it and making it. It's a way into a culture, for me particularly I guess. I'm not always that outgoing so sometimes I can make connections with people through food much easier than talking. And to me there is no better way to start to understand the daily lives of the people around you than to go to the local market and see what's there, the food, the people, how it all fits together. + + + + +When I first got here I went to the center of the market, bought a couple tacos and a coke and sat and watched. I watched what people bought, how they examined it, what they picked, what they rejected, what they asked the vendor to get, what they insisted on getting themselves. I watched how they handled it, what was delicate, what was not, who was careful with what they were picking out, who was not (the latter were probably buying it for someone else). + +I came back the next day and spent another half hour watching. Then another. Then I walked around the every stall, looking things over, figuring out who had the best of what, how things changed from day to day, what time the new stuff arrived, how it was rotated, who cared if you grabbed the fresh stuff in the bins under the display and who didn't, who pulled their their borderline fruits and veggies, who didn't, which butcher got whole animals and cut them down, which got the halves and quarters already cut. All these details tell you stories about the people behind them, and if you want the best possible local ingredients you have to go out and learn these stories. + + + +Sometimes of course you do things even though you know better. I buy most of my fruit from a woman who is slow to rotate things and I have to carefully look over every piece I buy, but I like her, she teaches me the Spanish words of veggies I don't know and I sometimes help her translate words in her daughter's English homework. People are more important than ingredients. + +When I finally had a few ideas about what was going on in the market, I dove in. I started to buy all the things I didn't recognize, didn't understand, and didn't normally eat. I figured out how to eat cactus -- it's delicious, though tricky, like a strange combination of asparagus and okra -- then I went for chayote, except that while I was studying it there on the counter at home, trying to decide what to do with it, Corrinne dove in and fried it up with potatoes, onions, garlic and mint. The kids, who had never seen a guava until about two months ago now plow through about 10 a day. At first we scooped the seeds out, but then we noticed the locals never do that so now we just eat them whole, seeds and all. They're also big fans of the *elote*, boiled corn on the cob you can get on just about every corner. + +I head over to market generally every day, partly to get out of the house, but partly because there's still so much there I don't understand yet, so many foods in so many stalls, it'll take me months to get through them all, and that's only one market in one town. It would take years just to even scratch the surface of one place. Because after I figure out what I like and where to get it I like to figure out where it's coming from, who's growing it? What do they do? Why? How? You pull at one tiny thread and you can follow it forever. Like I said, I recognize that this is a little odd, even obsessive. + +Luckily my family is usually game to go with me and try new foods. The other day I came back from the big market outside of town with a cup full of dried, salted, chili-covered sardines and even my kids all had one. Only one of them actually like it, and in this case, I think she liked them more than even I did, but it makes me happy that they're all willing to at least try new things. That's long been my motto: try anything twice. + + + + +A lot of people seem to obsess over food in other ways. Like health. I seems like nearly everyday there's some new food discovery that either kills you or cures you of everything. Then there's the whole fear of foreign food. You see this when chefs [talk](https://www.bitchmedia.org/article/craving-the-other-0) about "elevating" street food (so they can overcharge you for it). You also see it in people's fear of getting sick from food they're not totally comfortable with. I've overheard tourists around here telling each other not to the street food, but yet they go to the restaurant up the hill and sit down to a dinner made from the same ingredients, from the same markets, coming from a kitchen they *can't* see. That's far more likely to get you sick than the stalls in the market where you can see for yourself every step of the process. + + + +Sometimes it blows my mind how little people understand food and, more importantly, food preparation. I do have an advantage I suppose, having worked in the restaurant industry for about six years, but most of what helps me comes from learning the basics of microbiology. All the restaurant experience did was provide practical examples of microbiology in action. If you food is bad, you'll smell it. Trust me. + +Contrary to what you've probably seen on TV, most of running a restaurant does not involve cooking. There is some of that, but mostly you stand around and wait. Technically you're chopping stuff, but after a few years you can do that without thinking about it. So really you're just standing around. Then for about three hours you're so busy and focused it feels like only ten minutes went by. But mostly you wait. You smoke a lot and stand around a lot. And for me, standing around smoking, I needed something to read. There's not a lot to read in restaurant, so I read all the bizarre food industry trade magazines that would arrive every day in the mail. + +One of the things that you learn from reading these bizarre magazines -- which would have cover stories on strange things like how to entice millennials with foods that remind them of their favorite sitcoms -- is that real food poisoning, the outbreaks that the CDC tracks, not the ones where you mistakenly attribute some diarrhea to whatever bizarre food you ate most recently, the real outbreaks, almost always come from vegetables, particularly vegetables that grow on the ground and have to be harvested by hand. Because the people harvesting the food don't get paid enough to take bathroom breaks, so, well, you do the math. From my anecdotal observations, if you really want genuine food poisoning, a bout of salmonella say, eat asparagus, preferably raw. + +Which is why I find it hilarious that so many people here are deathly afraid of street food, but in the next breath tell me how they don't need to wash their veggies because they get them at the organic market. WAT?! And no, I never say anything. It's not my place to shatter anyone's carefully constructed delusions. Though I did write this. So now you know. Wash your veggies, eat where you can see the kitchen. You'll mostly likely be fine. + +That said, I eat unwashed strawberries all the time and regularly get gorditas from a place where they use dirty rags from god knows where to sop up the grease just before handing it to you. But I have a stomach of steel. I'm not sure which came first though, my stomach of steel or my willingness to eat anything at least twice. + +But more importantly than a strong stomach, I eat at that place because I see the people around me doing it too. They're still here so it must be fine. That's the part of food that a lot of people seem to forget -- ingredients are nothing, people are what matter. I could spend the next ten years practicing making tamales, but I'll never be as good at it as the abuelas sitting on every street corner here (don't buy their tamales though, they aren't selling the good ones). + +When Thanksgiving rolled around we wanted the foods we were excited about and that happened to be tamales, chayote and tomatillos, so that's what we made, and man was it good. So good it makes you thankful that you have the opportunity to explore food rather than be ruled by it, by the need for it, as so many are here and everywhere. Thankful that another country would even let you come to it, let alone have free run of the place to meet its people enjoy its foods. + +[^1]: Greek, "to love". diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/11/friday.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/11/friday.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..39409f0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/11/friday.html @@ -0,0 +1,531 @@ + + + + + Friday - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Friday

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    San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

    + – Map +
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    It was a week of Fridays. Some weeks are like that, you’re forever on the edge of a weekend, but never quite there.

    +

    The first Friday that week was a Tuesday. I got fired from the programming job I’ve had for a couple years now. I wasn’t particularly surprised, companies are made of people, when the people change, the companies change. These things happen. But hey, if you ain’t got no job… it’s Friday. I walked down to the tienda and grabbed a Modelo. As you do. Maybe it was two. It could have been three. But no more. Their fridge is much colder than ours and they’re only thirty feet from the front door. Never buy more than you need.

    +
    + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf +
    Some days you’re the spectator, some days you’re the spectacle, some days you’re both.
    +
    + + + + + +
    + + flexible photographed by luxagraf +
    Pretty sure I was never this flexible.
    +
    + + + + +
    + + Jumping photographed by luxagraf +
    “Elliott, are you jumping off the book shelf onto the bed again?” “…”
    +
    + + +     +
    + +

    The next Friday was Wednesday, Halloween.

    +

    It’s not much of a holiday down here and honestly, aside from some candy corn I brought down for Elliott, who has been obsessed with the stuff ever since he discovered it last year at Ron’s house, we were pretty much going to skip Halloween this year.

    +

    That said, the girls’ dance teacher wanted to take all the kids down the Parrochia/Jardin area after class on Halloween, where, apparently, the expats hand out candy. I thought, well isn’t that creepy of them. But then I’m always slagging the expats and I’ve been trying to do that less so I didn’t say anything. It turned out to be way creepier than even I had imagined, but the kids got to walk around town in their costumes and really didn’t care about anything else. They had a ball.

    +
    + + halloween, san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    After the girls’ dance class was over all the kids changed into their Halloween costumes and Michelle, their teacher, the six or so other kids, their families, and the five of us all walked the half mile or so down to the Jardin. There, in exchange for candy, a bunch of older expats took pictures of the all the kids. Not weird at all. Uh…

    +

    I might not have thought anything of it if the expats had been taking pictures of all the kids in the Jardin, but they weren’t. They were taking pictures of the Mexican kids. That our kids were taken for Mexican was an accident of assumptions — since we were walking with a group of Mexican families, we must be Mexicans.

    +

    It got me thinking about why we all take all the pictures we take. The kids — regardless of nationality — didn’t seem to care, by the end they had buckets full of candy and for children, candy transcends all.

    +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    Who watches the watchers? Um, me. The guy in the middle is innocent he’s a professional hired by a local children’s charity, he’s the only one here who knows what a speed light is. The rest are guilty.
    +
    + +

    The next Friday was Thursday, Dia de Muertes. Despite the name, around here celebrating Dia de Muertes takes two days.

    +

    Day of the dead is a colorful holiday, lots of marigolds, elaborate family shrines, candles and, at night, fireworks. We went out wandering the town in the morning, watching people set up all the painstakingly handmade decorations. I hardly took any pictures though. The expats with their cameras in the Jardin the night before was still in my mind and then, unfortunately, we kept running across more people with cameras behaving badly. Normally I hardly notice expats or tourists, but for some reason they were all over the place for day of the dead, and behaving obnoxiously.

    +

    We watched people shoving cameras in the locals’ faces while they tried to make shrines for their dead, the parents they missed, the children they’d lost. And let’s be clear, it wasn’t “people” it was, in all three cases I witnessed, white males of a certain age. And it wasn’t just any locals. They sure as hell weren’t shoving cameras in the face of the guy covered in tattoos with a prominent 13 on the back of his head, no they were doing it to the grandmothers and grandfathers, the people who, again, were least likely to protest.

    +

    And I point that out not because the guy has gang tattoos, but because his tattoos make him photographically interesting, more so than a grandmother to my mind. But then he’s intimidating and the grandmother isn’t. Or so you’d think. But the only public act of violence I’ve seen in Mexico was grandmother beating a guy with her purse when he got in her way at a parade, so it’s not like old Mexican women are helpless.

    +

    Still, you have to wonder what makes people think it’s okay walk around shoving your camera in a grandma’s face, while she’s in the midst of a celebration designed to honor the dead. It’s rude any day of the week. And, after the experience in the Jardin the night before, I couldn’t help thinking — to what end? Why are we even taking all these pictures? To remember? Are our memories that bad? To show others? To impress our friends with… what exactly? How little you understand the culture that’s been kind enough to allow you to visit it? I don’t understand how anyone comes to think it’s okay to behave this way.

    +

    I do know where the idea for the image comes from though — National Geographic. But National Geographic photographers don’t get those images by rudely shoving a camera in someone’s face. Shoving cameras in someone’s face is something shitty photographers do — the people who take pictures no one will ever care about precisely because they have no empathy, no feeling, no soul, lack even the self-awareness to recognize that there is a soul. These are crappy selfies in which the self just happens to be outside the frame.

    +

    The people making art out of the beauty they see around them, the people whose images could actually end up in National Geographic don’t take pictures like that because there’s no beauty to be had that way. They don’t take pictures without permission, they don’t take pictures without first getting to know a person, even if only for a few moments.

    +

    On Dia de Muertes I watched shit photographer after shit photographer behaving like asses and I didn’t want to be like them, which is why there’s so few images in this post. I’m too shy to go out and meet people and ask to take their photographs, so I took the other sensible path — I put my camera away. The only pictures I have of Dia de Muertes are of me, my family, and few of the public decorations we saw while walking around.

    +
    + + + graveyard, dia de muertes, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + halloween, san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + dia de muertes, san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + None photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    I think that’s how Dia de Muertes is supposed to be anyway. It isn’t the huge party I thought it was. I always thought of it as a Mexican Halloween, but it’s not. It’s a celebration of your dead. Like everything in this country it’s about your family, your history, your people. There are public aspects to it, certainly fireworks and parties, but it’s primarily a more personal holiday. There’s an essay I really like, Let Me Die like a Mexican, which calls Dia de Muertes a “bittersweet reflection on love, loss and life well lived.” That’s very much what it felt like to me.

    +

    It’s also the day the dead come back to visit the loved ones they’ve left behind. That’s not metaphorical and it’s not taken lightly. Everything that’s done is done to make their journey back from the underworld more pleasant — the food, the offerings, the alcohol, it’s all for the returning family members. Any student of the world’s bardo literature knows that coming out of the underworld is no easy task. You’re going to want a drink afterward.

    +

    Walking around during the day I spent a fair bit of time contemplating how Dia de Muertes managed to survive the Catholic church. It’s the most overtly pagan celebration I’ve ever seen. Sometimes the older pagan ways are too strong to be denied I guess — what comes from below outlasts what is imposed from above. Surprisingly, the recent movie, Coco, does a pretty decent job of capturing what the celebrations here are actually like.

    +

    I, on the other hand, cannot do a decent job of explaining what Dia de Muertes was like because I decided I wasn’t invited. My dead are nowhere near here and I’ve got nothing for them even if they came. I’d never really thought about it until that night, but I’m a crap descendant in that regard. I’ve never done anything to honor the dead in my family, certainly nothing of the sort that happens on Dia De Muertes here. I don’t even think about them much if I’m honest. I didn’t even make to their funerals in most cases, what business do I have being out on day of the dead?

    +

    So I went back to our apartment. I sat in the little covered outdoor area between the two rooms, listening to the fireworks, watching the flickering colors in the window. I drank a Modelo. Maybe two. It could have been three. I mumbled something about it being Friday, and it was actually Friday by then, and I ain’t got no job. I ain’t got shit to do.

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    2 Comments

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    + DREW ELDRIDGE + December 06, 2018 at 2:11 p.m. +
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    YOOO- I was so glad to click on my favorites tab and see your new post- Elliott’s face pre jump is 100% busted! And your girls are beautiful and growing like weeds-

    +

    As far as taking pictures I am 110% guilty- I never even thought about it until I went to India. I def felt shameful over there especially in Nepal at the temples. It was so heavy and personal, yet I snapped away. There were some I took when I waited for the subject to be unaware- but does that make it better or worse?

    +

    One subject in particular was on a skate board begging for money- I had read where the pimps over there would maim homeless children to make them more pitiful in order to have better chances of getting money. I figured this was how the kid without legs ended up on the skateboard wheeling around town pulling on skirts begging for money- (In reality I have no clue what happened to his legs- he may have been born without legs, wealthy, and trolling tourists for extra cash- doubtful, but possible) Either way, it was pitiful and I took the picture anyway. But not until he turned his head. Im not sure if I waited for his sake or mine.

    +

    Either way, I appreciate the article and checking myself one more time.

    +

    Sorry about the job- that sucks. But just like Modelos one and two- This too shall pass.

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    + Scott + December 06, 2018 at 3:22 p.m. +
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    Drew-

    +

    I don’t think it’s always wrong to take pictures. I think usually it’s pretty obvious actually. I did not take pictures of the Sadus at the burning ghats in Nepal, but only because I didn’t feel right paying them to do so and they clearly wanted money. Now that I think about it though I did give these kids money to take their picture, which maybe is just as weird as they people taking pictures in San Miguel. Hmm.

    +

    Anyway, I think street photography is very different than street photography during ritual/ceremony.

    +

    I also think it’s entirely possible that the people in question in San Miguel didn’t care that cameras were being shoved in their face as much as I cared that cameras were being shoved in their face, which might be every bit as colonialist of me to assume as it is of the photographers to do that. If that makes any sense.

    +

    (and I’ve got a big backlog of stories to tell, hoping to get more up soon).

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/11/friday.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/11/friday.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3e28b59 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/11/friday.txt @@ -0,0 +1,69 @@ +Friday +====== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 03 November 2018 + +It was a week of Fridays. Some weeks are like that, you're forever on the edge of a weekend, but never quite there. + +The first Friday that week was a Tuesday. I got fired from the programming job I've had for a couple years now. I wasn't particularly surprised, companies are made of people, when the people change, the companies change. These things happen. But hey, if [you ain't got no job...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q4tbZ7xnEjk) it's Friday. I walked down to the tienda and grabbed a Modelo. As you do. Maybe it was two. It could have been three. But no more. Their fridge is much colder than ours and they're only thirty feet from the front door. Never buy more than you need. + +
    + + + + + +
    + +The next Friday was Wednesday, Halloween. + +It's not much of a holiday down here and honestly, aside from some candy corn I brought down for Elliott, who has been obsessed with the stuff ever since he discovered it last year at Ron's house, we were pretty much going to skip Halloween this year. + +That said, the girls' dance teacher wanted to take all the kids down the Parrochia/Jardin area after class on Halloween, where, apparently, the expats hand out candy. I thought, well isn't that creepy of them. But then I'm always slagging the expats and I've been trying to do that less so I didn't say anything. It turned out to be way creepier than even I had imagined, but the kids got to walk around town in their costumes and really didn't care about anything else. They had a ball. + + + +After the girls' dance class was over all the kids changed into their Halloween costumes and Michelle, their teacher, the six or so other kids, their families, and the five of us all walked the half mile or so down to the Jardin. There, in exchange for candy, a bunch of older expats took pictures of the all the kids. Not weird at all. Uh... + +I might not have thought anything of it if the expats had been taking pictures of *all* the kids in the Jardin, but they weren't. They were taking pictures of the Mexican kids. That our kids were taken for Mexican was an accident of assumptions -- since we were walking with a group of Mexican families, we must be Mexicans. + +It got me thinking about *why* we all take all the pictures we take. The kids -- regardless of nationality -- didn't seem to care, by the end they had buckets full of candy and for children, candy transcends all. + + + +The next Friday was Thursday, Dia de Muertes. Despite the name, around here celebrating Dia de Muertes takes two days. + +Day of the dead is a colorful holiday, lots of marigolds, elaborate family shrines, candles and, at night, fireworks. We went out wandering the town in the morning, watching people set up all the painstakingly handmade decorations. I hardly took any pictures though. The expats with their cameras in the Jardin the night before was still in my mind and then, unfortunately, we kept running across more people with cameras behaving badly. Normally I hardly notice expats or tourists, but for some reason they were all over the place for day of the dead, and behaving obnoxiously. + +We watched people shoving cameras in the locals' faces while they tried to make shrines for their dead, the parents they missed, the children they'd lost. And let's be clear, it wasn't "people" it was, in all three cases I witnessed, white males of a certain age. And it wasn't just any locals. They sure as hell weren't shoving cameras in the face of the guy covered in tattoos with a prominent 13 on the back of his head, no they were doing it to the grandmothers and grandfathers, the people who, again, were least likely to protest. + +And I point that out not because the guy has gang tattoos, but because his tattoos make him photographically interesting, more so than a grandmother to my mind. But then he's intimidating and the grandmother isn't. Or so you'd think. But the only public act of violence I've seen in Mexico was grandmother beating a guy with her purse when he got in her way at a parade, so it's not like old Mexican women are helpless. + +Still, you have to wonder what makes people think it's okay walk around shoving your camera in a grandma's face, while she's in the midst of a celebration designed to honor the dead. It's rude any day of the week. And, after the experience in the Jardin the night before, I couldn't help thinking -- to what end? Why are we even taking all these pictures? To remember? Are our memories that bad? To show others? To impress our friends with... what exactly? How little you understand the culture that's been kind enough to allow you to visit it? I don't understand how anyone comes to think it's okay to behave this way. + +I do know where the idea for the image comes from though -- National Geographic. But National Geographic photographers don't get those images by rudely shoving a camera in someone's face. Shoving cameras in someone's face is something shitty photographers do -- the people who take pictures no one will ever care about precisely because they have no empathy, no feeling, no soul, lack even the self-awareness to recognize that there is a soul. These are crappy selfies in which the self just happens to be outside the frame. + +The people making art out of the beauty they see around them, the people whose images could actually end up in National Geographic don't take pictures like that because there's no beauty to be had that way. They don't take pictures without permission, they don't take pictures without first getting to know a person, even if only for a few moments. + +On Dia de Muertes I watched shit photographer after shit photographer behaving like asses and I didn't want to be like them, which is why there's so few images in this post. I'm too shy to go out and meet people and ask to take their photographs, so I took the other sensible path -- I put my camera away. The only pictures I have of Dia de Muertes are of me, my family, and few of the public decorations we saw while walking around. + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +I think that's how Dia de Muertes is supposed to be anyway. It isn't the huge party I thought it was. I always thought of it as a Mexican Halloween, but it's not. It's a celebration of *your* dead. Like everything in this country it's about your family, your history, your people. There are public aspects to it, certainly fireworks and parties, but it's primarily a more personal holiday. There's an essay I really like, [Let Me Die like a Mexican](https://claritamannion.wordpress.com/2016/10/25/dia-de-muertos/), which calls Dia de Muertes a "bittersweet reflection on love, loss and life well lived." That's very much what it felt like to me. + +It's also the day the dead come back to visit the loved ones they've left behind. That's not metaphorical and it's not taken lightly. Everything that's done is done to make their journey back from the underworld more pleasant -- the food, the offerings, the alcohol, it's all for the returning family members. Any student of the world's bardo literature knows that coming out of the underworld is no easy task. You're going to want a drink afterward. + +Walking around during the day I spent a fair bit of time contemplating how Dia de Muertes managed to survive the Catholic church. It's the most overtly pagan celebration I've ever seen. Sometimes the older pagan ways are too strong to be denied I guess -- what comes from below outlasts what is imposed from above. Surprisingly, the recent movie, Coco, does a pretty decent job of capturing what the celebrations here are actually like. + +I, on the other hand, cannot do a decent job of explaining what Dia de Muertes was like because I decided I wasn't invited. My dead are nowhere near here and I've got nothing for them even if they came. I'd never really thought about it until that night, but I'm a crap descendant in that regard. I've never done anything to honor the dead in my family, certainly nothing of the sort that happens on Dia De Muertes here. I don't even think about them much if I'm honest. I didn't even make to their funerals in most cases, what business do I have being out on day of the dead? + +So I went back to our apartment. I sat in the little covered outdoor area between the two rooms, listening to the fireworks, watching the flickering colors in the window. I drank a Modelo. Maybe two. It could have been three. I mumbled something about it being Friday, and it was actually Friday by then, and I ain't got no job. I ain't got shit to do. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/11/lets-go-ride.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/11/lets-go-ride.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..264b4c2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/11/lets-go-ride.html @@ -0,0 +1,418 @@ + + + + + Let’s Go For A Ride - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Let’s Go For a Ride

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    Around San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

    + – Map +
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    The goggles barely fit over my glasses, they’re pressed tight against the bridge of my nose — in a few hours I’ll have a headache. But unlike last time I found myself hurling down dusty tracks through the bush, this time I can see. This time I have two extra wheels and loads more stability. It’s also an automatic so I rip into to tight turns with far more recklessness than I ever did on a Honda Dream.

    +

    I won’t lie, it feels good to be astride an engine again.

    +

    There’s no cool mask for this trip though. Mike asked for a bandana and got one. I stuck with the little white painter’s mask the guide gave me. It reminds me of sanding down the bus. The dust isn’t that bad out here anyway. Half the time we’re in mud and at one point we very nearly submerge our quads in the lake. I would never have dreamed of putting an engine through what the guide seemed happy to lead us through, but who am I to argue?

    +
    + + riding quads in the country side, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + country side around san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Without the bus I’ve lost the understanding of surrounding terrain that was part of life in the bus. In the bus we’d have been coming from somewhere and we’d have to figure out the best way from point A to point B, which might not have been the main road. In any case I’d have looked at all of the roads into San Miguel before making a decision. I’d have a map, I’d have looked at elevations in my own online mapping tool. I’d have figured out the outlying roads, how they connected San Miguel to points around it. Corrinne would have planned where we were going, what we’d do. We’d know the best way into the city, what to avoid, and where to go once we got there. Most of that research wouldn’t have been very formal, we’d have just kind of absorbed it a little bit at the time as we looked and talked.

    +

    Instead we were handed a bus ticket in Mexico City, and then we sat back and chatted until we magically appeared in the middle of town a few hours later. There’s very little context when someone else is driving, and almost no planning. Since then we’ve only been places we can reach either on foot or on the local bus, which hasn’t added to my understanding of the overall picture very much.

    +
    + + san miguel from malequin area photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We have been to the botanical gardens at the top of the hill a couple times. It offers a pretty good view to the north and east. The kids and I once rode the number 10 bus to its end point in the neighborhood of Malanquin, where we found a playground atop a hill with really good views to the south, but otherwise my sense of the lay of the land is very vague. I know roughly where various neighborhoods are, but no sense of how they connect, and hardly any sense of what the surrounding country side looks like.

    +

    That’s one of the reasons, when my friend Mike suggested we rent ATVs and go riding, I immediately said yes. The other reason was, even if it’s not a motorcycle, at least I’d be riding an engine again and I never pass up the chance to do that.

    +

    Right off the bat we drove through a neighborhood I’d only heard of from seeing for rent ads on Craigslist. I quickly realized why I hadn’t been there —it’s the suburbs, and rich suburbs at that, not my part of town, but I’m glad I know where it is now. We quickly rode on through and down to the lake shore past this crazy Gaudi-esque house that came up so fast and was so close I couldn’t get a good picture, but it’s on the list of things to get back to, eventually.

    +
    + + country side around san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We continued on down to the lake, stopping at a little church that I believe, if my Spanish isn’t failing me, is the original structure that started San Miguel de Allende. And it was built atop the ruins of a pyramid that was, until the day the Spanish arrived, not in ruins.

    +
    + + lake, san miguel de allende area, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + church outside san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + stone cross, outside san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + dead vermillian flycatcher photographed by luxagraf + +
    Outside the stone wall of the church courtyard someone had laid this dead vermilion flycatcher, almost like an offering.
    +
    + +

    Normally I’d have wondered off to think on the history and architecture and stone and water and dead birds, but on this particular trip I wasn’t in the mood. Actually I did sit for a while and think on the dead bird. I’d never see a vermilion flycatcher that close, dead or alive, they’re even more beautiful than they look from a distance, even dead.

    +

    I’d like to do another trip, slower, maybe on a horse, and bring an archaeologist or historian back to the church and find out how it fits into the structure and system of the world we’re in here. And since we actually met an archaeologist/historian there’s a good chance that will happen eventually, but on this particular day I just wanted to feel the wind in my face, see the country side rushing past, and maybe try to get all four wheels off the ground a time or two. I wasn’t in the frame of mind to explore the details, I was after the high level overview — the frame, not the picture.

    +

    After a while at the church we rode on, at one point, for the sheer fun of it, we road through water deep enough to flood the engines, which somehow did not die. Still puzzling that out in my free time.

    +

    We went past little town, clusters of houses really, always with a small tienda where everyone, and every dog, seemed to be gathered to talk and relax on a Sunday afternoon. I would have like to stop in a few, buy a Coke or a beer and talk to the people, but we kept on. We went past enormous restaurants that seemed far larger than was necessary given the nearby population was near nil, but perhaps people come out from San Miguel, who knows. I filed that, along with many other questions away for another day.

    +

    At some point we passed an RV, a beat up old thing, probably a late 80s or maybe early 90s model. It was clearly functional though, and hooked up to both sewer and water in the middle of nowhere. I filed it away to think on later and punched it over the railroad tracks.

    +

    We stopped for some water and a huge flock of either ravens or crows came circling overhead. I like to think they were crows, since that would make them a murder of crows, but I couldn’t say for sure, I had no binoculars on me.

    +
    + + el campo, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + crows, in the countryside around san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Eventually we circled back around, up past the train station I knew must be around — we’d heard the trains — but hadn’t seen yet, and finally up the hill with the giant cross. When I said that to some people who have been here a few years they looked at me like I was an idiot — which hill, which cross? Right, every hill has a cross. In this Catholic, yet not quite Catholic, world every neighborhood has a church, every hill has a cross. Oh, you know, the one with nice views of San Miguel and the lake.

    +
    + + mike and i quad ride, san miguel photographed by our guide. + +
    image by our guide.
    +
    + +
    + + The country side around san miguel de allende, MX photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I still don’t know the area like I would if I had the bus, but I know where things are better than I did before. And I did, I think, manage to get all four wheels off the ground at least once. Those quads are no Honda Dreams, but they’ll do for now. Special thanks to my friend Mike for making this trip happen.

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/11/lets-go-ride.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/11/lets-go-ride.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0f40a6b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/11/lets-go-ride.txt @@ -0,0 +1,58 @@ +Let's Go For a Ride +=================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 17 November 2018 + +The goggles barely fit over my glasses, they're pressed tight against the bridge of my nose -- in a few hours I'll have a headache. But unlike last time I found myself [hurling down dusty tracks](https://live.luxagraf.net/jrnl/2006/03/ticket-ride) through the bush, this time I can see. This time I have two extra wheels and loads more stability. It's also an automatic so I rip into to tight turns with far more recklessness than I ever did on a Honda Dream. + +I won't lie, it feels good to be astride an engine again. + +There's no cool mask for this trip though. Mike asked for a bandana and got one. I stuck with the little white painter's mask the guide gave me. It reminds me of sanding down the bus. The dust isn't that bad out here anyway. Half the time we're in mud and at one point we very nearly submerge our quads in the lake. I would never have dreamed of putting an engine through what the guide seemed happy to lead us through, but who am I to argue? + + + + +Without the bus I've lost the understanding of surrounding terrain that was part of life in the bus. In the bus we'd have been coming from somewhere and we'd have to figure out the best way from point A to point B, which might not have been the main road. In any case I'd have looked at all of the roads into San Miguel before making a decision. I'd have a map, I'd have looked at elevations in my own online mapping tool. I'd have figured out the outlying roads, how they connected San Miguel to points around it. Corrinne would have planned where we were going, what we'd do. We'd know the best way into the city, what to avoid, and where to go once we got there. Most of that research wouldn't have been very formal, we'd have just kind of absorbed it a little bit at the time as we looked and talked. + +Instead we were handed a bus ticket in Mexico City, and then we sat back and chatted until we magically appeared in the middle of town a few hours later. There's very little context when someone else is driving, and almost no planning. Since then we've only been places we can reach either on foot or on the local bus, which hasn't added to my understanding of the overall picture very much. + + + +We have been to the botanical gardens at the top of the hill a couple times. It offers a pretty good view to the north and east. The kids and I once rode the number 10 bus to its end point in the neighborhood of Malanquin, where we found a playground atop a hill with really good views to the south, but otherwise my sense of the lay of the land is very vague. I know roughly where various neighborhoods are, but no sense of how they connect, and hardly any sense of what the surrounding country side looks like. + +That's one of the reasons, when my friend Mike suggested we rent ATVs and go riding, I immediately said yes. The other reason was, even if it's not a motorcycle, at least I'd be riding an engine again and I never pass up the chance to do that. + +Right off the bat we drove through a neighborhood I'd only heard of from seeing for rent ads on Craigslist. I quickly realized why I hadn't been there --it's the suburbs, and rich suburbs at that, not my part of town, but I'm glad I know where it is now. We quickly rode on through and down to the lake shore past this crazy Gaudi-esque house that came up so fast and was so close I couldn't get a good picture, but it's on the list of things to get back to, eventually. + + + +We continued on down to the lake, stopping at a little church that I believe, if my Spanish isn't failing me, is the original structure that started San Miguel de Allende. And it was built atop the ruins of a pyramid that was, until the day the Spanish arrived, not in ruins. + + + + + + +Normally I'd have wondered off to think on the history and architecture and stone and water and dead birds, but on this particular trip I wasn't in the mood. Actually I did sit for a while and think on the dead bird. I'd never see a vermilion flycatcher that close, dead or alive, they're even more beautiful than they look from a distance, even dead. + +I'd like to do another trip, slower, maybe on a horse, and bring an archaeologist or historian back to the church and find out how it fits into the structure and system of the world we're in here. And since we actually met an archaeologist/historian there's a good chance that will happen eventually, but on this particular day I just wanted to feel the wind in my face, see the country side rushing past, and maybe try to get all four wheels off the ground a time or two. I wasn't in the frame of mind to explore the details, I was after the high level overview -- the frame, not the picture. + +After a while at the church we rode on, at one point, for the sheer fun of it, we road through water deep enough to flood the engines, which somehow did not die. Still puzzling that out in my free time. + +We went past little town, clusters of houses really, always with a small tienda where everyone, and every dog, seemed to be gathered to talk and relax on a Sunday afternoon. I would have like to stop in a few, buy a Coke or a beer and talk to the people, but we kept on. We went past enormous restaurants that seemed far larger than was necessary given the nearby population was near nil, but perhaps people come out from San Miguel, who knows. I filed that, along with many other questions away for another day. + +At some point we passed an RV, a beat up old thing, probably a late 80s or maybe early 90s model. It was clearly functional though, and hooked up to both sewer and water in the middle of nowhere. I filed it away to think on later and punched it over the railroad tracks. + +We stopped for some water and a huge flock of either ravens or crows came circling overhead. I like to think they were crows, since that would make them a murder of crows, but I couldn't say for sure, I had no binoculars on me. + + + + +Eventually we circled back around, up past the train station I knew must be around -- we'd heard the trains -- but hadn't seen yet, and finally up the hill with the giant cross. When I said that to some people who have been here a few years they looked at me like I was an idiot -- which hill, which cross? Right, every hill has a cross. In this Catholic, yet not quite Catholic, world every neighborhood has a church, every hill has a cross. Oh, you know, the one with nice views of San Miguel and the lake. + + + + +I still don't know the area like I would if I had the bus, but I know where things are better than I did before. And I did, I think, manage to get all four wheels off the ground at least once. Those quads are no Honda Dreams, but they'll do for now. Special thanks to my friend Mike for making this trip happen. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/12/four.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/12/four.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cf3e3cd --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/12/four.html @@ -0,0 +1,464 @@ + + + + + Four - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Four

    + +
    +
    +

    San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    For months Elliott said he wanted to spend his birthday at the beach. I would have settled for a birthday in the bus, but even that doesn’t seem to happen for us. Luckily he let the beach idea go a while back because I didn’t have the heart to break it to him that generally speaking, those of us with birthdays in December do not get to spend them at the beach. Unless we go to Australia.

    +

    It might be warm enough for the beach down in the Yucatan, but around here winter is much colder than I expected. I’m not alone. It’s common to see tourists shivering in thin jackets because they thought Mexico was always warm, even in December. But here it’s in the 30s at night. By the middle of the afternoon it’s typically 75, but the combination of long shadows and concrete construction often conspires to leave you shivering in the sunshine. Not beach weather by any stretch of the imagination. Still, it beats last year by a long shot.

    +

    One day Elliott and I will spend a birthday in the bus, but this year, like last, we were homeless for our birthday. This year, like last, we spent our birthday in a friend’s house. This time though we had it to ourselves. We were fortunate they offered it to us while they went back to the states for December because otherwise I’m not sure what we’d have done. Our Airbnb rental ended and our longer term place wasn’t ready when we were told it was going to be ready. The latter wasn’t surprising, but for some reason we were naive enough to think it would be different for us. When our friends said hey, you can stay in our place, we jumped at the opportunity. Who says no to a place up on a hill overlooking the city? Life is rough on the fun side of the wall.

    +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + San miguel de Allende at night photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + San miguel de Allende at dawn photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    This year I got to play Santa Claus — which we have never done because we don’t like lying to our kids. To their credit, thus far, our kids, despite knowing Santa is not real, have never told any other kids that he didn’t exist. That I know of anyway. This year I made a quick trip up to Denver just before our birthday, and, while officially a work trip, it became a way to haul a load of birthday and Christmas gifts back down to Mexico, which left me feeling a bit like Santa.

    +

    Before Christmas though, two birthdays. We did our balloon ritual but in the vastness of a house it somehow loses something compared to the bus. This time though the girls helped me inflate balloons and pile them on top of Elliott in the morning.

    +
    + + birthday, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + birthday, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + birthday, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + birthday, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + birthday, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + birthday, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + birthday, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It wouldn’t be a birthday in Mexico without a pinata. This one was somewhat easier to come by than the pinata we somehow managed to come up with in the UP, but no less appreciated.

    +
    + + + + birthday, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + eating candy photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    Happy birthday little man and one day, I promise, we’ll spend our birthday at a nice, warm, tropical beach.

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/12/four.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/12/four.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2c20911 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/12/four.txt @@ -0,0 +1,43 @@ +Four +==== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Friday, 21 December 2018 + +For months Elliott said he wanted to spend his birthday at the beach. I would have settled for a birthday in the bus, but even that doesn't seem to happen for us. Luckily he let the beach idea go a while back because I didn't have the heart to break it to him that generally speaking, those of us with birthdays in December do not get to spend them at the beach. Unless we go to Australia. + +It might be warm enough for the beach down in the Yucatan, but around here winter is much colder than I expected. I'm not alone. It's common to see tourists shivering in thin jackets because they thought Mexico was always warm, even in December. But here it's in the 30s at night. By the middle of the afternoon it's typically 75, but the combination of long shadows and concrete construction often conspires to leave you shivering in the sunshine. Not beach weather by any stretch of the imagination. Still, it beats last year by a long shot. + +One day Elliott and I will spend a birthday in the bus, but this year, like last, we were homeless for our birthday. This year, like last, we spent our birthday in a friend's house. This time though we had it to ourselves. We were fortunate they offered it to us while they went back to the states for December because otherwise I'm not sure what we'd have done. Our Airbnb rental ended and our longer term place wasn't ready when we were told it was going to be ready. The latter wasn't surprising, but for some reason we were naive enough to think it would be different for us. When our friends said hey, you can stay in our place, we jumped at the opportunity. Who says no to a place up on a hill overlooking the city? Life is rough on the fun side of the wall. + + + + + +This year I got to play Santa Claus -- which we have never done because we don't like lying to our kids. To their credit, thus far, our kids, despite knowing Santa is not real, have never told any other kids that he didn't exist. That I know of anyway. This year I made a quick trip up to Denver just before our birthday, and, while officially a work trip, it became a way to haul a load of birthday and Christmas gifts back down to Mexico, which left me feeling a bit like Santa. + +Before Christmas though, two birthdays. We did our balloon ritual but in the vastness of a house it somehow loses something compared to the bus. This time though the girls helped me inflate balloons and pile them on top of Elliott in the morning. + + + + + + + + + + + + + +It wouldn't be a birthday in Mexico without a pinata. This one was somewhat easier to come by than the pinata we somehow managed to come up with in the UP, but no less appreciated. + +
    + + + + +
    + +Happy birthday little man and one day, I promise, we'll spend our birthday at a nice, warm, tropical beach. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/12/mary-wild-moor.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/12/mary-wild-moor.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d0db32e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/12/mary-wild-moor.html @@ -0,0 +1,450 @@ + + + + + Mary Of The Wild Moor - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Mary of the Wild Moor

    + +
    +
    +

    San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    On December 9th, 1531 Juan Diego was walking up the hill of Tepeyac, just north of Mexico City, when a woman appeared to him and, speaking in Nahuatl, the language of the Aztec empire, told him she was the Virgin Mary. She then asked him to have a church built on that site to honor “her native religion”.

    +

    Diego then went to the archbishop of Mexico City several times with the message, but the archbishop did not believe him. Finally, three days later, after some other trials, a miraculous death bed recovery, and non-native roses blooming at 7500 feet in December, Diego delivered a shroud with an imprint of the Virgin Mary to the archbishop who finally believed him and thus was born the Virgin of Guadalupe, the Marian vision that is the cornerstone of Mexican Catholicism.

    +

    This, far more than Christmas, is what Mexicans celebrate in December. In San Miguel the neighborhood of San Antonio is home a blessing of the horses, which involves basically every horse in the nearby countryside coming into San Antonio to be blessed.

    +

    I think. The truth is, we lacked the necessary Mexican sense of patience to see this one through. We saw the horses lined up, but even our horse obsessed daughter was ready to go long before any of them were actually blessed.

    +
    + + blessing of the horses, San Miguel de Allende, MX photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + blessing of the horses, San Miguel de Allende, MX photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + blessing of the horses, San Miguel de Allende, MX photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Guadalupe shrine, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + the streets of san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I never did figure out what Guadalupe has to do with horses, other than she has to do with everything in some way, but I did do a good bit of research on her, in part because I think 300 years from now she will be the focal point of this religion.

    +

    The story above is the purely Catholic version of events. Alas, any other version of these events, including that of Juan Diego in his own words, is lost to time. I mention this not because I do not believe the story as it is, it is, to my mind, as likely as any other. For historical completeness it might be worth noting though that even most Catholic historians doubt the authenticity of story of Diego. Still I’m happy to accept the story in full, it’s the name of the goddess that I think is worth quibbling about.

    +

    One of the reasons Catholicism was so successful is that no other sect of Christianity is so good at taking what’s already in place and tweaking it slightly to fit with Catholic doctrine. And prior to the arrival of the Spanish, the very same hill where Mary appeared to Diego was rather well know for as the home of the goddess Tonantzin, who regularly appeared to travelers. While there is no English translation, I have seen several second hand sources quote Juan de Torquemada — whose epic tome Monarquía India is apparently one of the more complete histories of early Mexico — as saying that the goddess Tonantzin regularly appeared to the natives on that hill “in the form of a young girl in a white robe.”

    +

    If you wanted to tweak that existing story to fit Catholic doctrine all you need to do is swap some names and you’re away. Next thing you know you’re feeling quite justified in tearing down the temple of Tonantzin to build a church for Our Lady of Guadalupe, as she is now known.

    +

    Monotheistic religions that want sole claim to the capital T truth have a hard time accepting this, but religions are always changing, always in flux. Gods and goddesses come and go throughout time. Whatever essential mystery is behind them seems to remain. One of the advantages of polytheism is that this truth can be easily accepted.

    +

    I point this out not to mock anyone’s faith, but because I find the Mexican version of Catholicism fascinating and a bit confusing because, well it isn’t what most Americans or Europeans would recognize as Catholicism. Here Catholicism seems to be the thinnest of veneers over a much, much older set of gods, goddesses and religious practices.

    +

    But Mexicans are adept at adapting and incorporating, so it all blends and molds together into a cohesive whole that makes sense when you see it, even if you probably couldn’t put it in words. Still, everything is changing and I think if you come back in 300 hundred years you’ll find worship of Jesus has been replaced with worship of Maria — and only those of us on the outside would think this odd. Arguably it’s already that way.

    +

    That’s not to say Mexico does not celebrate Navidad. It does, complete with lit up trees and all the rest of the trimmings. We were on hand to see the tree light up in Plaza Civica and lights come on in Centro.

    +
    + + lighting the tree, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    Waiting for the light.
    +
    + +
    + + lighting the tree, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + lighting the tree, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    Nothing happens in Mexico without some fireworks.
    +
    + +
    + + christmas lights in centro san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + christmas lights in centro san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We tried to see another tree light up in San Antonio the next night, but we got there a bit late. We were in time to see another round of fireworks though, so we stopped and watched those instead. I think lights in the night sky will always trump those on the ground anyway.

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/12/mary-wild-moor.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/12/mary-wild-moor.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..eed21db --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/12/mary-wild-moor.txt @@ -0,0 +1,44 @@ +Mary of the Wild Moor +===================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Friday, 14 December 2018 + +On December 9th, 1531 Juan Diego was walking up the hill of Tepeyac, just north of Mexico City, when a woman appeared to him and, speaking in Nahuatl, the language of the Aztec empire, told him she was the Virgin Mary. She then asked him to have a church built on that site to honor "her native religion". + +Diego then went to the archbishop of Mexico City several times with the message, but the archbishop did not believe him. Finally, three days later, after some other trials, a miraculous death bed recovery, and non-native roses blooming at 7500 feet in December, Diego delivered a shroud with an imprint of the Virgin Mary to the archbishop who finally believed him and thus was born the Virgin of Guadalupe, the Marian vision that is the cornerstone of Mexican Catholicism. + +This, far more than Christmas, is what Mexicans celebrate in December. In San Miguel the neighborhood of San Antonio is home a blessing of the horses, which involves basically every horse in the nearby countryside coming into San Antonio to be blessed. + +I think. The truth is, we lacked the necessary Mexican sense of patience to see this one through. We saw the horses lined up, but even our horse obsessed daughter was ready to go long before any of them were actually blessed. + + + + + + + +I never did figure out what Guadalupe has to do with horses, other than she has to do with everything in some way, but I did do a good bit of research on her, in part because I think 300 years from now she will be the focal point of this religion. + +The story above is the purely Catholic version of events. Alas, any other version of these events, including that of Juan Diego in his own words, is lost to time. I mention this not because I do not believe the story as it is, it is, to my mind, as likely as any other. For historical completeness it might be worth noting though that even most Catholic historians doubt the authenticity of story of Diego. Still I'm happy to accept the story in full, it's the name of the goddess that I think is worth quibbling about. + +One of the reasons Catholicism was so successful is that no other sect of Christianity is so good at taking what's already in place and tweaking it slightly to fit with Catholic doctrine. And prior to the arrival of the Spanish, the very same hill where Mary appeared to Diego was rather well know for as the home of the goddess Tonantzin, who regularly appeared to travelers. While there is no English translation, I have seen several second hand sources quote Juan de Torquemada -- whose epic tome *Monarquía India* is apparently one of the more complete histories of early Mexico -- as saying that the goddess Tonantzin regularly appeared to the natives on that hill "in the form of a young girl in a white robe." + +If you wanted to tweak that existing story to fit Catholic doctrine all you need to do is swap some names and you're away. Next thing you know you're feeling quite justified in tearing down the temple of Tonantzin to build a church for Our Lady of Guadalupe, as she is now known. + +Monotheistic religions that want sole claim to the capital T truth have a hard time accepting this, but religions are always changing, always in flux. Gods and goddesses come and go throughout time. Whatever essential mystery is behind them seems to remain. One of the advantages of polytheism is that this truth can be easily accepted. + +I point this out not to mock anyone's faith, but because I find the Mexican version of Catholicism fascinating and a bit confusing because, well it isn't what most Americans or Europeans would recognize as Catholicism. Here Catholicism seems to be the thinnest of veneers over a much, much older set of gods, goddesses and religious practices. + +But Mexicans are adept at adapting and incorporating, so it all blends and molds together into a cohesive whole that makes sense when you see it, even if you probably couldn't put it in words. Still, everything is changing and I think if you come back in 300 hundred years you'll find worship of Jesus has been replaced with worship of Maria -- and only those of us on the outside would think this odd. Arguably it's already that way. + +That's not to say Mexico does not celebrate Navidad. It does, complete with lit up trees and all the rest of the trimmings. We were on hand to see the tree light up in Plaza Civica and lights come on in Centro. + + + + + + + +We tried to see another tree light up in San Antonio the next night, but we got there a bit late. We were in time to see another round of fireworks though, so we stopped and watched those instead. I think lights in the night sky will always trump those on the ground anyway. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/12/sparkle-city.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/12/sparkle-city.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e96a8db --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/12/sparkle-city.html @@ -0,0 +1,534 @@ + + + + + Sparkle City - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Sparkle City

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    San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

    + – Map +
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    Children know no moderation. At least ours don’t. The minute they discover something new they love, they must have it ALL THE TIME.

    +

    Pretty much nothing in Mexico happens without fireworks. Luckily actual fireworks are hard to come by, at least here. Sparklers though, they’re everywhere. I picked some up for Christmas Eve, which kicked off an episode of this is the greatest thing ever, which of course means we must have sparklers ALL THE TIME.

    +

    And for a while we did, pretty much every night through the new year. If you look closely you’ll notice that these are not your average American sparklers, some of them are about three feet long. Mexico is serious about its fireworks.

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    + + sparklers, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + sparklers, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + sparklers, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + new years sparklers, San miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + new years sparklers, San miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + new years sparklers, San miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
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    Mexico is more serious about fireworks than it is about Christmas. It seems to be a much less significant a day than Three Kings day, which comes later, in January and is when most families exchange presents. Most expats go home for the holidays it seems, but fortunately some of our friends stayed and we got together for a little cookie baking party.

    +
    + + cookie baking photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + cookie baking photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + cookie baking photographed by luxagraf + +
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    Christmas stockings are unheard of down here. What’s Christmas without stockings? Maybe this is why Three Kings day is a bigger deal. Corrinne came up with a substitute to get us through — some nice ceramic pots. When in Rome, adapt.

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    + + christmas, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
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    2 Comments

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    + DREW ELDRIDGE + January 23, 2019 at 10:00 a.m. +
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    Im a sucker for long exposure- the picture of Corrinne is a framer- and the one with the fire hands like the old mortal kombat game is my other fave.

    +

    LQuesiton. At what point are you an ExPat? I assume Linda and John are considered X-Pats. But are you? When is it just a nice long vacation and when do you cross that grey line into?

    +

    Like, do you walk around town and see other English speakers and Identify as Expats vs. tourists?

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    + Scott + January 23, 2019 at 10:21 a.m. +
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    Drew-

    +

    I don’t know exactly what the dividing line between expat and tourist is, once upon a time I’d have probably said hotel vs house, but Airbnb ruined that. Now, I don’t know.

    +

    I guess I would say expats are people with no fixed plans to return to wherever their home used to be? But I don’t know, technically we don’t have any fixed plans and yet I wouldn’t probably call us expats. Not because I’m avoiding the term, but because we do intend to leave eventually. More on that in the next (long) post.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/12/sparkle-city.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/12/sparkle-city.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e04788c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/12/sparkle-city.txt @@ -0,0 +1,35 @@ +Sparkle City +============ + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Friday, 28 December 2018 + +Children know no moderation. At least ours don't. The minute they discover something new they love, they must have it ALL THE TIME. + +Pretty much nothing in Mexico happens without fireworks. Luckily actual fireworks are hard to come by, at least here. Sparklers though, they're everywhere. I picked some up for Christmas Eve, which kicked off an episode of *this is the greatest thing ever*, which of course means we must have sparklers ALL THE TIME. + +And for a while we did, pretty much every night through the new year. If you look closely you'll notice that these are not your average American sparklers, some of them are about three feet long. Mexico is serious about its fireworks. + + + + + + + + +Mexico is more serious about fireworks than it is about Christmas. It seems to be a much less significant a day than Three Kings day, which comes later, in January and is when most families exchange presents. Most expats go home for the holidays it seems, but fortunately some of our friends stayed and we got together for a little cookie baking party. + + + + + +Christmas stockings are unheard of down here. What's Christmas without stockings? Maybe this is why Three Kings day is a bigger deal. Corrinne came up with a substitute to get us through -- some nice ceramic pots. When in Rome, adapt. + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3bb9a1d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2018/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,124 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    Walk Slowly

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    2018, on luxagraf

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    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/01/sounds-san-miguel.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/01/sounds-san-miguel.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..10fe0f3 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/01/sounds-san-miguel.html @@ -0,0 +1,610 @@ + + + + + Sounds Of San Miguel - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Sounds of San Miguel

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    Everything is music

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    +
    +

    San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    In California I only ever met my neighbors after an earthquake. In Georgia it was big snowstorms that brought everyone together. In Massachusetts it took the first Red Sox victory in 86 years for me to meet my upstairs neighbor.

    +

    Down here the trash truck brings everyone together every morning.

    +

    One of the men hops off the truck at each stop and walks ahead, banging a bell up and down the street. It’s not really a bell, though it sounds like one. It’s a hunk of metal the size of reporter’s notepad, which he beats with a broken bit of pipe that clangs and echoes off the concrete facades. There is no mistaking when the trash man cometh. Assuming you know what the sound means.

    +

    +

    That’s how trash is done here, you bring it to the truck yourself. You hear the bell, grab your trash and then stand in line with your neighbors, awaiting the trash truck. Everyone says hello, everyone chats. Some raised an eyebrow at me in the beginning, a gringo bringing out the trash. Unexpected apparently. After a few days people started to say buenos dias to me as well, commenting on the chill of the desert mornings, and then turning to ask after their other neighbors.

    +
    + + man taking out trash, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    San Miguel has a reputation for being a bright and colorful colonial town, with good reason. Still, what I end up noticing when I walk around is the kaleidoscope of sound that bounces around amidst all those colors. Not the random noise of chaos in a city, though there is that, but out of that comes organized sounds — the bells, chimes, whistles, and clangs that mean something. There’s always a melody drifting around the corner, down the alleys, always someone signaling their whereabouts.

    +
    + + red and pink walls, San miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + hole in the wall photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + San miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Even in our courtyard, sounds drift in and the kids know now, sound has meaning. They always want to open the courtyard doors and discover the source of whatever reaches us. Every morning they yell, Daddy, trash man is here. But the trash man isn’t the only one announcing his arrival.

    +

    The knife man comes by in the afternoons. You know him by the piercing whistle he plays. He carries what looks like a miniature pipe organ, similar to indigenous flutes I’ve seen elsewhere. Whatever it is, it’s an unmistakable calling card. Grab your knife and head out the door to get it sharpened.

    +

    The propane tank guys aren’t so creative. They blast a musical spiel that I assume is some sort of sales pitch, though I can’t understand it. It’s not the Spanish that’s hard, it’s because it’s played out of what sounds like a New York City subway announcement speaker. It squawks and buzzes in roughly four-four time with a scratchy harmony, and that’s when you know the truck with all the propane tanks is near. Not to be confused with the propane truck, which is one giant tank of propane, and must be summoned by phone.

    +

    Bells, softer bells you won’t notice if the windows are closed, are generally pushcart vendors of some kind, helado or elote or pina or who knows.

    +
    + + helado cart, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The honey hawkers shout, miel, miel! The shrimp man, whose son usually carries the bucket of shrimp, cups his hands and yells something that vaguely resembles the word camarones, but we live in a desert and for a long time I thought I must be mishearing him. But no, it is a bucket of camarones on ice.

    +

    The water truck is silent. The delivery man holds everything in his head, knows who needs what and delivers it all without any signifying sound. I want to tell him he should leave a few empties on the outside of the truck, they’d drone all down the road, but my Spanish isn’t that good, besides, maybe silence is his calling card.

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    You might also enjoy
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    4 Comments

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    + DREW ELDRIDGE + March 13, 2019 at 9:34 a.m. +
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    “Bring out Ye dead”.

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    + Gwen + March 13, 2019 at 1:32 p.m. +
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    Interesting post. Thanks for including audio. I liked the O’Neill allusion.

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    + Scott + March 13, 2019 at 2:09 p.m. +
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    Drew-

    +

    Haha, yeah haven’t heard that one fortunately.

    +

    Gwen-

    +

    So I had to google that, but I’m assuming you mean Eugene O’Neill.

    +

    I have to admit, that was not a conscious allusion. I’m not that clever alas. I did wonder where I got that line from though. It seemed a little pretentious, but I left it because it reminded me of something. Thanks for figuring out what :)

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    + Scott + March 18, 2019 at 11:41 a.m. +
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    Drew-

    +

    On further listening, I realized there is, sadly, essentially that — single shots of fireworks generally keep pace with funeral processions from the church to graveyard.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

    +
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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/01/sounds-san-miguel.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/01/sounds-san-miguel.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a5464d9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/01/sounds-san-miguel.txt @@ -0,0 +1,42 @@ +Sounds of San Miguel +==================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Friday, 11 January 2019 + +In California I only ever met my neighbors after an earthquake. In Georgia it was big snowstorms that brought everyone together. In Massachusetts it took the first Red Sox victory in 86 years for me to meet my upstairs neighbor. + +Down here the trash truck brings everyone together every morning. + +One of the men hops off the truck at each stop and walks ahead, banging a bell up and down the street. It's not really a bell, though it sounds like one. It's a hunk of metal the size of reporter's notepad, which he beats with a broken bit of pipe that clangs and echoes off the concrete facades. There is no mistaking when the trash man cometh. Assuming you know what the sound means. + + + +That's how trash is done here, you bring it to the truck yourself. You hear the bell, grab your trash and then stand in line with your neighbors, awaiting the trash truck. Everyone says hello, everyone chats. Some raised an eyebrow at me in the beginning, a gringo bringing out the trash. Unexpected apparently. After a few days people started to say buenos dias to me as well, commenting on the chill of the desert mornings, and then turning to ask after their other neighbors. + + + +San Miguel has a reputation for being a bright and colorful colonial town, with good reason. Still, what I end up noticing when I walk around is the kaleidoscope of sound that bounces around amidst all those colors. Not the random noise of chaos in a city, though there is that, but out of that comes organized sounds -- the bells, chimes, whistles, and clangs that mean something. There's always a melody drifting around the corner, down the alleys, always someone signaling their whereabouts. + + + + + +Even in our courtyard, [sounds drift in](/jrnl/2019/01/these-walls-around-me) and the kids know now, sound has meaning. They always want to open the courtyard doors and discover the source of whatever reaches us. Every morning they yell, *Daddy, trash man is here*. But the trash man isn't the only one announcing his arrival. + +The knife man comes by in the afternoons. You know him by the piercing whistle he plays. He carries what looks like a miniature pipe organ, similar to indigenous flutes I've seen elsewhere. Whatever it is, it's an unmistakable calling card. Grab your knife and head out the door to get it sharpened. + +The propane tank guys aren't so creative. They blast a musical spiel that I assume is some sort of sales pitch, though I can't understand it. It's not the Spanish that's hard, it's because it's played out of what sounds like a New York City subway announcement speaker. It squawks and buzzes in roughly four-four time with a scratchy harmony, and that's when you know the truck with all the propane tanks is near. Not to be confused with the propane truck, which is one giant tank of propane, and must be summoned by phone. + +Bells, softer bells you won't notice if the windows are closed, are generally pushcart vendors of some kind, helado or elote or pina or who knows. + + + +The honey hawkers shout, miel, *miel!* The shrimp man, whose son usually carries the bucket of shrimp, cups his hands and yells something that vaguely resembles the word camarones, but we live in a desert and for a long time I thought I must be mishearing him. But no, it is a bucket of camarones on ice. + +The water truck is silent. The delivery man holds everything in his head, knows who needs what and delivers it all without any signifying sound. I want to tell him he should leave a few empties on the outside of the truck, they'd drone all down the road, but my Spanish isn't that good, besides, maybe silence is his calling card. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/01/these-walls-around-me.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/01/these-walls-around-me.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1eec6fb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/01/these-walls-around-me.html @@ -0,0 +1,651 @@ + + + + + These Walls Around Me - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    These Walls Around Me

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    +

    San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
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    +

    We moved into a new place at the beginning of the year, down a block and over a street from where we’d been, overlooking Canal. I miss swinging open the heavy wood doors on the second floor of that house and watching the life of the street below. Our new place has its charms though. We have a courtyard, a roof top deck. Pretty fancy stuff for us. Haven’t been able to find the engine though.

    +

    It’s a spare place, tending toward the monastic, which is perfect us. There’s no knick knacks, no clutter, nothing on the walls even, save one image of Guadalupe. It suits us I think. It’s nice enough, but it seems obvious that this a place for people who are passing through, in every sense of the idea. We did our own temporary decorating.

    +
    + + house, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + house, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    There’s a little window in the wall by the stairs, a horse big enough for three.
    +
    + +
    + + view from the balcony of our new house photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We moved in a couple days before the new year. One nice thing about our one-bag-per-person lifestyle, moving is simple. Except for food. Pretty sure our new neighbors thought I was crazy schlepping bags of sauces and spices and flours and oils and vinegar down the street, but hey, we like to cook. And we wanted to spend the new year in a new place, which we did. With sparklers of course.

    +
    + + sparklers, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + sparklers, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    Dad, what’s that statue again? That looks like this?
    +
    + +
    + + house, san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The streets here are cobblestone rivers threading canyons of smooth, watercolor concrete. The canyon walls rise on either side as you walk, one side offering shade, the other sun, their smooth contours running continuous, unbroken lines down the street, save the occasional door or window.

    +

    Sometimes it’s hard to tell where homes begin and end. Looking at photographs, you might assume that color changes in the canyon wall mark where one home ends and the next begins. Sometimes you’d be right. This can be misleading though — sometimes colors change for no reason, or don’t change at all from one house to the next for an entire block.

    +

    The doors aren’t much help either. It’s hard to know which door goes to which house, or even if they lead to a house at all. Many doors, usually double doors, open to courtyards like ours, or similar outdoor spaces, which offer an air-gap between home and world, making home feel at least a little removed from the bustle of the street.

    +
    + + Streets of San miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Walls of San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + courtyard, umaran, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Courtyards are one-way mirrors of sound. The street comes in. You hear everything. Less seems to go out. Walking down the streets you rarely hear noise coming out of the walls. Perhaps the noise of the street hides it, or perhaps a single family can’t make a enough noise to get it over the tops of the walls.

    +

    I do a lot of listening in the courtyard. It’s visually cut off from the world, but sound surges over the high yellow walls. Disconnected from the source, it’s only tiny parts of stories, never the whole thing. Inchoate beginnings, clipped endings, snippets of sound — brakes whining sharp and shrill, engines grinding gears, cracked mufflers growling, conversations drifting, doorbells buzzing, phones chiming, whistles, horns, bells, birds, buzzers.

    +

    On rare days when the wind blows, it seems oddly quiet on the street. The courtyard swirls with sound of rustling bamboo and clattering palm leaves, putting me back in southeast Asia, or wishing for the west coast of Mexico, the Yucatan, somewhere tropical, somewhere sandy, somewhere hot and humid, with watery winds, salt air, the unbroken horizon of the sea.

    +
    + + Papel Picado, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    In our courtyard, near the door to the street there’s a cluster of bamboo stretching far above the broken-glass topped walls. The leafy crowns of bamboo play host to a flock of house sparrows every morning and every evening.

    +

    It’s a deafening chorus of feathers, a large enough flock to leave a significant amount of crap on the concrete below. Strangely though, you rarely actually see the birds. The bamboo isn’t particularly dense, but it’s enough to mask them. The balcony off our bedroom is roughly eye level with the top of the bamboo, and even from there it still takes concentrated effort to make them out. If you sit and stare, wait for your eyes to adjust to the subtlety of shadow and leaf and bird and light you slowly begin to make them out, singing, fluttering and bouncing among the leaves.

    +

    +

    They’ve been here for a long time. One day I was walking back from the market, about to cross the street to our house, when I noticed a little girl walking, tugging on her mom’s dress, saying mama, mama, el arbol de los pájaros. Another day I was sitting at the table in the courtyard, drinking coffee when I heard a little girl’s voice drifting in from the street, roughly the same words, but in English.

    +

    You can set clocks by the sparrows, light clocks anyway. They are shadow singers. Like true Mexican birds, they don’t seem to care much about watch time, but they do sing at the same time everyday, with regard to the light. When the light in the evening reaches a certain point, when the tops of the bamboo are in shadow I think, and it seems obvious that dusk has settled on the world, they begin their farewell songs.

    +
    + + courtyard, umaran, san miguel de allende, mx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    In the mornings, when it is light enough to see, but the sun hasn’t yet risen high enough to reach the bamboo, they sing again. Each time their singing and chattering lasts about twenty minutes and then they sort of fade out. In the mornings they don’t leave all at once, they trickle away in pairs and alone, which makes the noise of them seem to fade away, you don’t notice them leaving, just later, when they’re definitively gone.

    +

    They come back around the time we eat dinner and have their evening song and chattering, and then, I’m not sure, but I suspect they roost in the bamboo. It seems at tad rude to go out later at night and shine lights on them just to check a hunch, but I think they’re up there all night. I like to think of them still up there anyway, roosted down for the night, a ruffle of feathers tucked in a bamboo node here and there, sleeping, waiting for dawn, waiting to sing again.

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    4 Comments

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    + Nicola + February 21, 2019 at 8:58 a.m. +
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    Enjoyed this post, but watch out for that bird poop. There can be all sort of nasty viruses lurking in that stuff.

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    + Scott + February 21, 2019 at 2:00 p.m. +
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    nicola-

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    Glad you like the post. As for bird poop and disease, I’ll be honest, that’s not something I’m at all worried about.

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    + DREW ELDRIDGE + February 27, 2019 at 7:33 a.m. +
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    You need a sound clip for every article. It was nice reading this and getting a feel for the area at the same time. Awesome.

    +

    Also, that stone door is the only door I want to go through. Where does that door lead? Narnia?

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    + Scott + February 27, 2019 at 5:13 p.m. +
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    Drew-

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    There’s more sounds coming! That’s something I’ve been getting into a lot more lately. Right now the problem is I use my camera to record it and then I have to split the audio from video, which is a pain. I’m working on a better solution, but yeah I thought it’d be cool. I actually have a backlog of recordings from all over the place, maybe I should go back and add them…

    +

    As for the door, it leads… somewhere.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/01/these-walls-around-me.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/01/these-walls-around-me.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4a5eb53 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/01/these-walls-around-me.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ +These Walls Around Me +===================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 03 January 2019 + +We moved into a new place at the beginning of the year, down a block and over a street from where we'd been, overlooking Canal. I miss swinging open the heavy wood doors on the second floor of that house and watching the life of the street below. Our new place has its charms though. We have a courtyard, a roof top deck. Pretty fancy stuff for us. Haven't been able to find the engine though. + +It's a spare place, tending toward the monastic, which is perfect us. There's no knick knacks, no clutter, nothing on the walls even, save one image of Guadalupe. It suits us I think. It's nice enough, but it seems obvious that this a place for people who are passing through, in every sense of the idea. We did our own temporary decorating. + + + + + +We moved in a couple days before the new year. One nice thing about our one-bag-per-person lifestyle, moving is simple. Except for food. Pretty sure our new neighbors thought I was crazy schlepping bags of sauces and spices and flours and oils and vinegar down the street, but hey, we like to cook. And we wanted to spend the new year in a new place, which we did. With sparklers of course. + + + + + + +The streets here are cobblestone rivers threading canyons of smooth, watercolor concrete. The canyon walls rise on either side as you walk, one side offering shade, the other sun, their smooth contours running continuous, unbroken lines down the street, save the occasional door or window. + +Sometimes it's hard to tell where homes begin and end. Looking at photographs, you might assume that color changes in the canyon wall mark where one home ends and the next begins. Sometimes you'd be right. This can be misleading though -- sometimes colors change for no reason, or don't change at all from one house to the next for an entire block. + +The doors aren't much help either. It's hard to know which door goes to which house, or even if they lead to a house at all. Many doors, usually double doors, open to courtyards like ours, or similar outdoor spaces, which offer an air-gap between home and world, making home feel at least a little removed from the bustle of the street. + + + + + +Courtyards are one-way mirrors of sound. The street comes in. You hear everything. Less seems to go out. Walking down the streets you rarely hear noise coming out of the walls. Perhaps the noise of the street hides it, or perhaps a single family can't make a enough noise to get it over the tops of the walls. + +I do a lot of listening in the courtyard. It's visually cut off from the world, but sound surges over the high yellow walls. Disconnected from the source, it's only tiny parts of stories, never the whole thing. Inchoate beginnings, clipped endings, snippets of sound -- brakes whining sharp and shrill, engines grinding gears, cracked mufflers growling, conversations drifting, doorbells buzzing, phones chiming, whistles, horns, bells, birds, buzzers. + +On rare days when the wind blows, it seems oddly quiet on the street. The courtyard swirls with sound of rustling bamboo and clattering palm leaves, putting me back in southeast Asia, or wishing for the west coast of Mexico, the Yucatan, somewhere tropical, somewhere sandy, somewhere hot and humid, with watery winds, salt air, the unbroken horizon of the sea. + + + +In our courtyard, near the door to the street there's a cluster of bamboo stretching far above the broken-glass topped walls. The leafy crowns of bamboo play host to a flock of house sparrows every morning and every evening. + +It's a deafening chorus of feathers, a large enough flock to leave a significant amount of crap on the concrete below. Strangely though, you rarely actually see the birds. The bamboo isn't particularly dense, but it's enough to mask them. The balcony off our bedroom is roughly eye level with the top of the bamboo, and even from there it still takes concentrated effort to make them out. If you sit and stare, wait for your eyes to adjust to the subtlety of shadow and leaf and bird and light you slowly begin to make them out, singing, fluttering and bouncing among the leaves. + + + +They've been here for a long time. One day I was walking back from the market, about to cross the street to our house, when I noticed a little girl walking, tugging on her mom's dress, saying *mama, mama, el arbol de los pájaros*. Another day I was sitting at the table in the courtyard, drinking coffee when I heard a little girl's voice drifting in from the street, roughly the same words, but in English. + +You can set clocks by the sparrows, light clocks anyway. They are shadow singers. Like true Mexican birds, they don't seem to care much about watch time, but they do sing at the same time everyday, with regard to the light. When the light in the evening reaches a certain point, when the tops of the bamboo are in shadow I think, and it seems obvious that dusk has settled on the world, they begin their farewell songs. + + + +In the mornings, when it is light enough to see, but the sun hasn't yet risen high enough to reach the bamboo, they sing again. Each time their singing and chattering lasts about twenty minutes and then they sort of fade out. In the mornings they don't leave all at once, they trickle away in pairs and alone, which makes the noise of them seem to fade away, you don't notice them leaving, just later, when they're definitively gone. + +They come back around the time we eat dinner and have their evening song and chattering, and then, I'm not sure, but I suspect they roost in the bamboo. It seems at tad rude to go out later at night and shine lights on them just to check a hunch, but I think they're up there all night. I like to think of them still up there anyway, roosted down for the night, a ruffle of feathers tucked in a bamboo node here and there, sleeping, waiting for dawn, waiting to sing again. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/02/candlelaria-in-san-miguel.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/02/candlelaria-in-san-miguel.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cf5b900 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/02/candlelaria-in-san-miguel.html @@ -0,0 +1,589 @@ + + + + + Rite Of Spring - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Rite of Spring

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    Candelaria and blessing of the seeds

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    San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

    + – Map +
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    Someone once quipped that cultures only need a word for “religion” when they no longer have one. Aside from our brief encounters with indigenous tribes, no other people I’ve lived among have less need for the word religion than Mexicans. Here there is life, and it is always a celebration.

    +

    It feels the opposite of where we come from. You want to bring it back with you when you leave, but I don’t think that’s possible. All you ever get to take with you are memories.

    +
    + + Church at twilight, San miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Halfway between winter solstice and spring equinox lies a day that has long been celebrated in various forms as the “return of the light”. Around the British Isles it’s known as Imbolic. Farther south it fell close enough to forty days after Christmas that it merged with existing pagan traditions and become Candlemas.

    +

    Candelaria, as it’s called around here, is not celebrated in the States anymore, but in San Miguel it’s going strong. Like most things here it’s half Catholic, half indigenous and falls such that it marks roughly the beginning of spring. To celebrate there’s an indigenous ceremony at the park, with a blessing of the seeds to future harvests, and a huge plant sale.

    +

    The park is transformed into an outdoor arboretum. Plant vendors line the walkways and little kids push wagon loads of plants through the park to waiting cars on the street. And of course there’s food. Any time three or more people gather in Mexico, someone materializes bearing food.

    +
    + + candelaria, san miguel de allende, mexico photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + candelaria, san miguel de allende, mexico photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + girls on swings, parque juarez, san miguel de allende, mexico photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We’re not great with plants. We took the kids to a nursery to get some plants for the pots we gave them for Christmas and by Candlelaria they were already dead. We bought a few more at the plant sale, but um, cough, one of those is already mostly dead as I write this. Not sure what’s wrong with us, perhaps we’re just not plant people. Animals seem drawn to us though, so at least there’s that.

    +
    + + portrait of girl with butterfly on her head. photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + portrait of boy photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + kids playing courtyard of house, san miguel de allende, mexico photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + kids playing courtyard of house, san miguel de allende, mexico photographed by luxagraf + +
    The free dancing portion of our obstacle courses is where I always get left behind.
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    + +

    It is warming up here. Perhaps our plants will do better going forward. I doubt it though. All you ever get to take is your memory. Like this memory, which has an explanation, but which I like better without it.

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    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
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    2 Comments

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    + Gwen + March 20, 2019 at 3:24 p.m. +
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    Yep, it was O’Neill. Enjoyed this post and appreciated learning about Candlemas/ Candlearia. There is a poem by Denise Levertov titled Candlemas that I really like, but I have never really known what exactly Candlemas was, so thanks for the information.

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    + Scott + March 22, 2019 at 4:26 p.m. +
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    Gwen-

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    Yeah it’s not big in the north, I’d heard of it, but never really paid any attention. And I’d never even heard of Kings day, which is a huge deal here. All three are related.

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/02/candlelaria-in-san-miguel.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/02/candlelaria-in-san-miguel.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5385401 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/02/candlelaria-in-san-miguel.txt @@ -0,0 +1,33 @@ +Rite of Spring +============== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 04 February 2019 + +Someone once quipped that cultures only need a word for "religion" when they no longer have one. Aside from our brief encounters with indigenous tribes, no other people I've lived among have less need for the word religion than Mexicans. Here there is life, and it is always a celebration. + +It feels the opposite of where we come from. You want to bring it back with you when you leave, but I don't think that's possible. All you ever get to take with you are memories. + + + +Halfway between winter solstice and spring equinox lies a day that has long been celebrated in various forms as the "return of the light". Around the British Isles it's known as Imbolic. Farther south it fell close enough to forty days after Christmas that it merged with existing pagan traditions and become Candlemas. + +Candelaria, as it's called around here, is not celebrated in the States anymore, but in San Miguel it's going strong. Like most things here it's half Catholic, half indigenous and falls such that it marks roughly the beginning of spring. To celebrate there's an indigenous ceremony at the park, with a blessing of the seeds to future harvests, and a huge plant sale. + +The park is transformed into an outdoor arboretum. Plant vendors line the walkways and little kids push wagon loads of plants through the park to waiting cars on the street. And of course there's food. Any time three or more people gather in Mexico, someone materializes bearing food. + + + + + +We're not great with plants. We took the kids to a nursery to get some plants for the pots we gave them for Christmas and by Candlelaria they were already dead. We bought a few more at the plant sale, but um, cough, one of those is already mostly dead as I write this. Not sure what's wrong with us, perhaps we're just not plant people. Animals seem drawn to us though, so at least there's that. + + + + + + +It is warming up here. Perhaps our plants will do better going forward. I doubt it though. All you ever get to take is your memory. Like this memory, which has an explanation, but which I like better without it. + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/03/around-san-miguel.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/03/around-san-miguel.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..07f6bd5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/03/around-san-miguel.html @@ -0,0 +1,534 @@ + + + + + Around San Miguel - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Around San Miguel

    +

    Parades, dancing, and Mexican patience

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    San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Last week I was walking up from the bus station when I happened across my favorite of the indigenous dance groups that come into town, dancers luxagraf readers might recognize — a group that turns out to be called La Sagrada Familia. There’s no machetes, but they have the best drummers, best costumes, and best dancing in my opinion.

    +
    + + danza de indios, La Sagrada Familia, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + danza de indios, La Sagrada Familia, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    They were on a narrow side street, dancing between a line of cars and the brick and plaster facades of houses. It was a tight space, not great for photos, but with no more than 20 or 30 people sitting around watching. This was the closest I’d been able to get to them. In the Jardin they’re always surrounded by a crowd at least three people deep.

    +

    Thanks to the concrete confines of the street the drums were more than sound, they hit me in the chest with vibrations I could feel from my ribcage to solar plexus. It was a more intimate and intense experience in the narrow street than anything I’d seen in the Jardin.

    +

    Vibrations are an important part of many ceremonies. As anyone who’s spent a good bit of time either vibrating with their voice or sitting in front of something that vibrates your whole body can tell you, it has profound effects after a while.

    +

    This is probably best known as a negative thing, as in the PTSD many soldiers get from being too close to too many explosions. The shock waves have permanent and lasting negative effects. But there are more positive effects to vibration when it arrives in smaller, saner doses. The effect is similar, just lower dosage you might say. This is why rhythmic chanting and other ways of vibrating your own body are so often a part of religious ceremonies — they are a quick and easy way to change brain states (among other things).

    +

    +

    I sat in the middle of the street and watched them dance their way up and down in a slow looping ellipse, feeling the drums vibrate inside me while the dancers’ foot work, with ankle rattles attached, filled the mid tone space, and hand held shakers hissed in at the high end of the rhythmic scale. It was a wall of percussion that all fit together, making something larger than the sum of the parts.

    +
    + + La Sagrada Familia, san miguel de allende, mexico photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + La Sagrada Familia, san miguel de allende, mexico photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I’m still not sure what the occasion was, or why they were in town. It was the weekend of Benito Juarez’s birthday, which could have been the reason. Earlier in the day there was a parade just up the street from our house, which also could have had something to do with Juarez’s birthday, though it looked more like Halloween than anything.

    +
    + + parade, san miguel de allende, mexico photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + parade, san miguel de allende, mexico photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + parade, san miguel de allende, mexico photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Sometimes there’s no discernible reason for a parade. Even the locals standing on the street around us seemed a little mystified by it all. Or perhaps that was annoyance since the parade held up all the buses headed out of town for a good hour or so. On the weekend many people just want to get the market, get their food for the week, and head home. Damn the parades.

    +

    But they’re Mexican, so they waited patiently, with almost no outward sign of irritation, certainly not anger, though, if Octavio Paz is correct, there might be plenty of irritation and anger behind the public mask.

    +

    I’m not sure if Paz is right, sweeping general statements about an entire culture have severe rounding errors, nor an I sure that keeping everything behind a mask is a good thing. Anger has its place, it’s a natural, common human emotion. Still, I do admire the Mexican ability to keep it in check, especially in one particular circumstance I encounter nearly every time I head out the door - northerners behaving badly.

    +

    There’s no shortage of bad behavior by northerners around here, but Mexicans never confront it. At least as far as I’ve seen. That is a choice after all — confronting and complaining about the things you don’t like. It’s one I generally choose, but you can also choose, as my neighbors do, to ignore it all. Or, as I suspect, to store it up for gossip in the evenings, when everyone comes out into the streets to gather around the grills and cookers to eat, gossip, and laugh. My Spanish isn’t good enough to say for sure, but I suspect some of this talk is all the crazy and annoying things that gringos did in the neighborhood that day.

    +

    Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Paz is wrong too. It’s impossible to know as an outsider, and even when you’re an insider, part of the culture, can you speak for everyone? We like to sort the world, to group individuals together by common traits, behaviors, beliefs. Sometimes there do seem to be currents of thought and idea running common among us, the backbeat of our dreams perhaps. Other times though those who would speak for all of us are really speaking of themselves, for themselves. Sometimes I think we’d all be better off if more of us spoke only of ourselves, for ourselves without assuming anyone else thinks, feels, or dreams the same.

    +
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    Modern man likes to pretend that his thinking is wide-awake. But this wide-awake thinking has led us into the maze of a nightmare in which the torture chambers are endlessly repeated in the mirrors of reason. When we emerge, perhaps we will realize that we have been dreaming with our eyes open, and that the dreams of reason are intolerable. And then, perhaps, we will begin to dream once more with our eyes closed. –Octavio Paz

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    You might also enjoy
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/03/around-san-miguel.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/03/around-san-miguel.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0b91773 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/03/around-san-miguel.txt @@ -0,0 +1,48 @@ +Around San Miguel +================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 17 March 2019 + +Last week I was walking up from the bus station when I happened across my favorite of the indigenous dance groups that come into town, dancers luxagraf readers might recognize -- a group that turns out to be called La Sagrada Familia. There's no [machetes](/jrnl/2019/03/cascarones), but they have the best drummers, best costumes, and best dancing in my opinion. + + + + +They were on a narrow side street, dancing between a line of cars and the brick and plaster facades of houses. It was a tight space, not great for photos, but with no more than 20 or 30 people sitting around watching. This was the closest I'd been able to get to them. In the Jardin they're always surrounded by a crowd at least three people deep. + +Thanks to the concrete confines of the street the drums were more than sound, they hit me in the chest with vibrations I could feel from my ribcage to solar plexus. It was a more intimate and intense experience in the narrow street than anything I'd seen in the Jardin. + +Vibrations are an important part of many ceremonies. As anyone who's spent a good bit of time either vibrating with their voice or sitting in front of something that vibrates your whole body can tell you, it has profound effects after a while. + +This is probably best known as a negative thing, as in the PTSD many soldiers get from being too close to too many explosions. The shock waves have [permanent and lasting negative effects](https://www.nytimes.com/2016/06/10/us/ptsd-blast-waves-research.html). But there are more positive effects to vibration when it arrives in smaller, saner doses. The effect is similar, just lower dosage you might say. This is why rhythmic chanting and other ways of vibrating your own body are so often a part of religious ceremonies -- they are a quick and easy way to change brain states (among other things). + + + +I sat in the middle of the street and watched them dance their way up and down in a slow looping ellipse, feeling the drums vibrate inside me while the dancers' foot work, with ankle rattles attached, filled the mid tone space, and hand held shakers hissed in at the high end of the rhythmic scale. It was a wall of percussion that all fit together, making something larger than the sum of the parts. + + + + +I'm still not sure what the occasion was, or why they were in town. It was the weekend of Benito Juarez's birthday, which could have been the reason. Earlier in the day there was a parade just up the street from our house, which also could have had something to do with Juarez's birthday, though it looked more like Halloween than anything. + + + + + +Sometimes there's no discernible reason for a parade. Even the locals standing on the street around us seemed a little mystified by it all. Or perhaps that was annoyance since the parade held up all the buses headed out of town for a good hour or so. On the weekend many people just want to get the market, get their food for the week, and head home. Damn the parades. + +But they're Mexican, so they waited patiently, with almost no outward sign of irritation, certainly not anger, though, if Octavio Paz is correct, there might be plenty of irritation and anger behind the public mask. + +I'm not sure if Paz is right, sweeping general statements about an entire culture have severe rounding errors, nor an I sure that keeping everything behind a mask is a good thing. Anger has its place, it's a natural, common human emotion. Still, I do admire the Mexican ability to keep it in check, especially in one particular circumstance I encounter nearly every time I head out the door - northerners behaving badly. + +There's no shortage of bad behavior by northerners around here, but Mexicans never confront it. At least as far as I've seen. That is a choice after all -- confronting and complaining about the things you don't like. It's one I generally choose, but you can also choose, as my neighbors do, to ignore it all. Or, as I suspect, to store it up for gossip in the evenings, when everyone comes out into the streets to gather around the grills and cookers to eat, gossip, and laugh. My Spanish isn't good enough to say for sure, but I suspect some of this talk is all the crazy and annoying things that gringos did in the neighborhood that day. + +Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe Paz is wrong too. It's impossible to know as an outsider, and even when you're an insider, part of the culture, can you speak for everyone? We like to sort the world, to group individuals together by common traits, behaviors, beliefs. Sometimes there do seem to be currents of thought and idea running common among us, the backbeat of our dreams perhaps. Other times though those who would speak for all of us are really speaking of themselves, for themselves. Sometimes I think we'd all be better off if more of us spoke only of ourselves, for ourselves without assuming anyone else thinks, feels, or dreams the same. + +> Modern man likes to pretend that his thinking is wide-awake. But this wide-awake thinking has led us into the maze of a nightmare in which the torture chambers are endlessly repeated in the mirrors of reason. When we emerge, perhaps we will realize that we have been dreaming with our eyes open, and that the dreams of reason are intolerable. And then, perhaps, we will begin to dream once more with our eyes closed. –Octavio Paz diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/03/cascarones.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/03/cascarones.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c3502d8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/03/cascarones.html @@ -0,0 +1,640 @@ + + + + + Cascarones And Machete Dancing - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Cascarones and Machete Dancing

    +

    Something like Carnaval in San Miguel

    +
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    San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The weekend before Ash Wednesday is Carnival, marking (roughly) the beginning of Lent. Lent is an odd duck to me, but then all the various religions growing out of the Arabian deserts are odd ducks to me.

    +

    When faced with deprivation, followers go on a spree of excess, which is considered a sin, but then you can “repent” and all is magically forgiven.

    +
    + + + + paroqia, san miguel de allende, mexico photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + smirking virgin mary, mexico photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    On one hand I think this idea that you can do whatever you want and later be absolved is the source of most of what’s wrong with western culture. It’s the source of our environmental and social problems and I think in hindsight will be seen as the bit of philosophy that landed us in history’s dustbin way ahead of schedule.

    +

    On the other hand, who doesn’t love a big party in the streets?

    +

    Unfortunately, just as Candelaria fades the further you go north, Carnival seems to fade the further north you get from Brazil. Which isn’t to say Mexico doesn’t celebrate at all — by most accounts Mazatlan is the place to be for Carnival — but here in San Miguel de Allende it’s been reduced to día de los cascarones, or day of the confetti eggs.

    +

    It’s good fun for the kids anyway.

    +

    Cascarones are eggs that have been drained and filled with confetti. Or glitter or flour. They’re colorfully painted, cost less than 50 cents a dozen and exist primarily to smash on someone’s head. What’s not to love?

    +
    + + Dia de los Cascarones, san miguel de allende, mexico photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Dia de los Cascarones, san miguel de allende, mexico photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Dia de los Cascarones, san miguel de allende, mexico photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Dia de los Cascarones, san miguel de allende, mexico photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + Dia de los Cascarones, san miguel de allende, mexico photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Aside from a few vendors hawking giant crepe paper flowers, some glittery masks, and various hand-made puppets to tourists, the only other sign of anything happening in relation to Carnival was the indigenous dancers. One night I took the girls up to the Jardin to watch the drumming and dancing.

    +
    + + indigenous dancers, san miguel de allende, mexico photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Most of the dancing groups we’ve seen quite a few times at this point, but there was one that was new to me who had drumming punctuated by machetes clanking like cymbals, by far my favorites from a musical point of view.

    +
    + + indigenous dancers, san miguel de allende, mexico photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The dancers all wore white outfits with red fringing and large feather head dresses. They would dance in a circle and then at some point in the rhythm, form up into two lines of four or five people all facing each other. The footwork moved with the drums, but the hands then clanged the flat side of the machete blade against that of the partner opposite them. The line then shifted and everyone lined up with a different person and the melody and rhythm repeated. When they reached the end of the line they broke into a circle again.

    +

    +

    The kids loved everything about día de los cascarones so much they dragged me back up the next morning to see if there was anything still happening. There wasn’t. No one’s kidding about the “día” part, but we did get to see the entire square in the Jardin covered in flour, evidence that the night before had gotten considerably messier after we headed home.

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    You might also enjoy
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    4 Comments

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    + Gwen + March 27, 2019 at 5:44 p.m. +
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    Fascinating to hear the audio of the machetes! While I see your point about excess and Lent and agree that many folks probably practice what you characterized here, I don’t think it’s the whole picture. While I have never practiced Lent, I do know sincere folks who give up something in order to focus more specifically on Christ’s sacrifice. They aren’t trying to receive a magical absolution. It’s more about sincere faith. At any rate, that’s my perspective…

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    + Gwen macallister + March 27, 2019 at 6:56 p.m. +
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    Also, my kids would love the cascarones! Pure awesomeness.

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    + Scott + March 27, 2019 at 10:05 p.m. +
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    Gwen-

    +

    I probably shouldn’t have printed that, I’m sure it offended quite a few of my Christian friends.

    +

    But since I did, might as well double down: I don’t have a problem with Lent especially, I have a problem with the whole notion of absolution.

    +

    It’s easy to look down on something when it doesn’t have meaning in your worldview, but it seems very easy to make last-minute absolution the gateway to a two-faced and insincere life and I am suspicious of it for that reason.

    +

    I think it’s how you get the pious mob boss killing all week, but in the front row of mass on Sunday, the racist belting out hymns and more broadly seems to have been picked up and reworked by materialists into the notion that something is going to save us from ourselves (technology, science, what have you depending on who’s talking).

    +

    I think it was Jack Forbes who wrote something to the effect of one cannot fool the spiritual world by uttering words that contradict what is in one’s heart, what one intends. And to understand yourself well enough to recognize your intentions for what they are, let alone change them to be what you desire them to be, takes a lot of work (more than I have done certainly).

    +

    Absolution seems to me to come along and say hey, why bother with intentions, you can be absolved of those no problem. And I think that’s a very dangerous line of logic within the religious context and even more so when it gets pulled outside of it.

    +

    All that said, I am always happy to be proved wrong.

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    + Gwen + March 28, 2019 at 11:57 a.m. +
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    I appreciate your thoughtful response and hearing your perspective. I agree there is much hypocrisy among believers along with problematic theology. Romans 6 addresses this issue. (“Are we to sin because we are not under law but under grace? By no means!” Romans 6:15)

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/03/cascarones.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/03/cascarones.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..80933ae --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/03/cascarones.txt @@ -0,0 +1,51 @@ +Cascarones and Machete Dancing +============================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 03 March 2019 + +The weekend before Ash Wednesday is Carnival, marking (roughly) the beginning of Lent. Lent is an odd duck to me, but then all the various religions growing out of the Arabian deserts are odd ducks to me. + +When faced with deprivation, followers go on a spree of excess, which is considered a sin, but then you can "repent" and all is magically forgiven. + +
    + + + + +
    + +On one hand I think this idea that you can do whatever you want and later be absolved is the source of most of what's wrong with western culture. It's the source of our environmental and social problems and I think in hindsight will be seen as the bit of philosophy that landed us in history's dustbin way ahead of schedule. + +On the other hand, who doesn't love a big party in the streets? + +Unfortunately, just as Candelaria fades the further you go north, Carnival seems to fade the further north you get from Brazil. Which isn't to say Mexico doesn't celebrate at all -- by most accounts Mazatlan is the place to be for Carnival -- but here in San Miguel de Allende it's been reduced to día de los cascarones, or day of the confetti eggs. + +It's good fun for the kids anyway. + +Cascarones are eggs that have been drained and filled with confetti. Or glitter or flour. They're colorfully painted, cost less than 50 cents a dozen and exist primarily to smash on someone's head. What's not to love? + + + + + + + +Aside from a few vendors hawking giant crepe paper flowers, some glittery masks, and various hand-made puppets to tourists, the only other sign of anything happening in relation to Carnival was the indigenous dancers. One night I took the girls up to the Jardin to watch the drumming and dancing. + + + +Most of the dancing groups we've seen quite a few times at this point, but there was one that was new to me who had drumming punctuated by machetes clanking like cymbals, by far my favorites from a musical point of view. + + + +The dancers all wore white outfits with red fringing and large feather head dresses. They would dance in a circle and then at some point in the rhythm, form up into two lines of four or five people all facing each other. The footwork moved with the drums, but the hands then clanged the flat side of the machete blade against that of the partner opposite them. The line then shifted and everyone lined up with a different person and the melody and rhythm repeated. When they reached the end of the line they broke into a circle again. + + + +The kids loved everything about día de los cascarones so much they dragged me back up the next morning to see if there was anything still happening. There wasn't. No one's kidding about the "día" part, but we did get to see the entire square in the Jardin covered in flour, evidence that the night before had gotten considerably messier after we headed home. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/03/visa-run.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/03/visa-run.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0a6a353 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/03/visa-run.html @@ -0,0 +1,518 @@ + + + + + Visa Run - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Visa Run

    +

    Checking in on the bus

    +
    +
    +

    Plano, Texas, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    I’m not aware of another country with a tourist visa process that’s as simple and generous as what Mexico offers. You show up at the border, you get six months in the country. Cross over the border, come back, another six months. I’ve met people who have been doing this for years, which is silly really because getting a resident card is about as simple as it gets too.

    +

    We recently reached the end of our six month visa, and the end of bus storage situation, so we headed back to Dallas for a week to visit family and move the bus to a new storage location.

    +

    Our travel day started about 5 AM. It was a strangely foggy morning, the world muted and blurry at the edges. We walked a mile or so down to the bus station in San Miguel and caught a bus to Mexico City. The age of the chicken bus is long past in Mexico, or at least the necessity for it, these are smooth sleek buses far nicer than the plane we’d be on later in the day.

    +
    + + low clouds over the hills of guanajuato photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + bus ride to mexico city photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + bus ride to mexico city photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We made it to Mexico City around noon and caught a cab across the city to the airport. We made an amateur mistake in not eating at the bus station and had to settle for some pretty awful airport food, but it passed the hours before our flight at least.

    +
    + +
    + + Looking out the window of the plane over mexico city photographed by luxagraf +
    Mexico City is unbelievable from the air, it goes on and on and on. What’s even more staggering is it’s not even the largest city in the world anymore.
    +
    + + + + + + On the plane flight to Dallas photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + on the plane photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + On the plane to the US photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    The flight up from Mexico City had probably a dozen kids on it, more than any flight I’ve ever been on which made it kind of fun because kids love everything about flying. It was a laughing, shrieking, happy kind of flight. And it was funny to watch the handful of people without kids frowning in their seats about the raucousness of their fellow passengers.

    +

    +

    At first I barely even noticed it. I’m so used to kids being allowed to be, well, kids that I didn’t even think about it. Mexico loves children. The only other place I’ve been that’s as kid-friendly is India. Yesterday I was running some errands around town with the girls. We stopped to buy tortillas and the woman working at the tortilla shop gave them each a fresh warm tortilla. We went to the carnitas shop and the man working there gave them each a napkinful of carnitas to eat while he packaged up our order. And then, walking home, two random strangers handed the girls some beautiful paper flowers because… Mexico loves children. It wasn’t until I got up and walked down the aisle to the bathroom that I noticed people, yes Americans, giving me dirty looks. Which was funny because our kids weren’t the ones making noise. Guilt by association I guess.

    +

    No one said anything though and we made it to Dallas, fourteen hours of travel later. It wasn’t as bad as that probably sounds.

    +

    Our kids were super excited to be back in Dallas, see their relatives and jump in the pool. No amount of warning would put them off the pool, it’s going to be cold we told them. Didn’t care. Until they got in the water. Then they cared.

    +

    To their credit though they did get in. The water was 62 degrees. Both girls swam across the pool a couple times on two different days. I used to surf in the ocean in those temps (without a wetsuit) all the time when I was younger, but I’ve gone soft. I didn’t even think about getting in.

    +
    + + Swimming in the pool, Dallas, TX photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + swimming pool, dallas texas photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    At one point the hot tub got turned on, which proved a much bigger hit. There was also the trampoline to jump around on and warm up.

    +
    + + bobcat, dallas texas photographed by luxagraf + +
    Not a house cat.
    +
    + +

    While we mostly played and worked, we did make a trip down to the bus to move it to its new temporary home. Everything was as we left it, she fired and drove without major protest, though the gas is clearly at the end of its lifespan, I may have to siphon some out when we get back again.

    +

    Up until the moment we climbed in I think we were all pretty happy in Mexico. And then we got in the bus. There was no one else around. We all sort of stood there looking at each other for a minute and then Corrinne said I miss our home.

    +
    + + The bus, dallas photographed by luxagraf + +
    Moving to its new (temporary) home.
    +
    + +

    The kids ran back to their room and grabbed the toys and books and clothes they’ve been missing. I surveyed the batteries, crack the doghouse and looked the engine over. And then… it fired it right up. The wire fell off the ignition coil after about a minute and it died, which temporarily freaked me out until I opened the doghouse again and immediately saw the problem.

    +

    After that I had no problems driving the bus and Volvo down to a nearby RV park where we’re storing them. It’s not ideal, but it’ll do for a few more months. We’ll give it lots of love when we get back later this year. Stay tuned.

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    You might also enjoy
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/03/visa-run.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/03/visa-run.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..50f18e9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/03/visa-run.txt @@ -0,0 +1,60 @@ +Visa Run +======== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 27 March 2019 + +I'm not aware of another country with a tourist visa process that's as simple and generous as what Mexico offers. You show up at the border, you get six months in the country. Cross over the border, come back, another six months. I've met people who have been doing this for years, which is silly really because getting a resident card is about as simple as it gets too. + +We recently reached the end of our six month visa, and the end of bus storage situation, so we headed back to Dallas for a week to visit family and move the bus to a new storage location. + +Our travel day started about 5 AM. It was a strangely foggy morning, the world muted and blurry at the edges. We walked a mile or so down to the bus station in San Miguel and caught a bus to Mexico City. The age of the chicken bus is long past in Mexico, or at least the necessity for it, these are smooth sleek buses far nicer than the plane we'd be on later in the day. + + + + + +We made it to Mexico City around noon and caught a cab across the city to the airport. We made an amateur mistake in not eating at the bus station and had to settle for some pretty awful airport food, but it passed the hours before our flight at least. + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +The flight up from Mexico City had probably a dozen kids on it, more than any flight I've ever been on which made it kind of fun because kids love everything about flying. It was a laughing, shrieking, happy kind of flight. And it was funny to watch the handful of people without kids frowning in their seats about the raucousness of their fellow passengers. + + + +At first I barely even noticed it. I'm so used to kids being allowed to be, well, kids that I didn't even think about it. Mexico loves children. The only other place I've been that's as kid-friendly is India. Yesterday I was running some errands around town with the girls. We stopped to buy tortillas and the woman working at the tortilla shop gave them each a fresh warm tortilla. We went to the carnitas shop and the man working there gave them each a napkinful of carnitas to eat while he packaged up our order. And then, walking home, two random strangers handed the girls some beautiful paper flowers because... Mexico loves children. It wasn't until I got up and walked down the aisle to the bathroom that I noticed people, yes Americans, giving me dirty looks. Which was funny because our kids weren't the ones making noise. Guilt by association I guess. + +No one said anything though and we made it to Dallas, fourteen hours of travel later. It wasn't as bad as that probably sounds. + +Our kids were super excited to be back in Dallas, see their relatives and jump in the pool. No amount of warning would put them off the pool, it's going to be cold we told them. Didn't care. Until they got in the water. Then they cared. + +To their credit though they did get in. The water was 62 degrees. Both girls swam across the pool a couple times on two different days. I used to surf in the ocean in those temps (without a wetsuit) all the time when I was younger, but I've gone soft. I didn't even think about getting in. + + + + +At one point the hot tub got turned on, which proved a much bigger hit. There was also the trampoline to jump around on and warm up. + + + +While we mostly played and worked, we did make a trip down to the bus to move it to its new temporary home. Everything was as we left it, she fired and drove without major protest, though the gas is clearly at the end of its lifespan, I may have to siphon some out when we get back again. + +Up until the moment we climbed in I think we were all pretty happy in Mexico. And then we got in the bus. There was no one else around. We all sort of stood there looking at each other for a minute and then Corrinne said I miss our home. + + + +The kids ran back to their room and grabbed the toys and books and clothes they've been missing. I surveyed the batteries, crack the doghouse and looked the engine over. And then... it fired it right up. The wire fell off the ignition coil after about a minute and it died, which temporarily freaked me out until I opened the doghouse again and immediately saw the problem. + +After that I had no problems driving the bus and Volvo down to a nearby RV park where we're storing them. It's not ideal, but it'll do for a few more months. We'll give it lots of love when we get back later this year. Stay tuned. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/04/horses.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/04/horses.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8cebcc5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/04/horses.html @@ -0,0 +1,531 @@ + + + + + Horses - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Horses

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    Riding on the ranchero

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    Around San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The girls have been asking to go horseback riding for quite a while now. Well before we came to Mexico. But in San Miguel horses come and go on a daily basis, which brought things to a sort of fever pitch.

    +

    While finding a horse in San Miguel is easy, finding one to ride is more challenging. There’s plenty of tourist outfits in town that do horseback rides just like the ATV ride I did, but none of them have much in the way of kid-friendly riding options. After a few months of stalling, a lot of hemming and hawing on my part, Corrinne’s parents’ friend, who owns a ranch outside of town, heard about our kids and invited them out to go riding.

    +

    That’s how we ended up in the campo with the girls riding horses for the first time. Elliott was not interested.

    +
    + + Riding horses on ranch outside of San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Riding horses on ranch outside of San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Riding horses on ranch outside of San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The ranch hands brought out some wonderfully gentle horses that seemed content to walk in circles in exchange for the occasional carrot.

    +

    While Olivia’s horse was completely sedate with a rider on her back, she had a whole smiley routine she pulled out in the stable to get attention and more carrots. It worked very well on us. Who knew horses could smile?

    +
    + + Horse sticking head out of stall on ranch outside of San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + horse leaning out of stall, ranch outside of San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Riding horses on ranch outside of San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I didn’t do any riding, but I did make a friend.

    +
    + + Dog on ranch outside of San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The campo is a world apart from the life we know in San Miguel. It’s been hot lately in the city, but when you get out of the concrete canyons of the city streets there’s a nice steady breeze that blows through and keeps things cool, if a little dusty. Life out here has a different rhythm, a different pace. Sitting on the bus back into town I couldn’t help thinking that I really need to get out and see more of Mexico, less of the city.

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    You might also enjoy
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    2 Comments

    + + + + + + +
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    + DREW + July 31, 2019 at 2:34 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    I love the girls riding boots!

    +

    Admittedly I have not spent a lot of time around horses… But, that being said I every time I am, and even from your pictures you can feel that human connection. There eyes are so deep and mysterious and “knowing” it can be very calming just to be in a barn with them.

    +

    Im glad the girls got to experience that!

    + +
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    + +
    + Scott + July 31, 2019 at 3:16 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Drew-

    +

    I’ve always loved horses, but I’ve always been unsure if the feeling was mutual. Those big dark eyes, so hard to decipher…

    + +
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/04/horses.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/04/horses.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..349ad90 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/04/horses.txt @@ -0,0 +1,31 @@ +Horses +====== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Tuesday, 30 April 2019 + +The girls have been asking to go horseback riding for quite a while now. Well before we came to Mexico. But in San Miguel horses come and go on a daily basis, which brought things to a sort of fever pitch. + +While finding a horse in San Miguel is easy, finding one to ride is more challenging. There's plenty of tourist outfits in town that do horseback rides just like [the ATV ride I did](/jrnl/2018/11/lets-go-ride), but none of them have much in the way of kid-friendly riding options. After a few months of stalling, a lot of hemming and hawing on my part, Corrinne's parents' friend, who owns a ranch outside of town, heard about our kids and invited them out to go riding. + +That's how we ended up in the campo with the girls riding horses for the first time. Elliott was not interested. + + + + + + +The ranch hands brought out some wonderfully gentle horses that seemed content to walk in circles in exchange for the occasional carrot. + +While Olivia's horse was completely sedate with a rider on her back, she had a whole smiley routine she pulled out in the stable to get attention and more carrots. It worked very well on us. Who knew horses could smile? + + + + + +I didn't do any riding, but I did make a friend. + + + +The campo is a world apart from the life we know in San Miguel. It's been hot lately in the city, but when you get out of the concrete canyons of the city streets there's a nice steady breeze that blows through and keeps things cool, if a little dusty. Life out here has a different rhythm, a different pace. Sitting on the bus back into town I couldn't help thinking that I really need to get out and see more of Mexico, less of the city. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/04/koyaanisqatsi.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/04/koyaanisqatsi.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b355ce4 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/04/koyaanisqatsi.html @@ -0,0 +1,620 @@ + + + + + Koyaanisqatsi - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    + + + +
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    Koyaanisqatsi

    +

    Dancing shadows and mesquite trees

    +
    +
    +

    Around San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    A twenty minute cab ride north of San Miguel, on the road to Atotonilco, there’s a stand of towering mesquite trees set back up against several plowed fields. Sprawled out under the mesquite like an old hacienda is a restaurant that’s at least partly aimed at kids. One of the huge mesquites plays host to a towering tree house and there’s plenty of open space to let the kids roam.

    +
    + + + treehouse, mama mia campestre, near san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + + + + + +
    + + Ribs at Mama Mia Campestre, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf +
    Some come for the playing, some for the ribs.
    +
    + + + + + + tree house at mama mia campestre, near san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + + +     + + + + mama mia campestre, near san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    Prior to coming down here I thought of mesquite trees as smallish shrubs that occasionally, with the right blend of soil, water and light, sometimes make it to tree status. In the United States that’s a fair characterization. Our mesquite are not big trees. Here they soar like oaks.

    +

    I don’t know if perhaps the trees here are a different species or if they just like it better down south. Whatever the case, the mesquite down here can grow into huge canopies of green that can shade you from even the intensity of the midday Mexican sun

    +

    The midday Mexican sun has become more intense lately. The dry season stretches its legs and lays down across the land, pulling a blanket of dusty haze over it. I don’t know where it comes from, I don’t even know what it is, perhaps it’s the wind out on the plains kicking up dust. Perhaps it’s smog drifting up from Mexico City. Perhaps its the endless construction in town. Whatever the case it’s bad enough to burn the eyes and lungs some days and anything we leave outside soon has a thin coat of dust on it.

    +

    Between the dust, the sun, and work I’ve been spending more time around the house, indoors even, than I have in years. I don’t like it. We get by, we have fun. Elliott and I try to get outside on the roof in the afternoons.

    +
    + + Eating guava on the roof, san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Blowing bubbles on the roof, san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    Some times you get a haircut between photos.
    +
    + +
    + + playing in the house, san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Still, there have been days where I’ve felt like I was living in some taco-filled version of Plato’s cave, watching the shadows on the walls all day. I go up to the roof sometimes after the kids are in bed and try to feel like I’m getting out into the light, but it’s usually just leaving.

    +
    + + Sunset over San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I want open space, clear air, room to roam, a horizon to stare at, silence to listen in, rain to fall, but it never does, there will be no rain for at least another month, possibly more.

    +

    Corrinne and the kids get out more than I do thankfully. I get to look at the pictures, just like you. One day they went to the toy museum in town.

    +
    + + toy museum, san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + toy museum, san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + toy museum, san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + toy museum, san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It looked like fun, but what I enjoyed far more than I would have enjoyed the musem was seeing the kids come home and start making their own toys out of whatever we had lying around. One evening I walked down to the tienda and bought them corn husks which they used to build not just corn husk dolls but whole families with houses, canoes, tikinagans, birchbark houses, and more.

    +
    + + homemade toys photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Like all children, they’re much better than us adults at playing enthusiastically with what the world has given them, regardless of what that may be.

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    You might also enjoy
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    4 Comments

    + + + + + + +
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    + Gwen + May 07, 2019 at 8:25 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    What does the title of this post mean? Love the kids’ corn husk creations. And what a beautiful sentence— “The dry season stretches its legs…”

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + May 09, 2019 at 10:47 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Gwen-

    +

    Thanks for the kinds words, glad you liked the post.

    +

    As for the name, let me first say I deeply suspicious of English translations of words or ideas for which there is probably no equivalent, e.g. Schadenfreude, of which koyaanisqatsi is very likely a great example. That said, it’s a Hopi word that means roughly, unbalanced or life out of balance. I, and most other non-Hopi speakers, know it because the movie by that name. While it’s not for everyone, I still love that movie and highly recommend it to anyone, though I suggest first researching it a little bit so you know what you’re in for, it’s not a movie the way most of us think of them.

    + +
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    + +
    + +
    + DB + May 09, 2019 at 11:54 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    One of the rare times I go into Facebook and scroll my own posts to find this gem as a morning interlude.

    + +Are you back yet? +Is the band back together? + +

    You know my number.

    +

    D

    +

    BTW: I don’t think the markdown is working properly

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + May 09, 2019 at 12:05 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    DB-

    +

    Thanks for stopping by, glad you liked this one.

    +

    We are back. In Dallas area right now. I might even have a phone number again soon. I’ll call you soon.

    +

    Not getting any bands back together though :)

    +

    What happened with the markdown by the way? As far as I know it works, but beyond paragraph tags, I don’t really use it.

    + +
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/04/koyaanisqatsi.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/04/koyaanisqatsi.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fb38f3b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/04/koyaanisqatsi.txt @@ -0,0 +1,48 @@ +Koyaanisqatsi +============= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 07 April 2019 + +A twenty minute cab ride north of San Miguel, on the road to Atotonilco, there's a stand of towering mesquite trees set back up against several plowed fields. Sprawled out under the mesquite like an old hacienda is a restaurant that's at least partly aimed at kids. One of the huge mesquites plays host to a towering tree house and there's plenty of open space to let the kids roam. + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +Prior to coming down here I thought of mesquite trees as smallish shrubs that occasionally, with the right blend of soil, water and light, sometimes make it to tree status. In the United States that's a fair characterization. Our mesquite are not big trees. Here they soar like oaks. + +I don't know if perhaps the trees here are a different species or if they just like it better down south. Whatever the case, the mesquite down here can grow into huge canopies of green that can shade you from even the intensity of the midday Mexican sun + +The midday Mexican sun has become more intense lately. The dry season stretches its legs and lays down across the land, pulling a blanket of dusty haze over it. I don't know where it comes from, I don't even know what it is, perhaps it's the wind out on the plains kicking up dust. Perhaps it's smog drifting up from Mexico City. Perhaps its the endless construction in town. Whatever the case it's bad enough to burn the eyes and lungs some days and anything we leave outside soon has a thin coat of dust on it. + +Between the dust, the sun, and work I've been spending more time around the house, indoors even, than I have in years. I don't like it. We get by, we have fun. Elliott and I try to get outside on the roof in the afternoons. + + + + + +Still, there have been days where I've felt like I was living in some taco-filled version of Plato's cave, watching the shadows on the walls all day. I go up to the roof sometimes after the kids are in bed and try to feel like I'm getting out into the light, but it's usually just leaving. + + + +I want open space, clear air, room to roam, a horizon to stare at, silence to listen in, rain to fall, but it never does, there will be no rain for at least another month, possibly more. + +Corrinne and the kids get out more than I do thankfully. I get to look at the pictures, just like you. One day they went to the toy museum in town. + + + + + + +It looked like fun, but what I enjoyed far more than I would have enjoyed the musem was seeing the kids come home and start making their own toys out of whatever we had lying around. One evening I walked down to the tienda and bought them corn husks which they used to build not just corn husk dolls but whole families with houses, canoes, tikinagans, birchbark houses, and more. + + + +Like all children, they're much better than us adults at playing enthusiastically with what the world has given them, regardless of what that may be. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/04/semana-santa.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/04/semana-santa.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..577f6a9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/04/semana-santa.html @@ -0,0 +1,551 @@ + + + + + Semana Santa - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Semana Santa

    +

    Paletas, fireworks, and papier mâché Judases

    +
    +
    +

    San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Semana Santa, holy week, is the roughly two week period leading up to and just after Easter. If you want to pin it down more than that you’re not Mexican. There is no pinning down time here. That’s one of the things you should leave at home if you ever come. Here time is vast and endless you must make yourself at home in it.

    +

    The first of the public events was around Palm Sunday, which the locals celebrate with plenty of decorations and paletas, which get handed out to just about anyone who will take one. The paletas, melting in a increasingly intense dry season sun, represent the tears of Mary mixed with, um, fruit. The kids loved it anyway.

    +
    + + + palm fronds on the street, palm sunday, san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + Popsicle, palm sunday, san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Popsicle, palm sunday, san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + procession, palm sunday, san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    San Miguel has its own little special little tradition on Good Friday, which involves papier mâché figures called Judases. They are not, however, limited to figures of Judas. Everything is Mexico is layered and goes far below what things appear to be, so I won’t pretend to know who the figures represented, but local political figures and other controversial people are common targets.

    +

    The puppets get wrapped in firecrackers with one big one inside. They’re strung up on a horizontal line and lit up. The fireworks cause the figures to spin for a bit and bam, the big one blows them apart. And it really blows them apart. Even for here this was a substantial blast that hurt your ears if you were at all close.

    +
    + + + + palm sunday, san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + palm sunday, san miguel de allende photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    Domingo de Pascua as Easter Sunday is known around here, doesn’t have any of the non-religious associations it does in the states. I didn’t see any Easter Bunny or chocolate eggs. It’s a day people go to Mass and celebrate with their families. We dyed some eggs anyway.

    +
    + + Dieing homemade easter eggs, semama santa photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + colored eggs, semama santa photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + hunting for eggs, semama santa photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + hunting for eggs, semama santa photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We also found some good pork belly tacos for lunch. I’ve never understood it, but something about travel causes you to find more and more things you like the closer and closer you get to leaving a place.

    +
    + + sisters hugging, lunch, semana santa photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + +
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    +
    You might also enjoy
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/04/semana-santa.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/04/semana-santa.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..065680d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/04/semana-santa.txt @@ -0,0 +1,41 @@ +Semana Santa +============ + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 22 April 2019 + +Semana Santa, holy week, is the roughly two week period leading up to and just after Easter. If you want to pin it down more than that you're not Mexican. There is no pinning down time here. That's one of the things you should leave at home if you ever come. Here time is vast and endless you must make yourself at home in it. + +The first of the public events was around Palm Sunday, which the locals celebrate with plenty of decorations and paletas, which get handed out to just about anyone who will take one. The paletas, melting in a increasingly intense dry season sun, represent the tears of Mary mixed with, um, fruit. The kids loved it anyway. + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +San Miguel has its own little special little tradition on Good Friday, which involves papier mâché figures called Judases. They are not, however, limited to figures of Judas. Everything is Mexico is layered and goes far below what things appear to be, so I won't pretend to know who the figures represented, but local political figures and other controversial people are common targets. + +The puppets get wrapped in firecrackers with one big one inside. They're strung up on a horizontal line and lit up. The fireworks cause the figures to spin for a bit and bam, the big one blows them apart. And it really blows them apart. Even for here this was a substantial blast that hurt your ears if you were at all close. + +
    + + + + +
    + +Domingo de Pascua as Easter Sunday is known around here, doesn't have any of the non-religious associations it does in the states. I didn't see any Easter Bunny or chocolate eggs. It's a day people go to Mass and celebrate with their families. We dyed some eggs anyway. + + + + + + +We also found some good pork belly tacos for lunch. I've never understood it, but something about travel causes you to find more and more things you like the closer and closer you get to leaving a place. + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/06/hasta-luego.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/06/hasta-luego.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0ebf0e9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/06/hasta-luego.html @@ -0,0 +1,596 @@ + + + + + Hasta Luego - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    Hasta Luego

    +

    Heading back to the United States

    +
    +
    +

    Plano, Texas, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    We came to Mexico with a pretty simple plan — hang out, visit family, live cheap, save money, get some projects done. It is hard, traveling and working for someone else, to carve out time for your own work and I had some work I needed to get done.

    +

    But sawdust in a hurricane has more permanence than our plans, so nothing we planned to do ended up happening. That’s how these things go. You adjust, tack as it were, and keep sailing. We loved our time in Mexico even if it didn’t turn out at all like we planned.

    +
    + + San miguel graffiti photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Church, San miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Streets of San miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    After I was laid off I went back to doing what I’ve always done, drumming up clients and writing things that made them happy. In my search for new clients I noticed my old friends at WIRED were looking for a full-time writer to do roughly what I’ve done for them on a freelance basis for years.

    +

    I applied. I talked to the editors. Some months passed. I talked to more editors. Then all at once I had a job and was hurriedly booking plane tickets back to the United States. While the job is remote, it involves products, shipping physical things to me. If you know anything about customs, you know that’s not something that’s going to work abroad.

    +

    We love Mexico, we’ll miss the people, our friends, our family, but this feels like the right thing to do, at the right time too.

    +

    The longer, more in-depth projects I’d like to tackle are still there. As I’ve discovered in last eight months, they’re projects that are hard to do without the stability of a regular paycheck. As a freelance writer you are either hustling all the time or starving. I dislike starving. A job with a steady paycheck eliminates the need to spend every free minute hustling up more work. It helps draw a line between work and play, giving you the time and mental space you need to tackle other things in your free time.

    +
    + + Las Cuat, San Miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Streets of San miguel de Allende photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The last few days in town our friend Mike from San Francisco and a friend of his stayed with us. We showed them around as best we could while trying to pack up. It was good to get out and walk around town, show other people this wonderful little world we found down here. It also gave us an excuse to get out and visit our favorite haunts for the last time now, which always makes you see them differently.

    +

    Then before we really knew it we were stumbling up the street half asleep in pajamas in Elliott’s case, catching a cab to the bus station to catch our pre-dawn ride to Mexico city.

    +
    + + bus ride to mexico city photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Yellow green dawn, road to Mexico City photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Yellow green dawn, road to Mexico City photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    After scarfing a few tacos in the bus station and catching a cab over to the airport, we whisked through security and found ourselves climbing out of the smog, back to the United States.

    +
    + + Benito Juarez aeropuerto photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Between the seats photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + on the wing out of mexico city photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    There are plenty more stories to tell, and I do plan to get caught up eventually. Until then.

    +
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    You might also enjoy
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    + + + + + +

    4 Comments

    + + + + + + +
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    + Mark Rabo + September 02, 2019 at 12:44 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Hey Scott, Mark here (we originally talked when I found your site when reaching out to writers for work). Glad to see you’re posting through the mailing list. Your life is interesting and not easy to live but also seems meaningful to you and your family. Its great stories and I hope to see more in the future. Photos are excellent too. All the best.

    + +
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    + +
    + Scott + September 02, 2019 at 10:19 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Mark-

    +

    Thanks for stopping by.

    +

    I figured I did build the mailing list, might as well use it even if I’ve never gotten my act together to advertise it. I’m going to be using more going forward.

    +

    Anyway, glad you like this one. I’ve got a backlog of stories I’m trying to work my way though. Sometimes it’s hard to live and find time to write about living. In the grand scheme of things though, I think it’s a good problem to have.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Jake + September 04, 2019 at 2:26 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    It was good to read an update, It’d been awhile. Happy to have you back in the States!

    +

    Interesting point, “It helps draw a line between work and play, giving you the time and mental space you need to tackle other things in your free time”. I’m actually trying to do the exact opposite, finally blur the line between work and play. I guess the grass is always greener.

    + +
    +
    + +
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    + Scott + September 05, 2019 at 8:07 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Jake-

    +

    Thanks for the welcome! I will get caught up eventually.

    +

    It’s an interesting thing, that work/play. I have not enjoyed blurring the line between work and play as much as I thought I would when I set out to do it. I find attention a difficult thing to divide, especially with regard to very mental work like writing. If I’m thinking about writing something for luxagraf, though I find that an enjoyable thing to give attention to, it takes attention away from, say, playing with the kids around the campsite.

    +

    As I’ve gotten older I find that like those hard edges between the things I’m giving attention too, setting aside one before moving on to the next. Maybe I’m getting dumber, less able to concentrate, or something, but I find I like clear divisions. I also find I’m better at writing and being a parent when I have those edge clearly defined to myself. I like it enough that these days I get up early and try to have “work” done by early afternoon and then I have the rest of the day to “play”.

    +

    I actually have a whole essay on this, about traveling while working, or working while traveling. I could dig that up and publish it.

    +

    Anyway, thanks for stopping by.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/06/hasta-luego.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/06/hasta-luego.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..71d3b10 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/06/hasta-luego.txt @@ -0,0 +1,42 @@ +Hasta Luego +=========== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Monday, 03 June 2019 + +We came to Mexico with a pretty simple plan -- hang out, visit family, live cheap, save money, get some projects done. It is hard, traveling and working for someone else, to carve out time for your own work and I had some work I needed to get done. + +But sawdust in a hurricane has more permanence than our plans, so nothing we planned to do ended up happening. That's how these things go. You adjust, tack as it were, and keep sailing. We loved our time in Mexico even if it didn't turn out at all like we planned. + + + + + +After I was laid off I went back to doing what I've always done, drumming up clients and writing things that made them happy. In my search for new clients I noticed my old friends at WIRED were looking for a full-time writer to do roughly what I've done for them on a freelance basis for years. + +I applied. I talked to the editors. Some months passed. I talked to more editors. Then all at once I had a job and was hurriedly booking plane tickets back to the United States. While the job is remote, it involves products, shipping physical things to me. If you know anything about customs, you know that's not something that's going to work abroad. + +We love Mexico, we'll miss the people, our friends, our family, but this feels like the right thing to do, at the right time too. + +The longer, more in-depth projects I'd like to tackle are still there. As I've discovered in last eight months, they're projects that are hard to do without the stability of a regular paycheck. As a freelance writer you are either hustling all the time or starving. I dislike starving. A job with a steady paycheck eliminates the need to spend every free minute hustling up more work. It helps draw a line between work and play, giving you the time and mental space you need to tackle other things in your free time. + + + + +The last few days in town our friend Mike from San Francisco and a friend of his stayed with us. We showed them around as best we could while trying to pack up. It was good to get out and walk around town, show other people this wonderful little world we found down here. It also gave us an excuse to get out and visit our favorite haunts for the last time now, which always makes you see them differently. + +Then before we really knew it we were stumbling up the street half asleep in pajamas in Elliott's case, catching a cab to the bus station to catch our pre-dawn ride to Mexico city. + + + + + + +After scarfing a few tacos in the bus station and catching a cab over to the airport, we whisked through security and found ourselves climbing out of the smog, back to the United States. + + + + + +There are plenty more stories to tell, and I do plan to get caught up eventually. Until then. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/07/seven.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/07/seven.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3aefbf9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/07/seven.html @@ -0,0 +1,511 @@ + + + + + Seven - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Seven

    +

    Happy Birthday Girls!

    +
    +
    +

    Tool, Texas, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    This year we spent the girls’ birthday in Texas. Stuck in the middle as it were. We made the best of it. I drove to the nearest Mexican market and got a piñata. We found some papel picado at the bottom of a bag. We bought way too many balloons. As you do.

    +

    We made do with what we had, a skill you learn well living on the road. And we had a pool, a lake, and family in town. Everything you need for a good birthday. And some chocolate waffle cake. Of course. We’ll always find a way to make chocolate waffle cake.

    +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    As per usual we were up at early dark thirty for the girls’ seventh birthday. I’ve embraced the early rising. I’m usually up before the kids. Not on their birthday though. No one beats a kid out of bed on their birthday, not even the one trying to pile balloons on them before they wake up.

    +
    + + Birthday morning photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Birthday morning presents photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Birthday morning new books photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Birthday morning, new watercolor sets photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    After presents and breakfast we strung up a piñata and took turns pounding on it with a stick. I can’t recall who finally broke it, one of the birthday girls, but it was a sturdy piñata, made in Mexico. More impressively, despite never playing or even watching any baseball, the kids can hit. Some things come naturally, especially things useful in the pursuit of hidden candy.

    +
    + + piñata swinging photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + girl swinging a stick at piñata photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + birthday pinata photographed by luxagraf + +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    +
    +
    +
    You might also enjoy
    + +
    +
    + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/07/seven.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/07/seven.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e3733d1 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/07/seven.txt @@ -0,0 +1,25 @@ +Seven +===== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 13 July 2019 + +This year we spent the girls' birthday in Texas. Stuck in the middle as it were. We made the best of it. I drove to the nearest Mexican market and got a piñata. We found some papel picado at the bottom of a bag. We bought way too many balloons. As you do. + +We made do with what we had, a skill you learn well living on the road. And we had a pool, a lake, and family in town. Everything you need for a good birthday. And some [chocolate waffle cake](/essays/waffle-world). Of course. We'll always find a way to make chocolate waffle cake. + + + +As per usual we were up at early dark thirty for the girls' seventh birthday. I've embraced the early rising. I'm usually up before the kids. Not on their birthday though. No one beats a kid out of bed on their birthday, not even the one trying to pile balloons on them before they wake up. + + + + + + +After presents and breakfast we strung up a piñata and took turns pounding on it with a stick. I can't recall who finally broke it, one of the birthday girls, but it was a sturdy piñata, made in Mexico. More impressively, despite never playing or even watching any baseball, the kids can hit. Some things come naturally, especially things useful in the pursuit of hidden candy. + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/07/summertime-rolls.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/07/summertime-rolls.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b61ae14 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/07/summertime-rolls.html @@ -0,0 +1,558 @@ + + + + + Summertime Rolls - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Summertime Rolls

    +

    Stuck in Texas, Again

    +
    +
    +

    Tool, Texas, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    We flew back to states thinking we’d booked a house in Athens, GA. That ended up falling through at the last minute, which left us homeless. Not a new thing for us, but a hassle when you’re trying to start a new job. We decided to head down to where the bus was stored to see where things stood.

    +

    We knew we had to stay in one place for a while and unfortunately we didn’t have time to move. Between the summer heat, working, and a cracked exhaust manifold, there was no time to go anywhere.

    +

    We decided, against our better judgment, to hunker down in Texas and wait out the summer. We’d get our exhaust manifold, knock out a few other bus projects we’d been wanting to do, and then, once the weather caught up with us and things cooled off, we’d head west and spend the autumn and winter out west in the Arizona desert.

    +
    + + homemade aligator photographed by luxagraf + +
    Alligator sculpture.
    +
    + +
    + + marker on face photographed by luxagraf + +
    Temporary tattoos.
    +
    + +
    + + sign for country dancing photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The challenging part of this plan was the middle, the wait out summer in Texas part. As regular readers know, I do not like Texas. I try not to complain too much because we have a pretty great life, but given a choice between Texas and anywhere else and I’d go with anywhere else. Yes, even California. Still, it was the best plan we could come up with and I thought we could do it.

    +

    There were a couple things going for us. The RV park where we were staying had a nice big oak tree we could park under and a swimming pool to cool off in. Even better, just down the road some extended family have a lake house where the kids could swim, ride jet skis and generally have fun and stay cool.

    +

    Those things, the pool and the lake house were the highlights of the summer. The girls learned to swim and got to go inner tubing, ride jet skis, and spend their days in the water. If you’re stuck in Texas, this is the way to do it.

    +
    + + swimming in Texas photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + swimming in Texas photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + swimming in Texas photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + swimming in Texas photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + swimming in Texas photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + swimming cedar creek reservoir photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + swimming cedar creek reservoir photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It’s funny how oblivious children are to the problems of adults. Not all problems, but some. Corrinne and I were frustrated being stuck in Texas. We tried to make the best of it, but I’ll be honest, we didn’t always. But the kids didn’t care at all. They loved it. They had a pool to go to every day, a playground to run around on, a lake house to visit at least twice a month. Jet ski rides, boat rides, inner tubing. When I look at from their perspective it feels like we had everything we could possibly want. They didn’t care where they were.

    +

    Early on, before the heat became insufferable, we went out and explored the area. There was a big flea market once a month in nearby Canton, Texas that was fun to explore.

    +
    + + hot dog stand, canton, tx photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I was struck by the fact that we could stroll around a huge flea market for a couple of hours and the only thing we bought were some small bamboo flutes for the kids and snow cones.

    +

    Living in a small space really does curb your consumer tendencies. Everything we even consider buying has justify itself: where would we put it? More importantly, is it worth the space it takes up? The answer, after a bit of reflection, is almost always no. At this point we don’t even really have to think about it. We have what we need, adding more would create clutter.

    +
    + + eating snowcones, texas photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + eating snowcones, texas photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + eating snowcones, texas photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    What’s nice about this way of living is that it eliminates purchasing stuff as a form of entertainment. That leaves us free to be entertained by just wandering, watching the world around us. We’ve always done this to some degree, but I think our time in Mexico really brought this out. There’s so much to see just walking around in Mexico that it became a habit. When there’s nothing to do you walk up to the Parroquia, sit in the shade, have a snack, and watch the world around you.

    +

    That was early on though. As the heat increased and the utter lack of anything to do overwhelmed me, I got considerably less zen about being stuck in Texas. Still, I’m old fashioned. If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything.

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    +
    +
    +
    You might also enjoy
    + +
    +
    + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/07/summertime-rolls.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/07/summertime-rolls.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f47f019 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/07/summertime-rolls.txt @@ -0,0 +1,48 @@ +Summertime Rolls +================ + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 28 July 2019 + +We flew back to states thinking we'd booked a house in Athens, GA. That ended up falling through at the last minute, which left us homeless. Not a new thing for us, but a hassle when you're trying to start a new job. We decided to head down to where the bus was stored to see where things stood. + +We knew we had to stay in one place for a while and unfortunately we didn't have time to move. Between the summer heat, working, and a cracked exhaust manifold, there was no time to go anywhere. + +We decided, against our better judgment, to hunker down in Texas and wait out the summer. We'd get our exhaust manifold, knock out a few other bus projects we'd been wanting to do, and then, once the weather caught up with us and things cooled off, we'd head west and spend the autumn and winter out west in the Arizona desert. + + + + + +The challenging part of this plan was the middle, the wait out summer in Texas part. As regular readers know, I do not like Texas. I try not to complain too much because we have a pretty great life, but given a choice between Texas and anywhere else and I'd go with anywhere else. Yes, even California. Still, it was the best plan we could come up with and I thought we could do it. + +There were a couple things going for us. The RV park where we were staying had a nice big oak tree we could park under and a swimming pool to cool off in. Even better, just down the road some extended family have a lake house where the kids could swim, ride jet skis and generally have fun and stay cool. + +Those things, the pool and the lake house were the highlights of the summer. The girls learned to swim and got to go inner tubing, ride jet skis, and spend their days in the water. If you're stuck in Texas, this is the way to do it. + + + + + + + + + +It's funny how oblivious children are to the problems of adults. Not all problems, but some. Corrinne and I were frustrated being stuck in Texas. We tried to make the best of it, but I'll be honest, we didn't always. But the kids didn't care at all. They loved it. They had a pool to go to every day, a playground to run around on, a lake house to visit at least twice a month. Jet ski rides, boat rides, inner tubing. When I look at from their perspective it feels like we had everything we could possibly want. They didn't care where they were. + +Early on, before the heat became insufferable, we went out and explored the area. There was a big flea market once a month in nearby Canton, Texas that was fun to explore. + + + +I was struck by the fact that we could stroll around a huge flea market for a couple of hours and the only thing we bought were some small bamboo flutes for the kids and snow cones. + +Living in a small space really does curb your consumer tendencies. Everything we even consider buying has justify itself: where would we put it? More importantly, is it worth the space it takes up? The answer, after a bit of reflection, is almost always no. At this point we don't even really have to think about it. We have what we need, adding more would create clutter. + + + + + +What's nice about this way of living is that it eliminates purchasing stuff as a form of entertainment. That leaves us free to be entertained by just wandering, watching the world around us. We've always done this to some degree, but I think our time in Mexico really brought this out. There's so much to see just walking around in Mexico that it became a habit. When there's nothing to do you walk up to the Parroquia, sit in the shade, have a snack, and watch the world around you. + +That was early on though. As the heat increased and the utter lack of anything to do overwhelmed me, I got considerably less zen about being stuck in Texas. Still, I'm old fashioned. If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/08/georgia-road-trip.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/08/georgia-road-trip.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..286e459 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/08/georgia-road-trip.html @@ -0,0 +1,570 @@ + + + + + Road Trip - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Road Trip

    +

    Screw Wally World, we’re going to Athens, Georgia

    +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    The America family road trip — immortalized so well by Chevy Chase and company — is a pretty miserable experience in my view. Pack the kids in the car to drive all day and half the night to Disney World? No thanks.

    +

    Driving long distances is pretty awful. Our rule in the bus has always been no more than 200 miles a day. There are plenty of days when we don’t even hit triple digit mileage. When you do this full time there’s no reason to hurry anywhere. The only time we’ve ever hurried anywhere was because we were meeting someone.

    +

    One reason we didn’t immediately head west out of Texas for spots more to our liking was that we knew we’d be heading east to Georgia at the end of summer. Corrinne’s parents came up from Mexico for a couple weeks and we wanted to see them. We knew we were going to drive and less driving the better.

    +

    Visiting family and friends in Athens sounded like a whole lot more fun than Wally World or Disney World or any other fake world. We’re awfully fond of the world we have, so why not try a good old fashioned road trip to Athens, GA?

    +

    We left the bus in Texas, but there was still no way we were going to drive 12 hours straight through. Jackson, Mississippi is roughly the halfway point, so we set about finding something fun to do in Jackson. Something better than wrecking our health or making a big fool of ourselves.

    +

    Corrinne discovered that the natural history museum was hosting a dinosaur exhibit complete with huge animatronic dinosaurs. Sold. We set out early Saturday morning and made Jackson by afternoon. The dinosaurs were a hit and the crowds weren’t too bad considering it was a weekend.

    +
    + + animatronic dinosaur, Jackson Natural History Museum, Jackson, MS photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + animatronic dinosaur, Jackson Natural History Museum, Jackson, MS photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The rest of the museum wasn’t quite a nice as the traveling exhibit. It had a semi-broken down feeling to it and many of the stuffed specimens were old and ratty, but not really in a charming or understandable way like La Specula in Italy.

    +
    + + Kids using microscopes Natural History Museum, Jackson, MS photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + reptile pile, Natural History Museum, Jackson, MS photographed by luxagraf + +
    Reptile pile.
    +
    + +

    When in doubt, more dinosaurs.

    +
    + + animatronic dinosaur, outside the Jackson Natural History Museum, Jackson, MS photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + animatronic t-rex, outside the Jackson Natural History Museum, Jackson, MS photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    After we’d had our fill of animatronic dinosaurs we had a mediocre dinner and crashed out in a hotel room.

    +

    You might think, after years on the road, that we’d be super-organized, super-efficient packers, but no, we’re not. It’s pretty much a chaotic sprawl of bags, clothes, electronics, and toys.

    +
    + + messy hotel room photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The next day we drove the rest of the way into Athens. Overall not to bad. Are we there yet did not reach cliche road trip fever pitch and no one got too grumpy. Or else I blocked all that out in my memory.

    +

    AirBnB we rented in Athens was a strange place though. We found and unplugged 15 air fresheners. No joke. Who lives that way? I suspect that many air fresheners put out enough petro chemicals to shorten your life by a measurable amount. Even without them, the place still smelled like someone was trying to cover up something awful.

    +

    At least the view across the street was good, some neighbor had a 1970ish Crown school bus at least partly converted to an RV. If we ever do the school bus conversion thing, the 60s and 70s Crown school buses would be high on my list. The mid-body diesel engine is awkward though, eats up all the room for your tanks. Not that I’ve put a lot of thought into this or anything.

    +
    + + 1970s Crown School Bus photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I first came to Athens in 1999, moved here on a whim. I’ve never really felt at home anywhere except the wilderness, but Athens is probably as close as I come to having a home town at this point. Whatever the case, it’s always fun to come back for a visit. We wandered around, went to some of our old haunts, took the kids places they claim not to remember, ate some good food, even managed to put together a huge cousins sleepover party.

    +
    + + + + Walking the streets of Athens photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + taking a picture of child taking picture photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + girls ballet dancing photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + kids at a sleepover photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    Around the time we were getting ready to head back to Texas, an opportunity to stay in Athens presented itself. Well, not stay in Athens exactly, but hang around the area for a few months. After thinking it over for about five minutes, we said sure, why not?

    +

    The next day I got in the rental car, drove it back to Texas, and returned it. Then I grabbed our stuff out of the bus, threw it in the Volvo, said goodbye to the bus for another little while, and headed back to Athens. Boom, done. The less you have the easier it is to drop it all and do something else.

    +

    Okay, so I forgot the silverware. No one is perfect. But one thing I’ve learned on the road is to trust our intuitions. If something feels right, it generally is. If something feels wrong, it’s time for change. It took quite a while and several second-guessing failures to get that confidence, but even those failures taught me that no matter what happens, things have a way of working themselves out in the end.

    +
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    + + + +
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    + + +
    + +
    +
    +
    +
    You might also enjoy
    + +
    +
    + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/08/georgia-road-trip.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/08/georgia-road-trip.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e9602e5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/08/georgia-road-trip.txt @@ -0,0 +1,62 @@ +Road Trip +========= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 25 August 2019 + +The America family road trip -- immortalized so well by [Chevy Chase and company](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FHThGmVfE3A) -- is a pretty miserable experience in my view. Pack the kids in the car to drive all day and half the night to Disney World? No thanks. + +Driving long distances is pretty awful. Our rule in the bus has always been no more than 200 miles a day. There are plenty of days when we don't even hit triple digit mileage. When you do this full time there's no reason to hurry anywhere. The only time we've ever hurried anywhere was because we were meeting someone. + +One reason we didn't immediately head west out of Texas for spots more to our liking was that we knew we'd be heading east to Georgia at the end of summer. Corrinne's parents came up from Mexico for a couple weeks and we wanted to see them. We knew we were going to drive and less driving the better. + +Visiting family and friends in Athens sounded like a whole lot more fun than Wally World or Disney World or any other fake world. We're awfully fond of the world we have, so why not try a good old fashioned road trip to Athens, GA? + +We left the bus in Texas, but there was still no way we were going to drive 12 hours straight through. Jackson, Mississippi is roughly the halfway point, so we set about finding something fun to do in Jackson. Something better than [wrecking our health or making a big fool of ourselves](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HGhCsznO0S8). + +Corrinne discovered that the natural history museum was hosting a dinosaur exhibit complete with huge animatronic dinosaurs. Sold. We set out early Saturday morning and made Jackson by afternoon. The dinosaurs were a hit and the crowds weren't too bad considering it was a weekend. + + + + +The rest of the museum wasn't quite a nice as the traveling exhibit. It had a semi-broken down feeling to it and many of the stuffed specimens were old and ratty, but not really in a charming or understandable way like [La Specula](/jrnl/2011/06/natural-science) in Italy. + + + + +When in doubt, more dinosaurs. + + + + +After we'd had our fill of animatronic dinosaurs we had a mediocre dinner and crashed out in a hotel room. + +You might think, after years on the road, that we'd be super-organized, super-efficient packers, but no, we're not. It's pretty much a chaotic sprawl of bags, clothes, electronics, and toys. + + + +The next day we drove the rest of the way into Athens. Overall not to bad. *Are we there yet* did not reach cliche road trip fever pitch and no one got too grumpy. Or else I blocked all that out in my memory. + +AirBnB we rented in Athens was a strange place though. We found and unplugged 15 air fresheners. No joke. Who lives that way? I suspect that many air fresheners put out enough petro chemicals to shorten your life by a measurable amount. Even without them, the place still smelled like someone was trying to cover up something awful. + +At least the view across the street was good, some neighbor had a 1970ish Crown school bus at least partly converted to an RV. If we ever do the school bus conversion thing, the 60s and 70s Crown school buses would be high on my list. The mid-body diesel engine is awkward though, eats up all the room for your tanks. Not that I've put a lot of thought into this or anything. + + + +I first came to Athens in 1999, moved here on a whim. I've never really felt at home anywhere except the wilderness, but Athens is probably as close as I come to having a home town at this point. Whatever the case, it's always fun to come back for a visit. We wandered around, went to some of our old haunts, took the kids places they claim not to remember, ate some good food, even managed to put together a huge cousins sleepover party. + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +Around the time we were getting ready to head back to Texas, an opportunity to stay in Athens presented itself. Well, not stay in Athens exactly, but hang around the area for a few months. After thinking it over for about five minutes, we said sure, why not? + +The next day I got in the rental car, drove it back to Texas, and returned it. Then I grabbed our stuff out of the bus, threw it in the Volvo, said goodbye to the bus for another little while, and headed back to Athens. Boom, done. The less you have the easier it is to drop it all and do something else. + +Okay, so I forgot the silverware. No one is perfect. But one thing I've learned on the road is to trust our intuitions. If something feels right, it generally is. If something feels wrong, it's time for change. It took quite a while and several second-guessing failures to get that confidence, but even those failures taught me that no matter what happens, things have a way of working themselves out in the end. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/09/hanging-around-town.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/09/hanging-around-town.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d296113 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/09/hanging-around-town.html @@ -0,0 +1,602 @@ + + + + + Hanging Around Town - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Hanging Around Town

    +

    Having a sit and think in good old Athens Georgia

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    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
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    Athens has always been a good town to come back to. It’s something of a joke among those of us who’ve been coming and going for decades now. Most of my friends in Athens have left for somewhere else at least once, many have left more than that, but most seem to find their way back here again too.

    +

    I thought about this a good bit as we walked around town, exploring what’s left of the Athens I once enjoyed.

    +
    + + + + taking a picture of child taking picture photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Walking the streets of Athens photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    It’s always interesting to take the kids to places I’ve been and see how they react, how they like it. They don’t have any history to get in the way of enjoying it as it is now, which helps me figure out if a place really has started to suck, or if it’s just me.

    +

    The kids don’t remember downtown Athens before it was all chain restaurants and banal, new-construction high rises. They love walking around downtown Athens the same way they love walking around downtown San Miguel de Allende, downtown San Francisco, or downtown New Orleans. I don’t anymore though, try as I might to see it through their eyes.

    +
    + + + + running on the grass, downtown athens, UGA photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + running on UGA lawn, downtown Athens, GA photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    I came to Athens for the first time in 1996 and moved here for good in 1999. I left for a few years in 2002. Came back in the 2005. Left for a couple more. Came back in 2007. Stayed a decade that time, which is as long as I’ve lived anywhere since I moved out of my childhood home.

    +

    In that decade things changed in Athens. Things are always changing, but this time things changed more than usual. California came to Athens.

    +
    + + Automatic Pizza, Normaltown, Athens, GA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It’s the same story everywhere, a handful of greedy people sell out their town to highest bidder, which is inevitably wealthy refugees from California1. In Athens it was, as far as I can tell, a semi-senile mayor and a handful of real estate developers who did the damage2. Whatever the case it’s done. It’ll be decades before the pendulum of wealth swings back the other way, and then decades more before it gets back near the balanced center, where it was when I first arrived in 1996.

    +

    When we left in back 2017 I didn’t figure we’d ever come back. Visit sure, but hang around for any length of time? Probably not. It’ll be years before the housing market crashes back down to sane levels. House prices are currently well out of the price range of staff writers. Houses in our old neighborhood sell for well over half a million dollars (do I wish I still had ours? Not even a little bit).

    +

    Still, an opportunity came up for us to spend a few months around here and, after talking it over for ten minutes, we took it. So we’re going to hang around our old home town for Autumn, maybe Winter too.

    +

    The key to living on the road is learning to deal with the uncertainty. You never knowing where you’ll be in two weeks, which is both freeing and stressful. To cope with it you need to act slowly, and be able to turn midstream as it were because things will very rarely turn out as you plan.

    +

    In some ways I think much of my travel strategy is something I read once in poker book: be selective, but be aggressive. That is, do not play many hands in poker, but when you do, play them aggressively. In travel terms that means spend a lot of time making plans. Not plans you act on, just possibilities. Think things over, explore possibilities in your imagination. And I mean that literally. Sit in a chair, back straight, hands on your knees, breathe slow to relax, clothes your eyes and bring some ide a to mind and follow it out.

    +

    Part of the beauty of living on the road is that you have much more relaxed, quiet time than most people, which means you can think things through much more easily. You can have a lot of sit and thinks as my favorite kids’ show calls it. You can’t be selective if you haven’t considered all the options. So you consider as many as you can.

    +

    But then when it is time to act, you must act decisively and without hesitation because you have to commit. Once you jump, you can’t unjump. Sometimes you have to correct your course on the way down, sometimes you go oh shit and start flapping your arms. Sometimes you hit the ground hard. It happens. But this is just a metaphor so you pick yourself up, dust off, and carry on. Usually. And you have to be okay with any and all of the outcomes. Otherwise, this is probably not a lifestyle that’s going to make you happy.

    +

    We’ve spent a lot of time in the sit and think stage of late. We’ve been trying to figure out what comes next for us for the better part of year now and we’ve been all over the map. We’ve put significant effort into lots of different imaginary plans, all of which were appealing for a time, but none of which drove us to actually take that decisive step forward and commit.

    +

    The ones that stick out range from the obvious, continuing to travel in the bus, to the less obvious, like moving to the Yucatan. We had another plan that would have seen Corrinne running a small school in Costa Rica. We considered living on the coast of Serbia, which then somehow led us to consider living in a remote village in Alaska, and then a small town in Nevada.

    +

    Then we thought no, let’s buy a boat, or maybe an Airstream, or maybe a smaller Travco. There were other ideas in there I can’t remember now, and those are just the ones we were semi-serious about. Not that we could actually have made all these things happen. There are all sorts of technical and financial hurdles to overcome in all those plans, but when you’re just having a sit and think you don’t have worry about details, rather you worry about whether or not it feels right.

    +

    If it does feel then you move on to practical things. Maybe (probably) it turns out you don’t have the money for a boat. Okay, scratch that off the list. Or you make a longer term plan to get the money you need. And so on.

    +

    Like I said, you have to be willing to think things over, consider every possibility. There comes a time to act though. In my experience the universe will present you with an opportunity to move in some direction you’ve been considering. I try not to think of these things as suggestions from the universe. Just because an opportunity comes doesn’t mean you should take it, just that hey here’s something that will help you do X if that’s what you think you should do.

    +

    For us, right now that opportunity was to hang around Athens GA for a while. It’s not our whole plan, but it’s a step in the direction we want to go. So you go. One step at a time.

    +
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      +
    1. +

      They’re wealthy by every standard of wealth save those of California. ↩

      +
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    2. +

      And let’s not forget complacent constituents like myself who could have gone to some city council meetings and made an effort to stop said developers and mayor. While it would most likely have been ineffectual it would have been worth a try if Athens were a place worth fighting for to you. For me, I take it, it was not. Because I did not. I prefer to move on rather than resist. ↩

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    You might also enjoy
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    2 Comments

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    + Gwen + November 04, 2019 at 11:42 a.m. +
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    Welcome back to the South. I seem to remember that you had a post awhile back about being in St Louis. Am I right about that? We are thinking of taking our kids there next month. Wondering what you would recommend doing in the city?

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    + Scott + November 04, 2019 at 8:48 p.m. +
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    Gwen-

    +

    Hey, thanks. It is good to be back in the South. Texas thinks it’s the South. but. cough. yeah.

    +

    Anyway, we did spend a little time in St. Louis, but not much. We mostly went because everyone told us we had to go to the St. Louis City Museum. And we did. It’s awesome. A fair bit of it is exposed to the elements, but I think it would still be pretty cool even if it were freezing cold. Assuming it stays open all year; I have no idea if it does.

    +

    Everything else we did was out around the Babler State Park area, which is nice, but a little ways out of town and not that nice.

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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/09/hanging-around-town.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/09/hanging-around-town.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d028cb2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/09/hanging-around-town.txt @@ -0,0 +1,63 @@ +Hanging Around Town +=================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 12 September 2019 + +Athens has always been a good town to come back to. It's something of a joke among those of us who've been coming and going for decades now. Most of my friends in Athens have left for somewhere else at least once, many have left more than that, but most seem to find their way back here again too. + +I thought about this a good bit as we walked around town, exploring what's left of the Athens I once enjoyed. + +
    + + + + +
    + +It's always interesting to take the kids to places I've been and see how they react, how they like it. They don't have any history to get in the way of enjoying it as it is now, which helps me figure out if a place really has started to suck, or if it's just me. + +The kids don't remember downtown Athens before it was all chain restaurants and banal, new-construction high rises. They love walking around downtown Athens the same way they love walking around downtown San Miguel de Allende, downtown San Francisco, or downtown New Orleans. I don't anymore though, try as I might to see it through their eyes. + +
    + + + + +
    + +I came to Athens for the first time in 1996 and moved here for good in 1999. I left for a few years in 2002. Came back in the 2005. Left for a couple more. Came back in 2007. Stayed a decade that time, which is as long as I've lived anywhere since I moved out of my childhood home. + +In that decade things changed in Athens. Things are always changing, but this time things changed more than usual. California came to Athens. + + + +It's the same story everywhere, a handful of greedy people sell out their town to highest bidder, which is inevitably wealthy refugees from California[^1]. In Athens it was, as far as I can tell, a semi-senile mayor and a handful of real estate developers who did the damage[^2]. Whatever the case it's done. It'll be decades before the pendulum of wealth swings back the other way, and then decades more before it gets back near the balanced center, where it was when I first arrived in 1996. + +When we left in back 2017 I didn't figure we'd ever come back. Visit sure, but hang around for any length of time? Probably not. It'll be years before the housing market crashes back down to sane levels. House prices are currently well out of the price range of staff writers. Houses in our old neighborhood sell for well over half a million dollars (do I wish I still had ours? Not even a little bit). + +Still, an opportunity came up for us to spend a few months around here and, after talking it over for ten minutes, we took it. So we're going to hang around our old home town for Autumn, maybe Winter too. + +The key to living on the road is learning to deal with the uncertainty. You never knowing where you'll be in two weeks, which is both freeing and stressful. To cope with it you need to act slowly, and be able to turn midstream as it were because things will very rarely turn out as you plan. + +In some ways I think much of my travel strategy is something I read once in poker book: be selective, but be aggressive. That is, do not play many hands in poker, but when you do, play them aggressively. In travel terms that means spend a lot of time making plans. Not plans you act on, just possibilities. Think things over, explore possibilities in your imagination. And I mean that literally. Sit in a chair, back straight, hands on your knees, breathe slow to relax, clothes your eyes and bring some ide a to mind and follow it out. + +Part of the beauty of living on the road is that you have much more relaxed, quiet time than most people, which means you can think things through much more easily. You can have a lot of sit and thinks as my [favorite kids' show](https://www.sarahandduck.com/watch/) calls it. You can't be selective if you haven't considered all the options. So you consider as many as you can. + +But then when it is time to act, you must act decisively and without hesitation because you have to commit. Once you jump, you can't unjump. Sometimes you have to correct your course on the way down, sometimes you go oh shit and start flapping your arms. Sometimes you hit the ground hard. It happens. But this is just a metaphor so you pick yourself up, dust off, and carry on. Usually. And you have to be okay with any and all of the outcomes. Otherwise, this is probably not a lifestyle that's going to make you happy. + +We've spent a lot of time in the sit and think stage of late. We've been trying to figure out what comes next for us for the better part of year now and we've been all over the map. We've put significant effort into lots of different imaginary plans, all of which were appealing for a time, but none of which drove us to actually take that decisive step forward and commit. + +The ones that stick out range from the obvious, continuing to travel in the bus, to the less obvious, like moving to the Yucatan. We had another plan that would have seen Corrinne running a small school in Costa Rica. We considered living on the coast of Serbia, which then somehow led us to consider living in a remote village in Alaska, and then a small town in Nevada. + +Then we thought no, let's buy a boat, or maybe an Airstream, or maybe a smaller Travco. There were other ideas in there I can't remember now, and those are just the ones we were semi-serious about. Not that we could actually have made all these things happen. There are all sorts of technical and financial hurdles to overcome in all those plans, but when you're just having a sit and think you don't have worry about details, rather you worry about whether or not it feels right. + +If it does feel then you move on to practical things. Maybe (probably) it turns out you don't have the money for a boat. Okay, scratch that off the list. Or you make a longer term plan to get the money you need. And so on. + +Like I said, you have to be willing to think things over, consider every possibility. There comes a time to act though. In my experience the universe will present you with an opportunity to move in some direction you've been considering. I try not to think of these things as *suggestions* from the universe. Just because an opportunity comes doesn't mean you *should* take it, just that *hey here's something that will help you do X if that's what you think you should do*. + +For us, right now that opportunity was to hang around Athens GA for a while. It's not our whole plan, but it's a step in the direction we want to go. So you go. One step at a time. + +[^1]: They're wealthy by every standard of wealth save those of California. +[^2]: And let's not forget complacent constituents like myself who could have gone to some city council meetings and made an effort to stop said developers and mayor. While it would most likely have been ineffectual it would have been worth a try if Athens were a place worth fighting for to you. For me, I take it, it was not. Because I did not. I prefer to move on rather than resist. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/09/old-growth.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/09/old-growth.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4b4fce8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/09/old-growth.html @@ -0,0 +1,578 @@ + + + + + Old Growth - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Old Growth

    +

    Out of the trees, into the forest

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    Watson Mill State Park, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
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    +
    +

    Spread out a map of the United States and trace your finger down the border of North Dakota and Minnesota. Let your finger drift to the west a little as to comes down through South Dakota, across eastern Nebraska, through the middle of Kansas, and down from Wichita Falls, Texas to the border in Laredo. This line you have just drawn separates The East from The West.

    +

    There’s no real consensus on this line. You’ll have to give a couple hundred miles of gray area in either direction to make everyone happy, but by and large this is where two things happen as you move west: the humidity drops and the forest stops.

    +

    Trinidad, Texas, where we spent the summer, is just to the east of this line, but still mostly out of the great hardwood forests of the east. When we decided to stick around Athens for a bit it had been well over a year since we’d spent any amount of time around trees. Well over a year since we’d had our horizon raised by leaves.

    +
    + + Sunrise over a lake, Elberton, GA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I was born out west, and the wide open spaces and skies of the west will always feel more like home to me than the forests of the east, but my people come from forests. I think there are trees in my blood, somewhere back there. I don’t know everything about my ancestors, but what stories I do know are of people who would have lived in the primeval beech forests of the southern Carpathians on one side, and the ancient hemlock and white pine forests of eastern United States on the other. For me, going back into the woods will always be a kind of homecoming.

    +

    I feel relaxed in forests. But also sharper. All the leaves require more visual acuity, sharpen the senses. After a few days in the trees I start to feel more what might be called poise, that balance point between relaxation and tension.

    +
    + + hammock in the woods, watson mill state park, ga photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + riding scooters in the woods, watson mill state park, ga photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Maybe it’s the extra oxygen. It would make senses to me that the more trees around, the more oxygen you have and the more oxygen the clearer and sharper you feel. I’m not particularly interested in the science behind it though, just the experience of it. And interestingly, I get the same feeling of clarity, sharpness, and overall well-being walking in the desert, above timberline, and other places without trees, so maybe it’s not that at all.

    +

    Perhaps its not strictly trees, but the entirety of the ecosystem around me. The wholeness of it. The way everything is continuous, intertwined, uninterrupted.

    +
    + + ferns and lichen, watson mill state park, ga photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The words we have for these things somehow fail to capture them well though. Our language is better at separating out and dividing up than it is in joining together or describing connections. We often talk about forests, trees, deserts as though these things were somehow separate. We say “ecosystem,” or more often “nature,” as if this were something other than the world we live in.

    +

    It’s not though. We are part of nature, part of the ecosystem, part of the world. We are never separated from anything else on this planet. But I do understand what people mean when they say they want to “get out in nature” as opposed to where they live.

    +
    + + fall growth, watson mill state park, ga photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I think what we seek when we seek “nature” is part of something where all the connections between all the parts remain intact, where hard edges of modern human ideas do not exist. Where everything flows into everything else. Where the connectedness of life has not been severed to serve human purposes. Where roads and sidewalks to not keep the earth hidden away, the grass divided, the trees encased. Where power lines do not bisect the sky into segments, where hedges are not trimmed, grounds not neatly swept.

    +
    + + boy walking in the woods, watson mill state park, ga photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We seek places away from the order we have attempted to impose on the world because our imposition fundamentally does not work. Drawing lines between things does not work. The worst part is all the lines we draw around ourselves, as if we were not part of all this.

    +

    We are creations of earth. We come from here. We are part of this planet. No more and no less than any other part of it. And like every other species we shape it, it shapes us. We seem to have lost sight of that. We see ourselves on one hand as special snowflakes, exceptions, immune to laws of this planet. We are not. We cannot continue to draw everything out for ourselves without also drawing everything down on ourselves.

    +

    On the other hand I think it’s just as naive to think the world, “nature,” needs to be protected from us. The world does not need to be protected from us, it needs respect from us. It needs us to recognize it for what it is, rather than how it’s “useful” to us. It needs us to treat it with dignity and respect, like a brother, sister, mother, father. Like family.

    +

    Thanks to science our current perception of the world is more nuanced and detailed than any culture we’re aware of in history. This has opened a million doorways into the how the world works. But it’s also left us cut off from the world in ways that no other culture we’re aware of has ever been. We know so much and understand so little1.

    +
    + + mossy rock, watson mill state park, ga photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It seems to me that this has happened because our stories, our ways of understanding the world, have seriously diverged from the way the world actually is. This is the source of our problems: on the one hand self-destruction, and the other self-loathing. Vicious cycles repeat.

    +

    I think we are slowly coming to realize that we need different stories. We need stories that better reflect the world as it is, not the world as we think it should be, but it will be a slow walk down a long road to get back from here.

    +

    I don’t have a solution. This is a problem with one solution. It is not even a problem we will solve. Not you and I. We will play our parts, whatever they may be. We can show that there are other possibilities by living them. But this is something happening on a grand scale. The stories that shape our world, the processes that got us here, are intertwined with the very language we were born into. These are process that have been in motion for thousands of years and will likely continue along for many hundreds, perhaps even thousands, more to come.

    +

    Still, we have our lives here, now. In the trees or out of them. I prefer in.

    +
    + + forest trail, watson mill state park, ga photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    From what I read, the great forests of the east are not what they used to be. They are not “virgin” (always Europeans with their sacrosanct virgins), but to my mind these woods are still a grand thing. A beautiful place to sit quietly in, to play in, to drink this early morning coffee in, to live in.

    +

    The afternoons swelter. We go to the cool water of the river. Its slick, algae-covered rock slide is a welcome escape from the heat.

    +
    + + Natural rock water slide below watson mill bridge photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Summer hasn’t let go yet, but you can feel Autumn lurking at the edges of evening. The breeze stirs, the dead still, stagnant air of summer is broken by wind wandering through the trees. It comes in fits and stutters. Cool puffs of air that find us as the sun sets.

    +

    It’s coming though. I watch the chickadees and squirrels, they know it’s coming too. If they are right this winter will be long and cold, even down here in the South.

    +
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      +
    1. +

      This is a choice. And increasingly it looks like a choice many do not like. Unfortunately these days science looks to be going the way of the bathwater. Again, we’re not good at connecting. But really, there is no reason science’s experience of the world must be the only experience of it. So many things that seem either/or can just as easily be and/both. We just have to find the triad hiding behind the binaries. ↩

      +
      2. +
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    + + + + +
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    + + +
    + +
    +
    +
    +
    You might also enjoy
    + +
    +
    + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
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    + + + +
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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/09/old-growth.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/09/old-growth.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f5bc8ff --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/09/old-growth.txt @@ -0,0 +1,69 @@ +Old Growth +========== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 25 September 2019 + +Spread out a map of the United States and trace your finger down the border of North Dakota and Minnesota. Let your finger drift to the west a little as to comes down through South Dakota, across eastern Nebraska, through the middle of Kansas, and down from Wichita Falls, Texas to the border in Laredo. This line you have just drawn separates The East from The West. + +There's no real consensus on this line. You'll have to give a couple hundred miles of gray area in either direction to make everyone happy, but by and large this is where two things happen as you move west: the humidity drops and the forest stops. + +Trinidad, Texas, where we spent the summer, is just to the east of this line, but still mostly out of the great hardwood forests of the east. When we decided to stick around Athens for a bit it had been well over a year since we'd spent any amount of time around trees. Well over a year since we'd had our horizon raised by leaves. + + + +I was born out west, and the wide open spaces and skies of the west will always feel more like home to me than the forests of the east, but my people come from forests. I think there are trees in my blood, somewhere back there. I don't know everything about my ancestors, but what stories I do know are of people who would have lived in the primeval beech forests of the southern Carpathians on one side, and the ancient hemlock and white pine forests of eastern United States on the other. For me, going back into the woods will always be a kind of homecoming. + +I feel relaxed in forests. But also sharper. All the leaves require more visual acuity, sharpen the senses. After a few days in the trees I start to feel more what might be called poise, that balance point between relaxation and tension. + + + + +Maybe it's the extra oxygen. It would make senses to me that the more trees around, the more oxygen you have and the more oxygen the clearer and sharper you feel. I'm not particularly interested in the science behind it though, just the experience of it. And interestingly, I get the same feeling of clarity, sharpness, and overall well-being walking in the desert, above timberline, and other places without trees, so maybe it's not that at all. + +Perhaps its not strictly trees, but the entirety of the ecosystem around me. The wholeness of it. The way everything is continuous, intertwined, uninterrupted. + + + +The words we have for these things somehow fail to capture them well though. Our language is better at separating out and dividing up than it is in joining together or describing connections. We often talk about forests, trees, deserts as though these things were somehow separate. We say "ecosystem," or more often "nature," as if this were something other than the world we live in. + +It's not though. We are part of nature, part of the ecosystem, part of the world. We are never separated from anything else on this planet. But I do understand what people mean when they say they want to "get out in nature" as opposed to where they live. + + + +I think what we seek when we seek "nature" is part of something where all the connections between all the parts remain intact, where hard edges of modern human ideas do not exist. Where everything flows into everything else. Where the connectedness of life has not been severed to serve human purposes. Where roads and sidewalks to not keep the earth hidden away, the grass divided, the trees encased. Where power lines do not bisect the sky into segments, where hedges are not trimmed, grounds not neatly swept. + + + +We seek places away from the order we have attempted to impose on the world because our imposition fundamentally does not work. Drawing lines between things does not work. The worst part is all the lines we draw around ourselves, as if we were not part of all this. + +We are creations of earth. We come from here. We are part of this planet. No more and no less than any other part of it. And like every other species we shape it, it shapes us. We seem to have lost sight of that. We see ourselves on one hand as special snowflakes, exceptions, immune to laws of this planet. We are not. We cannot continue to draw everything out for ourselves without also drawing everything down on ourselves. + +On the other hand I think it's just as naive to think the world, "nature," needs to be protected from us. The world does not need to be protected from us, it needs respect from us. It needs us to recognize it for what it is, rather than how it's "useful" to us. It needs us to treat it with dignity and respect, like a brother, sister, mother, father. Like family. + +Thanks to science our current perception of the world is more nuanced and detailed than any culture we're aware of in history. This has opened a million doorways into the how the world works. But it's also left us cut off from the world in ways that no other culture we're aware of has ever been. We know so much and understand so little[^1]. + + + +It seems to me that this has happened because our stories, our ways of understanding the world, have seriously diverged from the way the world actually is. This is the source of our problems: on the one hand self-destruction, and the other self-loathing. Vicious cycles repeat. + +I think we are slowly coming to realize that we need different stories. We need stories that better reflect the world as it is, not the world as we think it should be, but it will be a slow walk down a long road to get back from here. + +I don't have a solution. This is a problem with one solution. It is not even a problem we will solve. Not you and I. We will play our parts, whatever they may be. We can show that there are other possibilities by living them. But this is something happening on a grand scale. The stories that shape our world, the processes that got us here, are intertwined with the very language we were born into. These are process that have been in motion for thousands of years and will likely continue along for many hundreds, perhaps even thousands, more to come. + +Still, we have our lives here, now. In the trees or out of them. I prefer in. + + + +From what I read, the great forests of the east are not what they used to be. They are not "virgin" (always Europeans with their sacrosanct virgins), but to my mind these woods are still a grand thing. A beautiful place to sit quietly in, to play in, to drink this early morning coffee in, to live in. + +The afternoons swelter. We go to the cool water of the river. Its slick, algae-covered rock slide is a welcome escape from the heat. + + + +Summer hasn't let go yet, but you can feel Autumn lurking at the edges of evening. The breeze stirs, the dead still, stagnant air of summer is broken by wind wandering through the trees. It comes in fits and stutters. Cool puffs of air that find us as the sun sets. + +It's coming though. I watch the chickadees and squirrels, they know it's coming too. If they are right this winter will be long and cold, even down here in the South. + +[^1]: This is a choice. And increasingly it looks like a choice many do not like. Unfortunately these days science looks to be going the way of the bathwater. Again, we're not good at connecting. But really, there is no reason science's experience of the world must be the only experience of it. So many things that seem either/or can just as easily be and/both. We just have to find the triad hiding behind the binaries. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/10/back-to-raysville.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/10/back-to-raysville.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3969038 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/10/back-to-raysville.html @@ -0,0 +1,517 @@ + + + + + Back To Raysville - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    + + +
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    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Back to Raysville

    +

    It’s been almost three years, but little has changed

    +
    +
    +

    Raysville, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    After the better part of a month hanging around Athens, GA, we were ready for a break. Cities, even small ones like Athens, stress me out these days. Even when I’m technically miles away from them. It’s not a very acute stress, not even something I notice until I leave and I catch myself sitting around the fire in the evening with my shoulders tensed tight.

    +

    I don’t know why, but I know some time further from civilization was calling. Our friends Mike and Cassidy were feeling the same. They wanted to get out on the water in some boats so we all headed down to Raysville, the very first place we stopped when this trip began nearly three years ago.

    +

    The campground at Raysville is under used, which is to say almost no one is ever there. We arrived on a Friday and had no trouble getting a spot. It took all of about five minutes for the kids to be out the door and into the water.

    +
    + + swimming in lake, raysville, ga photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I don’t think they’ll ever get tired of getting in water. Doesn’t matter what water really, they’re out there. They’ll ask to go swimming when it’s near freezing temps outside. It’s like just the idea of water makes things seem warmer.

    +
    + + boy swimming, raysville, ga photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + boy swimming, raysville, ga photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The Raysville campground is an old army corp of engineers campground that the corp sold to the county a few years ago. It makes me laugh every time I think about it because there are all these things that only an engineer would think of — every site has a ground fire pit and a raised cooking grill, and there’s a table to eat off and another by the grill for cooking. It’s brilliantly well engineered. Also the sunsets are remarkable.

    +
    + + clouds and sunbeams over lake, raysville GA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Sunset over lake, island, raysville ga photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The next morning the kids were back in the lake pretty much as soon as the sun was up.

    +
    + + kids swimming in a lake, raysville ga photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + john boat and standup paddleboard, raysville ga photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + drone image of boat and swimmers on lake, raysville ga photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    That was pretty much life for a week: wake up, go swimming, write some things, paddle around on the SUP, test out a drone, row the john boat out to the island (which the kids named poop-rock island for what the nesting Canada geese and other birds leave behind), write some more things. Then eat dinner and watch the sun light up the clouds. That’s about all you need really. Water. Sun. Food. Friends.

    +
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    + + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    +
    +
    +
    You might also enjoy
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    +
    + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
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    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/10/back-to-raysville.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/10/back-to-raysville.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0c62cc8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/10/back-to-raysville.txt @@ -0,0 +1,32 @@ +Back to Raysville +================= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 16 October 2019 + +After the better part of a month hanging around Athens, GA, we were ready for a break. Cities, even small ones like Athens, stress me out these days. Even when I'm technically miles away from them. It's not a very acute stress, not even something I notice until I leave and I catch myself sitting around the fire in the evening with my shoulders tensed tight. + +I don't know why, but I know some time further from civilization was calling. Our friends Mike and Cassidy were feeling the same. They wanted to get out on the water in some boats so we all headed down to Raysville, the very first place we stopped when this trip began nearly three years ago. + +The campground at Raysville is under used, which is to say almost no one is ever there. We arrived on a Friday and had no trouble getting a spot. It took all of about five minutes for the kids to be out the door and into the water. + + + +I don't think they'll ever get tired of getting in water. Doesn't matter what water really, they're out there. They'll ask to go swimming when it's near freezing temps outside. It's like just the idea of water makes things seem warmer. + + + + +The Raysville campground is an old army corp of engineers campground that the corp sold to the county a few years ago. It makes me laugh every time I think about it because there are all these things that only an engineer would think of -- every site has a ground fire pit *and* a raised cooking grill, and there's a table to eat off and another by the grill for cooking. It's brilliantly well engineered. Also the sunsets are remarkable. + + + + +The next morning the kids were back in the lake pretty much as soon as the sun was up. + + + + + +That was pretty much life for a week: wake up, go swimming, write some things, paddle around on the SUP, test out a drone, row the john boat out to the island (which the kids named poop-rock island for what the nesting Canada geese and other birds leave behind), write some more things. Then eat dinner and watch the sun light up the clouds. That's about all you need really. Water. Sun. Food. Friends. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/10/bird-watching.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/10/bird-watching.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7bdf140 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/10/bird-watching.html @@ -0,0 +1,567 @@ + + + + + Bird Watching - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Bird Watching

    +

    Carolina wrens, barred owls, and red-tailed hawks

    +
    +
    +

    Fort Yargo State Park, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Most mornings I am up early enough to hear the signature sounds of whippoorwills, sometimes even the cackling of an owl. It’s not long before those birds quiet down though. By the time my coffee is ready the forest is transitioning from night sounds to dawn sounds. Song birds warble in the dogwoods. Red-bellied woodpeckers drum on oaks. Somewhere high overhead a red-tailed hawk shrieks.

    +

    We were house sitting for a few days once and the kids were complaining that, with the curtains closed, they could not tell when it was morning in the house. I asked them, “how do you know when it’s morning in the bus?” And they said, “we hear the birds singing.” Birds mean morning.

    +

    Every morning somewhere between the golden light of sunrise and the starker white of midday, three Carolina wrens stop by our campsite looking for food. Many birds move through the forest around us throughout the day, but these three come right into the campsite as if we’re not even here.

    +

    I sit at the table, writing. I don’t move that much I suppose, but certainly the wrens are aware that I am here. The noise of my fingers typing on the keyboard is enough to keep squirrels away. Yet everyday these three wrens behave as if I don’t exist.

    +

    Carolina wrens are tiny brown and tan birds with a slightly downward curved bill. They’re the sort of small brown bird that never stops moving. They flit and hop and bounce and chip-chip around beneath the table, even on the table sometimes, while I work.

    +
    + + carolina wren on picnic table photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Periodically one stops moving and cocks its head to look at me, as if reassessing what sort of threat I represent. But inevitably curiosity is satisfied and it goes back to ignoring my existence, hopping around, once even perching on my foot to get a better view of the ground. One wren even got up on the table and hopped along picking at crumbs, coming right toward me. I thought it was going to land on my arm, but at the last minute it seemed to suddenly remember me and it flew off into the bushes.

    +

    It’s nearly the time of year when the permanent avian residents of the Georgia mountains begin to band together. There aren’t that many. Most species are off in Mexico or South America by now. Those that remain band together for the winter. You see flocks consisting of Carolina chickadees, tufted titmice, and Carolina wrens, sometimes joined by golden-crowned kinglets, downy woodpeckers, perhaps a nuthatch or two. They join up in Autumn and often, from what I saw back when we lived here, stick together for most of the winter.

    +
    + + red bellied woodpeckers on oak tree photographed by luxagraf + +
    Red-bellied woodpeckers aren’t joiners. There’s plenty around, but they keep to themselves.
    +
    + +

    But it’s not quite cold enough for that yet. These are Carolina wrens, traveling alone, together. Their dark eyes watch me whenever I walk around. If I get too close they scurry away, flutter off under the bus or into the wheel well, but for the most part it feels like I am in their mid-morning snack spot and it’s me who should be moving.

    +

    These three were the first time I’d had much encounter with the avian world in a long time. Mockingbirds had ruled in Texas, and I was feeling bad about the summer tanager I’d hit and killed while driving out there. It seemed as if the avians were angry with me, understandably. I dreamed once that a goldfinch was pecking at my finger, biting me until I bled.

    +

    After a few days of the wrens coming through I started to feel like perhaps I was forgiven for that bloody mishap with the tanager. Then one morning I stepped outside at dawn and there was a barred owl not more than ten feet away.

    +
    + + barred owl, watson mill state park, ga photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I don’t write about them much, but birds have dictated our destinations as much as anything else. If you were to overlay our route through the Gulf Coast in 2018 with popular spring migration birding spots, our route might make more sense. We’re not Kenn Kaufman by any means, but we’ve been known to be on St. George Island in April, maybe spend summer in the Great Lakes, and perhaps try for an early spring in the Chiricauhua region.

    +

    My kids have been bird watching since they could stand up. It wasn’t something I forced on them, they’d never do it if I’d done that. You can’t force things on people, especially kids. If you want to teach your kids something, don’t talk about it, do it. Don’t tell them what you’re doing, just do it. They learn by osmosis and curiosity, not “teaching”1.

    +
    + + kids on playground photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Our kids picked up the bird book that was sitting on the coffee table in our old house and started looking at the pictures before they could walk. There’s a photo of one of them, still in diapers, the Sibley Guide to Birds spread out before her, thoughtfully tracing her finger down a page of warblers, trying to find one that looks like the bird in a photo a friend’s mother had sent us (it was a goldfinch).

    +
    + + Kids walking down a road in georgia. photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + kids crossing a creek, georgia. photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Our kids know a lot about the natural world because it surrounds them every day and piques their curiosity. They wake up to the sound of birds singing. They point out the shrieks of the red-tailed hawk when it circles overhead in the morning. They note the chickadee and titmouse flock when it comes through not long after that. Every time they go for a walk when I’m working I get a full catalog of interesting birds I missed. Birding by proxy.

    +

    It’s not always birds of course. One evening the kids found a meadow vole under the bus, drinking from the tiny puddle of condensation that collects below the air conditioner. I imagine it’s busy around that water at night. The vole apparently overstayed and got caught out in the open. The kids dug it some roots and piled them back in the shade, where it could eat, but still keep cool. We stepped in for dinner and when we came back out it had moved on.

    +

    Later, after the kids were in bed, I sat out by the fire, listening as the evening sounds faded back to night sounds. The songbirds fell quiet. The woodpeckers stopped tapping. The whippoorwills started up. Later the deep voice of a great horned owl drifted up from somewhere down by the river below. I thought of the vole. Good luck out there friend.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      At least not teaching the way we commonly do it in American schools. General strategies can often be conveyed well (aka, taught) but no one (kids or adults) learns when they aren’t interested. And you can’t force interest. ↩

      +
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    You might also enjoy
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    + + + + + +

    2 Comments

    + + + + + + +
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    + +
    + Gwen + November 28, 2019 at 9:01 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Love the owl picture. Thanks for the info about St. Louis.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + December 13, 2019 at 8:54 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Gwen-

    +

    Thank you! Hope you had a good trip.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
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    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/10/bird-watching.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/10/bird-watching.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0ff4a74 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/10/bird-watching.txt @@ -0,0 +1,52 @@ +Bird Watching +============= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 09 October 2019 + +Most mornings I am up early enough to hear the signature sounds of whippoorwills, sometimes even the cackling of an owl. It's not long before those birds quiet down though. By the time my coffee is ready the forest is transitioning from night sounds to dawn sounds. Song birds warble in the dogwoods. Red-bellied woodpeckers drum on oaks. Somewhere high overhead a red-tailed hawk shrieks. + +We were house sitting for a few days once and the kids were complaining that, with the curtains closed, they could not tell when it was morning in the house. I asked them, "how do you know when it's morning in the bus?" And they said, "we hear the birds singing." Birds mean morning. + +Every morning somewhere between the golden light of sunrise and the starker white of midday, three Carolina wrens stop by our campsite looking for food. Many birds move through the forest around us throughout the day, but these three come right into the campsite as if we're not even here. + +I sit at the table, writing. I don't move that much I suppose, but certainly the wrens are aware that I am here. The noise of my fingers typing on the keyboard is enough to keep squirrels away. Yet everyday these three wrens behave as if I don't exist. + +Carolina wrens are tiny brown and tan birds with a slightly downward curved bill. They're the sort of small brown bird that never stops moving. They flit and hop and bounce and chip-chip around beneath the table, even *on* the table sometimes, while I work. + + + +Periodically one stops moving and cocks its head to look at me, as if reassessing what sort of threat I represent. But inevitably curiosity is satisfied and it goes back to ignoring my existence, hopping around, once even perching on my foot to get a better view of the ground. One wren even got up on the table and hopped along picking at crumbs, coming right toward me. I thought it was going to land on my arm, but at the last minute it seemed to suddenly remember me and it flew off into the bushes. + +It's nearly the time of year when the permanent avian residents of the Georgia mountains begin to band together. There aren't that many. Most species are off in Mexico or South America by now. Those that remain band together for the winter. You see flocks consisting of Carolina chickadees, tufted titmice, and Carolina wrens, sometimes joined by golden-crowned kinglets, downy woodpeckers, perhaps a nuthatch or two. They join up in Autumn and often, from what I saw back when we lived here, stick together for most of the winter. + + + +But it's not quite cold enough for that yet. These are Carolina wrens, traveling alone, together. Their dark eyes watch me whenever I walk around. If I get too close they scurry away, flutter off under the bus or into the wheel well, but for the most part it feels like I am in their mid-morning snack spot and it's me who should be moving. + +These three were the first time I'd had much encounter with the avian world in a long time. Mockingbirds had ruled in Texas, and I was feeling bad about the summer tanager I'd hit and killed while driving out there. It seemed as if the avians were angry with me, understandably. I dreamed once that a goldfinch was pecking at my finger, biting me until I bled. + +After a few days of the wrens coming through I started to feel like perhaps I was forgiven for that bloody mishap with the tanager. Then one morning I stepped outside at dawn and there was a barred owl not more than ten feet away. + + + +I don't write about them much, but birds have dictated our destinations as much as anything else. If you were to overlay our route [through the Gulf Coast in 2018](https://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2018/01/almost-warm) with popular spring migration birding spots, our route might make more sense. We're not [Kenn Kaufman](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kenn_Kaufman) by any means, but we've been known to be [on St. George Island in April](https://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2018/04/migration), maybe [spend summer in the Great Lakes](https://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2018/07/trees), and perhaps try for an [early spring in the Chiricauhua region](https://live.luxagraf.net/jrnl/2018/01/ghost-cochise). + +My kids have been bird watching since they could stand up. It wasn't something I forced on them, they'd never do it if I'd done that. You can't force things on people, especially kids. If you want to teach your kids something, don't talk about it, do it. Don't tell them what you're doing, just do it. They learn by osmosis and curiosity, not "teaching"[^1]. + + + +Our kids picked up the bird book that was sitting on the coffee table in our old house and started looking at the pictures before they could walk. There's a photo of one of them, still in diapers, the Sibley Guide to Birds spread out before her, thoughtfully tracing her finger down a page of warblers, trying to find one that looks like the bird in a photo a friend's mother had sent us (it was a goldfinch). + + + + + +Our kids know a lot about the natural world because it surrounds them every day and piques their curiosity. They wake up to the sound of birds singing. They point out the shrieks of the red-tailed hawk when it circles overhead in the morning. They note the chickadee and titmouse flock when it comes through not long after that. Every time they go for a walk when I'm working I get a full catalog of interesting birds I missed. Birding by proxy. + +It's not always birds of course. One evening the kids found a meadow vole under the bus, drinking from the tiny puddle of condensation that collects below the air conditioner. I imagine it's busy around that water at night. The vole apparently overstayed and got caught out in the open. The kids dug it some roots and piled them back in the shade, where it could eat, but still keep cool. We stepped in for dinner and when we came back out it had moved on. + +Later, after the kids were in bed, I sat out by the fire, listening as the evening sounds faded back to night sounds. The songbirds fell quiet. The woodpeckers stopped tapping. The whippoorwills started up. Later the deep voice of a great horned owl drifted up from somewhere down by the river below. I thought of the vole. Good luck out there friend. + +[^1]: At least not teaching the way we commonly do it in American schools. General strategies can often be conveyed well (aka, taught) but no one (kids or adults) learns when they aren't interested. And you can't force interest. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/10/elberton-county-fair.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/10/elberton-county-fair.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..df40d4d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/10/elberton-county-fair.html @@ -0,0 +1,631 @@ + + + + + County Fair - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    County Fair

    +

    Snow cones, rides, horses, and the banana derby

    +
    +
    +

    Richard B Russell State Park, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + Elberton county fair entrance sign, elberton GA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Once, years ago, Wired ran a Christmas wish list in which they asked each of the writers what we would want if we could have anything. I, fresh off the boat from southeast Asia, said: ubiquitous fast internet. These days I nearly have that and spend a good bit of time avoiding it.

    +

    I have a great fondness for places with no signal, but traveling with modems that connect to all three major U.S wireless carriers means those places are few and far between. Especially east the of the Mississippi. Which is why, when we pulled into to Richard B. Russell state park and discovered there was no cell service, I was caught off guard. It isn’t even remote. It has a golf course. We only came because everything else was booked.

    +

    I had work to do that afternoon so I did the only thing I could. I got in the car and drove into Elberton, which is how I discovered that the very next day was the opening of the Elberton 12-county Fair. As it says right there on the sign. That’s when I remembered that travel has its own agenda, it bends you to its will as it sees fit. If there had been signal, we’d have never made it to the fair. No fair, no monkeys racing on dogs. No one wants that. So no signal, yes fair.

    +
    + + Elberton county fair, entrance sign, elberton ga photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We got there early the next day just after it opened. We sprung for some wrist bands so the kids could ride whatever they wanted whenever they wanted. Then we ran into the height problem — there were far too many rides that not everyone could get on.

    +

    We managed though. I taught them how to stand up straight and how to walk toward the entrance with the surety of step that says, don’t even think about questioning my height. And it worked with all but one ride operater. Doesn’t matter where you go, there’s always that guy.

    +

    No matter what the situation, in the United States, there is always someone obsessed with the letter of the law, lacking the creativity to discern the spirit behind it. Or as my daughter put it with some degree of frustration and disgust “in Mexico this would never happen”. Mostly though, we had a blast.

    +
    + + + riding the merry-go-round elberton county fair photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + riding the merry-go-round elberton county fair photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + girl on a ride elberton county fair photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + whirling ride, elberton county fair photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + eating snowcones at the fair, elberton, ga photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + eating snowcones at the fair, elberton, ga photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    What surprised me was the solidarity. The one who could ride never did if the others could not. And there was no reluctance about it, the nose was very nearly upturned. She would not hear of it even when I encouraged her to go ahead.

    +
    + + running back for another turn, elberton county fair photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + at the top of the ferris wheel, elberton county fair photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I have thus far been pretty lucky with aging. It’s rare that I feel my age, but things that spin or swing or whirl? Yeah, I can’t do that anymore. Those spinning swings used to be my favorite as kid too. These days the Ferris wheel is about the speed I can comfortably spin. There’d have been snow cone syrup all over those spinning rides if I’d been on them. The girls loved the spinning swings though.

    +
    + + view from the top of the ferris wheel, elberton county fair photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + swinging chair ride, elberton county fair photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + swinging chair ride, elberton county fair photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + nascar ride, elberton county fair photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    There was a livestock section at the fair, nowhere near as serious or big as what we saw at the Montezuma County fair back in Colorado, but there were horses to pet at least.

    +
    + + + + running in a giant barrel at the Elberton County fair photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + farm bureau peanut sign at the fair photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + girl with horses, elberton county fair photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    And then there were the monkeys riding dogs. The Banana Derby.

    +

    “Monkey jockeys” I believe was the phrase.

    +
    + + monkeys riding dogs, elberton county fair photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I’m not sure what it is about small town fairs and monkeys, but I’ve seen them on two continents now, so I guess there’s some kind of universal appeal. Personally I find it far too much like rubber necking at an accident scene, but other people seem to like it. And unlike that night in Laos I just linked to, or the chicken chase at the fair in Colorado, this time we have video.

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    2 Comments

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    + Jake Igoe + December 25, 2019 at 8:38 p.m. +
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    Spinning rides, it’s the same with me! I used to take pride is how fast I could get the tilt-a-whirl spinning. Two summers ago, at the age of 40, I rode on it, at the county fair no less, and almost puked! It was, a sad, sad day. I knew my life had changed forever. Oh well, at least I can still do roller coasters.

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    + Scott + December 27, 2019 at 9:18 a.m. +
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    Jake-

    +

    I know the feeling. That’s interesting though about roller coasters. It’s been ages since I rode a roller coaster, but somehow I think I’d be fine too. It’s the spinning motion that gets me.

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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/10/elberton-county-fair.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/10/elberton-county-fair.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6710ea4 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/10/elberton-county-fair.txt @@ -0,0 +1,72 @@ +County Fair +=========== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 23 October 2019 + + + +Once, years ago, Wired ran a Christmas wish list in which they asked each of the writers what we would want if we could have anything. I, fresh off the boat from southeast Asia, said: ubiquitous fast internet. These days I nearly have that and spend a good bit of time avoiding it. + +I have a great fondness for places with no signal, but traveling with modems that connect to all three major U.S wireless carriers means those places are few and far between. Especially east the of the Mississippi. Which is why, when we pulled into to Richard B. Russell state park and discovered there was no cell service, I was caught off guard. It isn't even remote. It has a golf course. We only came because everything else was booked. + +I had work to do that afternoon so I did the only thing I could. I got in the car and drove into Elberton, which is how I discovered that the very next day was the opening of the Elberton 12-county Fair. As it says right there on the sign. That's when I remembered that travel has its own agenda, it bends you to its will as it sees fit. If there had been signal, we'd have never made it to the fair. No fair, no monkeys racing on dogs. No one wants that. So no signal, yes fair. + + + +We got there early the next day just after it opened. We sprung for some wrist bands so the kids could ride whatever they wanted whenever they wanted. Then we ran into the height problem -- there were far too many rides that not everyone could get on. + +We managed though. I taught them how to stand up straight and how to walk toward the entrance with the surety of step that says, don't even think about questioning my height. And it worked with all but one ride operater. Doesn't matter where you go, there's always *that guy*. + +No matter what the situation, in the United States, there is always someone obsessed with the letter of the law, lacking the creativity to discern the spirit behind it. Or as my daughter put it with some degree of frustration and disgust "in Mexico this would *never* happen". Mostly though, we had a blast. + +
    + + + + + + + + +
    + +What surprised me was the solidarity. The one who could ride never did if the others could not. And there was no reluctance about it, the nose was very nearly upturned. She would not hear of it even when I encouraged her to go ahead. + + + + +I have thus far been pretty lucky with aging. It's rare that I feel my age, but things that spin or swing or whirl? Yeah, I can't do that anymore. Those spinning swings used to be my favorite as kid too. These days the Ferris wheel is about the speed I can comfortably spin. There'd have been snow cone syrup all over those spinning rides if I'd been on them. The girls loved the spinning swings though. + + + + + + + +There was a livestock section at the fair, nowhere near as serious or big as what we saw at the [Montezuma County fair back in Colorado](/jrnl/2017/07/mancos-days), but there were horses to pet at least. + +
    + + + + + +
    + +And then there were the monkeys riding dogs. The Banana Derby. + +"Monkey jockeys" I believe was the phrase. + + + +I'm not sure what it is about [small town fairs and monkeys](/jrnl/2006/02/cant-get-there-here), but I've seen them on two continents now, so I guess there's some kind of universal appeal. Personally I find it far too much like rubber necking at an accident scene, but other people seem to like it. And unlike that night in Laos I just linked to, or [the chicken chase at the fair in Colorado](/jrnl/2017/07/mancos-days), this time we have video. + +
    + +
    diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/11/halloween-watson-mill.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/11/halloween-watson-mill.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..34d68e9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/11/halloween-watson-mill.html @@ -0,0 +1,545 @@ + + + + + Halloween - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Halloween

    +

    Returning to civilization for the candy

    +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Autumn has finally arrived in this part of the world. A series of fronts have been moving through, delivering crisp cold mornings one day and then damp foggy ones the next.

    +
    + + watson mill bridge in the fog, watson mill state park photographed by Corrinne Gilbertson + +
    image by Corrinne Gilbertson
    +
    + +

    One thing I think that’s not obvious to people who don’t live this way is how much more the weather becomes a part of your life. Living in an RV is effectively living outside. And living outside is living with weather.

    +

    We do have a warm dry place to retreat to when we absolutely need it, for which we’re thankful, but for the most part we stay outdoors, even when it’s wet. That’s what rain boots and jackets are for after all.

    +
    + + playing in the rain, watson mill state park photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + hiking in the rain, watson mill state park photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + horses sculpted out of fall leaves photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    What an amazing thing to live in the day and age of waterproof clothing. Every time I see the kids out there playing in the rain I’m thankful for warm, rubberized clothing. I don’t image rain is nearly as much fun when the options are cotton, wool, or buckskin.

    +
    + +

    After a few weeks out in the country, we came back to town for Halloween. And by town I mean Watson Mill State Park, which is about 30 minutes outside Athens. We don’t really get much closer than that to towns.

    +

    In hindsight we should have stayed further away.

    +

    There was Halloween hayride that more or less ruined Watson Mill for the week. A group that erroneously calls itself the Friends of Watson Mill, takes over the campground every year at Halloween and set up a bunch of cheesy horror movie decorations, flashing lights, and “haunted” sounds. For a few dollars they’ll drag you around in a trailer full of hay pulled behind a tiny, diesel-belching tractor.

    +

    It should be an innocuous, possibly even fun, thing. But it’s not. The people doing it manage to make it, at best, annoying, more often infuriating. We’ve never camped around a more dour, humorless, and downright rude group of people as the Friends of Watson Mill. They also completely trashed the place. We’ve never seen the campground as big of a mess as these people left it.

    +

    But we didn’t know any of that was happening when we made our reservation. We just wanted the kids to get a chance to spend Halloween with friends and Watson Mill seemed like the best place to stay while we did that. Thankfully, other than when we walked around the campground, we were mostly able to ignore the haunted hayride decorations.

    +

    The kids are at the perfect age for Halloween: old enough to think getting candy is the best thing ever, young enough to not worry about anything else. This year I made the mistake of introducing them to the theme song from the original Ghostbusters movie. Weeks later, we’re still listening to it on a daily basis.

    +
    + + kids in halloween costumes photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + kids at the door of a house, trick-or-treating photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    This Halloween the kids had to work more than usual for their candy. We ended up in a neighborhood where the houses were spread out on giant lots. Sometimes it was nearly a quarter mile from doorbell to doorbell, all which must of course be run at full speed.

    +
    + + kids trick-or-treating at a house with a very long driveway photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + trick-or-treating photographed by luxagraf + +
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    + + trick-or-treating at sunset photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    On the bright side, by the end of the night, everyone was exhausted. The hayride had packed it in the day before, so we came home to blissfully quiet, empty woods. And despite all the candy consumed on the way home, all the running won in the end. Everyone went out like a light.

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    You might also enjoy
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
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    + + +
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    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/11/halloween-watson-mill.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/11/halloween-watson-mill.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d198362 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/11/halloween-watson-mill.txt @@ -0,0 +1,45 @@ +Halloween +========= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 06 November 2019 + +Autumn has finally arrived in this part of the world. A series of fronts have been moving through, delivering crisp cold mornings one day and then damp foggy ones the next. + + + +One thing I think that's not obvious to people who don't live this way is how much more the weather becomes a part of your life. Living in an RV is effectively living outside. And living outside is living with weather. + +We do have a warm dry place to retreat to when we absolutely need it, for which we're thankful, but for the most part we stay outdoors, even when it's wet. That's what rain boots and jackets are for after all. + + + + + +What an amazing thing to live in the day and age of waterproof clothing. Every time I see the kids out there playing in the rain I'm thankful for warm, rubberized clothing. I don't image rain is nearly as much fun when the options are cotton, wool, or buckskin. + +
    + +After a few weeks out in the country, we came back to town for Halloween. And by town I mean Watson Mill State Park, which is about 30 minutes outside Athens. We don't really get much closer than that to towns. + +In hindsight we should have stayed further away. + +There was Halloween hayride that more or less ruined Watson Mill for the week. A group that erroneously calls itself the Friends of Watson Mill, takes over the campground every year at Halloween and set up a bunch of cheesy horror movie decorations, flashing lights, and "haunted" sounds. For a few dollars they'll drag you around in a trailer full of hay pulled behind a tiny, diesel-belching tractor. + +It should be an innocuous, possibly even fun, thing. But it's not. The people doing it manage to make it, at best, annoying, more often infuriating. We've never camped around a more dour, humorless, and downright rude group of people as the Friends of Watson Mill. They also completely trashed the place. We've never seen the campground as big of a mess as these people left it. + +But we didn't know any of that was happening when we made our reservation. We just wanted the kids to get a chance to spend Halloween with friends and Watson Mill seemed like the best place to stay while we did that. Thankfully, other than when we walked around the campground, we were mostly able to ignore the haunted hayride decorations. + +The kids are at the perfect age for Halloween: old enough to think getting candy is the best thing ever, young enough to not worry about anything else. This year I made the mistake of introducing them to the theme song from the original Ghostbusters movie. Weeks later, we're still listening to it on a daily basis. + + + + +This Halloween the kids had to work more than usual for their candy. We ended up in a neighborhood where the houses were spread out on giant lots. Sometimes it was nearly a quarter mile from doorbell to doorbell, all which must of course be run at full speed. + + + + + +On the bright side, by the end of the night, everyone was exhausted. The hayride had packed it in the day before, so we came home to blissfully quiet, empty woods. And despite all the candy consumed on the way home, all the running won in the end. Everyone went out like a light. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/11/land.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/11/land.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..38c64fe --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/11/land.html @@ -0,0 +1,647 @@ + + + + + Land - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Land

    +

    Living things inside the living thing

    +
    +
    +

    Watson Mill State Park, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Out here the land is always present in you. The smell of wet leaves in your nose after a rain. The glittery glare of stream water in the noonday sun in your eye. The sharp crack of a twig breaking under foot. The grit of fresh soil under your nails. The silence of snow pressing in on your ears.

    +
    + + bright orange maple tree, fall colors photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + close up of bright orange leaves, fall colors photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The land is everywhere around you, in you. You come out here and you find it again. Right where it always was.

    +

    Land reciprocates. The deeper you go, the more it reaches out to you, into you. The more you become part of the land, the world, the more it becomes part of you. It’s a simple truth I suspect good gardeners, farmers, anyone still living in the land knows well.

    +
    + + mossy green tree stump and log photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The land is how we locate ourselves, our past, our present, how we measure the scale of ourselves in the world. We lose touch without the landscape to remind us. The land operates on a different scale. Some of the trees near me right now were seedlings during the civil war. The rocks record forgotten dreams of yesterday’s creatures. The land turns us all back into land eventually.

    +

    Let the land define your scale and your sense of the world enlarges. The way you see yourself within the world changes. Not in a reasoned, philosophical sense, but in a lived, experienced sense.

    +
    + + girl in a red coat, small figure lost in forest photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + orange flames of campfire in the night photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It envelopes you slowly and subtly. At first you hardly notice. But then you notice things. You begin to sense the rhythms of the land. Your body soon knows when the sun rises. The hour of the day becomes less a number, more a quality of light. You notice the phase of the moon, where it is in the sky, when it rises, when it sets. Soon you know without thinking which way is east.

    +

    None of these are things I set out to learn. They are simply things I have come to know. Extra dimensions of experience that were always there, but in the background. They are not the background of the story though, they are the story.

    +

    I wish I could claim that this all dawned on me, or came to me in some profound way, but it did not. It was gradual. So gradual I can’t even go back and trace the path of thoughts that led me here, or even find an origin. It arrived so slowly and subtly it felt as if it were something I had always known. So obvious in hindsight it’s now impossible to imagine a time when I did not think this way. And I don’t think twice about any of it, until I brush up against those for whom these things are not so much a part of daily life.

    +
    + + flock of birds in the sky photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + children with buckets by the riverside, athens, ga photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + exploring the river, athens, ga photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I try to keep it in check around others. It feels like censoring myself, like I am holding back key elements of the story by leaving out all these details, but I also think it’s the polite thing to do. I do not like to impose my world on anyone. It is okay to do here, you came here of your own free will. You can easily leave here of you own free will and I will never know. But I do not usually speak of these things in person.

    +

    Still, I would be lying if I said I am the same person who drove out of Athens three years ago. And I’m not sure that the experiences that lie between then and now are the reason. The more time I spend thinking on it, the more I think it is not me at all. It is this land. It is this world, what is left of it, that reached out and grabbed me in ways I was not expecting.

    +
    + + + forested hill, fall, bare trees and brown leaves photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + orange mushroom growing on the forest floor photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + three children sitting on a fallen tree photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    As I told someone the other day, it’s all good and well to go out in the woods, but one day you’ll realize you’re not talking to the trees, you’re listening to them. And once that door swings open, there is no closing it. Once you see the world this way you cannot unsee it. It stays with you, it is part of you.

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    You might also enjoy
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    + +
    + Gwen + December 30, 2019 at 8:31 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Have you read any Wendell Berry? It seems like you would appreciate him.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + December 31, 2019 at 10:44 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Gwen-

    +

    Not really. I read some essays once upon a time in college, but I don’t remember anything really. I will put him on the list for the new year, thanks.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + DREW ELDRIDGE + January 29, 2020 at 2:59 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    My favorite passage so far.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/11/land.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/11/land.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9892f06 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/11/land.txt @@ -0,0 +1,48 @@ +Land +==== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 13 November 2019 + +Out here the land is always present in you. The smell of wet leaves in your nose after a rain. The glittery glare of stream water in the noonday sun in your eye. The sharp crack of a twig breaking under foot. The grit of fresh soil under your nails. The silence of snow pressing in on your ears. + + + + +The land is everywhere around you, in you. You come out here and you find it again. Right where it always was. + +Land reciprocates. The deeper you go, the more it reaches out to you, into you. The more you become part of the land, the world, the more it becomes part of you. It's a simple truth I suspect good gardeners, farmers, anyone still living in the land knows well. + + + +The land is how we locate ourselves, our past, our present, how we measure the scale of ourselves in the world. We lose touch without the landscape to remind us. The land operates on a different scale. Some of the trees near me right now were seedlings during the civil war. The rocks record forgotten dreams of yesterday's creatures. The land turns us all back into land eventually. + +Let the land define your scale and your sense of the world enlarges. The way you see yourself within the world changes. Not in a reasoned, philosophical sense, but in a lived, experienced sense. + + + + +It envelopes you slowly and subtly. At first you hardly notice. But then you notice things. You begin to sense the rhythms of the land. Your body soon knows when the sun rises. The hour of the day becomes less a number, more a quality of light. You notice the phase of the moon, where it is in the sky, when it rises, when it sets. Soon you know without thinking which way is east. + +None of these are things I set out to learn. They are simply things I have come to know. Extra dimensions of experience that were always there, but in the background. They are not the background of the story though, they are the story. + +I wish I could claim that this all dawned on me, or came to me in some profound way, but it did not. It was gradual. So gradual I can't even go back and trace the path of thoughts that led me here, or even find an origin. It arrived so slowly and subtly it felt as if it were something I had always known. So obvious in hindsight it's now impossible to imagine a time when I did not think this way. And I don't think twice about any of it, until I brush up against those for whom these things are not so much a part of daily life. + + + + + +I try to keep it in check around others. It feels like censoring myself, like I am holding back key elements of the story by leaving out all these details, but I also think it's the polite thing to do. I do not like to impose my world on anyone. It is okay to do here, you came here of your own free will. You can easily leave here of you own free will and I will never know. But I do not usually speak of these things in person. + +Still, I would be lying if I said I am the same person who drove out of Athens three years ago. And I'm not sure that the experiences that lie between then and now are the reason. The more time I spend thinking on it, the more I think it is not me at all. It is this land. It is this world, what is left of it, that reached out and grabbed me in ways I was not expecting. + +
    + + + + + +
    + +As I told someone the other day, it's all good and well to go out in the woods, but one day you'll realize you're not talking to the trees, you're listening to them. And once that door swings open, there is no closing it. Once you see the world this way you cannot unsee it. It stays with you, it is part of you. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/12/birthday-beach.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/12/birthday-beach.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0390a70 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/12/birthday-beach.html @@ -0,0 +1,635 @@ + + + + + Birthday At The Beach - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Birthday at the Beach

    +

    It wasn’t especially warm, but we made it back to the coast

    +
    +
    +

    Edisto Island, South Carolina, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Last year I promised Elliott that he and I would have our birthday at the beach, and we did.

    +
    + + playing at the beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    But next year I’m upping the specificity: we’re going to have our birthday at a beach where it’s warm.

    +

    Not that I’m complaining. Cold beaches beat no beaches any day. And a couple days after our birthday it warmed up and we had a week of great, relatively warm, weather.

    +

    The birthday celebrations started dark and early. Elliott was out of bed and asking to open presents at 5:30 in the morning.

    +
    + + + starting in on the birthday presents before the sun was even up photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + opening presents birthday morning photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + birthday boy opening foam glider planes photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + new red baseball hat photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + opening birthday gifts photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + birthday boy putting together lego photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    After some breakfast it warmed up enough to get outside and play. And there was one more present waiting outdoors.

    +
    + + + kids throwing foam airplanes photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + throwing foam gliders photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + birthday boy playing photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + birthday boy opening his new bike photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + birthday boy on his new yellow bike photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + practicing riding new bike photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    The most played with item of the day was… the cardboard box the bike came in. It was a raft, a houseboat, and several other things I wasn’t allowed to know. For all the plastic in the world, it’s been my observation that kids are best entertained with cardboard, sticks, mud, and the occasional bit of rope or twine.

    +
    + + playing with a cardboard box (they made it a raft) photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + playing on a box photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It wouldn’t be a birthday without a pinata. As happened last year there was nothing around to string it up with so we just stuck it on the end of a stick and hoped for the best. Two years running with no injuries is probably pushing it.

    +
    + + + birthday boy taking a swing at the pinata photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + birthday pinata photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + swinging stick at pinata photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + blowing out the birthday candles photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    After plenty of cake — and no, it was not waffle cake this time around — we headed down to the beach to burn off some sugar-driven energy. It may not have been all that warm, but there’s pretty much no such thing as a bad day at the beach.

    +
    + + running on the beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + playing at the beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    +
    +
    +
    You might also enjoy
    + +
    +
    + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/12/birthday-beach.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/12/birthday-beach.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ab63ae6 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/12/birthday-beach.txt @@ -0,0 +1,62 @@ +Birthday at the Beach +===================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Sunday, 22 December 2019 + +Last year I promised Elliott that he and I would have our birthday at the beach, and we did. + + + +But next year I'm upping the specificity: we're going to have our birthday at a beach *where it's warm*. + +Not that I'm complaining. Cold beaches beat no beaches any day. And a couple days after our birthday it warmed up and we had a week of great, relatively warm, weather. + +The birthday celebrations started dark and early. Elliott was out of bed and asking to open presents at 5:30 in the morning. + +
    + + + + + + + + +
    + +After some breakfast it warmed up enough to get outside and play. And there was one more present waiting outdoors. + +
    + + + + + + + + +
    + +The most played with item of the day was... the cardboard box the bike came in. It was a raft, a houseboat, and several other things I wasn't allowed to know. For all the plastic in the world, it's been my observation that kids are best entertained with cardboard, sticks, mud, and the occasional bit of rope or twine. + + + + + +It wouldn't be a birthday without a pinata. As happened [last year](/jrnl/2018/12/four) there was nothing around to string it up with so we just stuck it on the end of a stick and hoped for the best. Two years running with no injuries is probably pushing it. + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +After plenty of cake -- and no, it was not [waffle cake](/essay/waffle-world) this time around -- we headed down to the beach to burn off some sugar-driven energy. It may not have been all that warm, but there's pretty much no such thing as a bad day at the beach. + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/12/holiday-island.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/12/holiday-island.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..31f21c4 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/12/holiday-island.html @@ -0,0 +1,656 @@ + + + + + Holiday Island - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Holiday Island

    +

    Christmas at the beach

    +
    +
    +

    Edisto Island, South Carolina, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    It rained pretty much all day for a couple days. We spent way too much time indoors. Thankfully there were a lot of recent birthday gifts to keep the kids occupied.

    +

    We considered giving the kids their new rain boots a few days early, but the nice thing about storms in South Carolina is that even at Christmas, it’s warm enough for flipflops.

    +
    + + kids splashing in the rain, edisto state park, south carolina photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The rain let up the day before Christmas. The wind and cold came in behind the storm, but it wasn’t bad enough to keep us off the beach. Looking at our kids you’d never know it was cold. They’d have been swimming if we’d let them. And we would have let them if the surf wasn’t so rough. They settled for running around at the shoreline exploring all the treasure the storm brought ashore.

    +
    + + Edisto beach, storm clouds in the distance photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + horseshoe crab shell in the sand, edisto beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + kids playing on the beach at sunset, stormy skies photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Some friends of ours come to Edisto for Christmas every year. When they found out we were going to be in the area as well, they invited us over for some cookie decorating on Christmas eve. It was kid sugar heaven.

    +

    Normally this is the sort of thing I like to do early in the day and then take the kids out somewhere and let them run off the sugar. I was surprised at their restraint though. They went over the top decorating cookies, but they didn’t eating them. I mean they ate their fill, but their fill turned out to not be very many. I’d have eaten the lot and been sick.

    +
    + + + eating christmas eve cookies photographed by luxagraf + + + + + +
    + + eating an over decorated cookie photographed by luxagraf +
    I think she made it through about two bites and then it was too much.
    +
    + + + + +
    + + over decorated christmas cookie photographed by luxagraf +
    All the usual toppings: frosting, heart shaped sprinkles, marshmellows, Skittles, and chicletts.
    +
    + + +     +
    + +

    I’m sure anyone with kids can say the same, but Christmas started before dawn. I never realized it until I had kids, but stockings aren’t about gifts, they’re about stalling the main present opening long enough to make some coffee. And monkey bread. Coffee is even better with monkey bread.

    +

    My favorite part of Christmas, or any other time there’s gifts being given, is watching the kids give each other gifts. They have the same look of anticipation and excitement watching someone open a gift they’ve carefully picked out as they do getting something themselves. It’s impossible to strip the gross face of consumer culture from Christmas at this point, but there’s these little moments like this, the honest enthusiasm of giving and sharing, where I can see what it must have once been like, not all that long ago.

    +
    + + + kids opening christmas presents photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + thank you hugs after opening christmas presents photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + kids holding up magnifying glass photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + playing the christmas ukellele photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + looking a shells through a magnifying glass photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    After Christmas it was back to the beach to see what new treasures had come ashore. The sea is a little like Santa Claus. But real.

    +
    + + searching the shore for sharks teeth. photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Walking the shoreline at low tide photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + starfish on the sand photographed by luxagraf + +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    +
    +
    +
    You might also enjoy
    + +
    +
    + + + + + +

    2 Comments

    + + + + + + +
    + +
    + +
    + Patty Hahn + January 23, 2020 at 5:59 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    so interesting. Good writing! Kids are

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + DREW ELDRIDGE + January 29, 2020 at 3:04 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Have the kids figured out what they should and should not burn with the magnifying glasses :)

    + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/12/holiday-island.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/12/holiday-island.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..97ae70f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2019/12/holiday-island.txt @@ -0,0 +1,50 @@ +Holiday Island +============== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Tuesday, 31 December 2019 + +It rained pretty much all day for a couple days. We spent way too much time indoors. Thankfully there were a lot of recent birthday gifts to keep the kids occupied. + +We considered giving the kids their new rain boots a few days early, but the nice thing about storms in South Carolina is that even at Christmas, it's warm enough for flipflops. + + + +The rain let up the day before Christmas. The wind and cold came in behind the storm, but it wasn't bad enough to keep us off the beach. Looking at our kids you'd never know it was cold. They'd have been swimming if we'd let them. And we would have let them if the surf wasn't so rough. They settled for running around at the shoreline exploring all the treasure the storm brought ashore. + + + + + +Some friends of ours come to Edisto for Christmas every year. When they found out we were going to be in the area as well, they invited us over for some cookie decorating on Christmas eve. It was kid sugar heaven. + +Normally this is the sort of thing I like to do early in the day and then take the kids out somewhere and let them run off the sugar. I was surprised at their restraint though. They went over the top decorating cookies, but they didn't eating them. I mean they ate their fill, but their fill turned out to not be very many. I'd have eaten the lot and been sick. + +
    + + + + + +
    + +I'm sure anyone with kids can say the same, but Christmas started before dawn. I never realized it until I had kids, but stockings aren't about gifts, they're about stalling the main present opening long enough to make some coffee. And monkey bread. Coffee is even better with monkey bread. + +My favorite part of Christmas, or any other time there's gifts being given, is watching the kids give each other gifts. They have the same look of anticipation and excitement watching someone open a gift they've carefully picked out as they do getting something themselves. It's impossible to strip the gross face of consumer culture from Christmas at this point, but there's these little moments like this, the honest enthusiasm of giving and sharing, where I can see what it must have once been like, not all that long ago. + +
    + + + + + + + +
    + +After Christmas it was back to the beach to see what new treasures had come ashore. The sea is a little like Santa Claus. But real. + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/01/traveling.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/01/traveling.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..83bac95 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/01/traveling.html @@ -0,0 +1,630 @@ + + + + + Traveling - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Traveling

    +

    The peculiar habit of leaving home for fun.

    +
    +
    +

    Newport Beach, California, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    I dislike traveling.

    +

    This will seem like a strange comment coming from someone like me, but it’s true. I don’t like traveling. By traveling I mean leaving home, leaving your sanctuary, your familiar. To leave is to disconnect, to be adrift. It’s exhilarating in one way, draining and tragic in another.

    +

    Maybe it’s neither and I complain too much. Still, I have never seen living in the big blue bus as traveling. My home is like yours. I am just as connected to it. It may move from place to place, but I never leave home. Or I try not to anyway. Sometimes you do though.

    +

    First I went to Las Vegas for work. Las Vegas is America turned to 11. It’s awful, but also hard to look away. The Strip, where I stayed, is strange place, like being inside a pinball machine, bouncing from bright light to bright light. At least there was good Thai food. I got to see some old friends and make some new ones. It was a lot more fun than I thought it would be, but Las Vegas is still just… too much.

    +

    The last night I was there I walked a couple miles to try to get a better sense of the city. I started from my hotel, went down the strip, and turned west at the first street. The desert air was sharp and clear, so dry you worry it’ll start crackling.

    +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + the strip, las vegas photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Once you’re fifty feet away from the strip Las Vegas becomes an ordinary western city. I walked broad highway-like streets designed never to be walked. I took a convoluted freeway overpass walkway lined with the tents of a homeless village. It was a warm night for January. Several people returned my hello from beneath nylon tarps.

    +

    After a while time ran out for my walk and I called a ride. I met some old friends for dinner. It was nice to be around normal people after a week on the strip. It’s exhausting being in crowds in Vegas. The desperation and longing are palpable and it seeps into you. Later I caught another ride straight back to the hotel. I took a cold shower and caught a plane back home before the sun rose.

    +
    + + predawn las vegas photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + +

    A couple a weeks later the kids and I boarded a plane for Los Angeles to visit my parents. Corrinne went to Mexico to visit her parents.

    +

    Newport Beach, where my parents live, was warm. Warmth in January? Yes, please. The kids got to spend a week with their grandparents, nearly every day of it at the beach. It wasn’t always sunny, but it was never cold, and that was all that mattered.

    +
    + + Kids on the jetty, newport beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + surfers, newport beach, ca photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + seagulls, newport pier, newport beach, ca photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Even the gray, overcast didn’t dampen anyone’s enthusiasm for the beach. We tried going inland one day, to the La Brea Tar Pits, but despite the bones and fossils, it failed to generate much enthusiasm.

    +
    + + at the la brea tar pits photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It was funny how much the drive and L.A. traffic dampened the kids’ enthusiasm for it. I’d never really considered it before, but our kids hardly ever spend time in a car. True, we drive all over the country, but it’s rare that they’re in the car for more than a couple hours. On the rare occassionas that they are, at the end of it there’s a whole new world to explore. And it doesn’t happen again for weeks after that.

    +

    Our kids have no idea what it’s like to sit in a car seat for hours on end, stuck in traffic after school, or running errands around a city, and the taste they got on this trip left them unimpressed. After that experience we stuck to the beach. Whole worlds to explore there. Even foggy days at the beach beat a car ride any day.

    +
    + + Sea anemone, newport beach, ca photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + climbing in the jetty rocks, newport beach, ca photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + kids on the jetty, newport beach, ca photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + playing on the jetty, newport beach, ca photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + black and white photo of boy looking out at sea, newport beach, ca photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + None photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Luckily the gloom only lasted two days. The rest of the time we got to live that luxury that is a southern California January — sunny and 75. We explored the jetties, ate plenty of tacos, and even managed to get some swimming in on the warmest day of our stay.

    +
    + + playing in the water, newport beach, ca photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + playing in the water, newport beach, ca photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Playing on the jetty, Newport Beach, CA photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + playing on the jetty, newport beach, ca photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    And then just when we’d found a bit of familiar we were yanked back out of it, disconnected. Slammed in a metal tube and shot back across the country.

    +

    I am convinced that future generations will look back, long after the cheap oil is gone and flying is a luxury, if it’s possible at all, and marvel at our extravagances and peculiar habit of air travel, wondering why we did it at all, and ostensibly for fun.

    +

    Which is to say, we were all glad to be back home, together.

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    +
    +
    +
    You might also enjoy
    + +
    +
    + + + + + +

    2 Comments

    + + + + + + +
    + +
    + +
    + Patty Hahn + March 04, 2020 at 5:57 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Really enjoyed the writing of your travel and your description of Las Vegas and the plane going home is right on

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + March 05, 2020 at 11:37 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Patty-

    +

    Thank you, glad you enjoyed it.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/01/traveling.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/01/traveling.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..88d6bfc --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/01/traveling.txt @@ -0,0 +1,63 @@ +Traveling +========= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 22 January 2020 + +I dislike traveling. + +This will seem like a strange comment coming from someone like me, but it's true. I don't like traveling. By traveling I mean leaving home, leaving your sanctuary, your familiar. To leave is to disconnect, to be adrift. It's exhilarating in one way, draining and tragic in another. + +Maybe it's neither and I complain too much. Still, I have never seen living in the big blue bus as traveling. My home is like yours. I am just as connected to it. It may move from place to place, but I never leave home. Or I try not to anyway. Sometimes you do though. + +First I went to Las Vegas for work. Las Vegas is America turned to 11. It's awful, but also hard to look away. The Strip, where I stayed, is strange place, like being inside a pinball machine, bouncing from bright light to bright light. At least there was good Thai food. I got to see some old friends and make some new ones. It was a lot more fun than I thought it would be, but Las Vegas is still just... too much. + +The last night I was there I walked a couple miles to try to get a better sense of the city. I started from my hotel, went down the strip, and turned west at the first street. The desert air was sharp and clear, so dry you worry it'll start crackling. + + + + +Once you're fifty feet away from the strip Las Vegas becomes an ordinary western city. I walked broad highway-like streets designed never to be walked. I took a convoluted freeway overpass walkway lined with the tents of a homeless village. It was a warm night for January. Several people returned my hello from beneath nylon tarps. + +After a while time ran out for my walk and I called a ride. I met some old friends for dinner. It was nice to be around normal people after a week on the strip. It's exhausting being in crowds in Vegas. The desperation and longing are palpable and it seeps into you. Later I caught another ride straight back to the hotel. I took a cold shower and caught a plane back home before the sun rose. + + + +
    + +A couple a weeks later the kids and I boarded a plane for Los Angeles to visit my parents. Corrinne went to Mexico to visit her parents. + +Newport Beach, where my parents live, was warm. Warmth in January? Yes, please. The kids got to spend a week with their grandparents, nearly every day of it at the beach. It wasn't always sunny, but it was never cold, and that was all that mattered. + + + + + +Even the gray, overcast didn't dampen anyone's enthusiasm for the beach. We tried going inland one day, to the La Brea Tar Pits, but despite the bones and fossils, it failed to generate much enthusiasm. + + + +It was funny how much the drive and L.A. traffic dampened the kids' enthusiasm for it. I'd never really considered it before, but our kids hardly ever spend time in a car. True, we drive all over the country, but it's rare that they're in the car for more than a couple hours. On the rare occassionas that they are, at the end of it there's a whole new world to explore. And it doesn't happen again for weeks after that. + +Our kids have no idea what it's like to sit in a car seat for hours on end, stuck in traffic after school, or running errands around a city, and the taste they got on this trip left them unimpressed. After that experience we stuck to the beach. Whole worlds to explore there. Even foggy days at the beach beat a car ride any day. + + + + + + + + +Luckily the gloom only lasted two days. The rest of the time we got to live that luxury that is a southern California January -- sunny and 75. We explored the jetties, ate plenty of tacos, and even managed to get some swimming in on the warmest day of our stay. + + + + + + +And then just when we'd found a bit of familiar we were yanked back out of it, disconnected. Slammed in a metal tube and shot back across the country. + +I am convinced that future generations will look back, long after the cheap oil is gone and flying is a luxury, if it's possible at all, and marvel at our extravagances and peculiar habit of air travel, wondering why we did it at all, and ostensibly for fun. + +Which is to say, we were all glad to be back home, together. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/01/walking.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/01/walking.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..de7fae8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/01/walking.html @@ -0,0 +1,616 @@ + + + + + Walking - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Walking

    +

    The world is large, feet are small, better get started.

    +
    +
    +

    Charleston, South Carolina, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    We’ve never stayed at the beach front campground in Edisto. We prefer the marsh campground, back from the beach, on the inland side of the salt grass marsh. It’s not any less crowded, but there’s at least some vegetation between sites.

    +

    There’s a trail that makes a roughly mile long loop through the marsh. It’s partly boardwalk built over the water, and partly a sandy trail that follows a series of hammocks running half the length of the marsh. I managed to get out on it most mornings, partly for the birding, partly to experiment with a walking form of meditation. I tried to time it so I’d be in the middle of the marsh at or around dawn.

    +
    + + Boardwalk trail, edisto marsh photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Edisto marsh at dawn photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It’s winter, which means many of the birds are well south, but there were enough around the make it interesting. I sat most mornings on the edge of the marsh for a few minutes marking all the slow waders that would disappear the minute I stepped out of the shadows. A kingfisher never cared what I did, it just fished and shrieked. As you do fishing.

    +

    I stumbled upon and startled the same hooded merganzer couple three mornings in a row. The first time it was a true surprise to all present when I rounded a corner and there they were. The second time we were all more startled that it had happened again, than startled I think. By the third morning it was no longer shocking, none of us flinched, we merely regarded each other for a while before moving on, they deeper into the water channels tracing their way through the marsh, me to the sandy side of the marsh walk.

    +
    + + marsh at dawn, edisto, SC photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Edisto Marsh at dawn, Edisto, SC photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    One morning there was almost no bird life at all. I was standing in the middle of the boardwalk, wondering where everyone had gone, when a black glimmer of shadow shot across the water beside me. I knew it was an eagle before I ever looked up. I spent some time later trying to work out how I knew that, but I never arrived at anything beyond: I felt it.

    +

    By the time I found it with the binoculars it was on the far side of the marsh perched exactly where you’d expect an eagle to land, near the top of a huge dead pine, sitting on the most gnarled, skeletal branch. It sat watching the marsh, feathers ruffled, head cocked, unperturbed by cars passing on the road below.

    +

    As long as it was out there bird life in the marsh ceased. The kingfisher was still out fishing, but he was decidedly quite. Everything else made itself scarce. I walked the rest of the way back to the campground without touching my binoculars. When you see a bald eagle you see little else. It’s worth the trade off.

    +
    + +

    Charleston is a good town for wandering. The main street is mostly shopping, but if you duck off on the side streets you’ll stumble across all sort of odd things, little parks, squares, churches, centuries old buildings abound.

    +

    We’ve always used the lack of laundry in Edisto as an excuse to drive up to Charleston. It’s like a tradition at this point — we do our laundry, eat some Thai or Vietnamese, and wander the streets of downtown, seeing what we see, including something new for us in our travels: a sunscreen dispenser.

    +
    + + downtown charleston SC photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + ferns growing on tree, charleston, SC photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Sunscreen dispenser, charleston, SC photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I don’t know why I find this so disturbing but I do. There’s some kind of cautionary metaphor in this disgusting clump of caked white paste, but I’m not exactly sure what it is yet.

    +
    + + Demosthenian Literary Society building, charleston, SC photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + sign for Elliott House Inn photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Sometimes, when you’re young, you’ve just had enough of walking. You just want to stand still and fish. Our friends Charlie and Allison have been coming down here for decades and they showed us the best fishing spots. This one was ridiculous. I’ve never fished somewhere you could throw out a line, wait less than five minutes and reel in a fish. Consistently. For hours. Best place to take your kids fishing ever.

    +
    + + + boy fishing photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + boy with a fish on the line photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + girl hold a fish she caught photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + + catching a blue crab photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + blue crab photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    Standing still has its place, but if you’re young and you happen to live with us, you’ll probably be walking again before too long. The world is too big to see standing still.

    +
    + + + walking the beach at Edisto photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + shadow portrait photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + shadow self portrait photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + shell with a resident photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + holding hand walking the beach photographed by luxagraf + + + +
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    You might also enjoy
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    2 Comments

    + + + + + + +
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    + Bret Medbury + February 27, 2020 at 8:41 p.m. +
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    Wow, so well written. Love it.

    + +
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    + Scott + March 03, 2020 at 8:27 a.m. +
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    + +

    Bret-

    +

    Thank you very much! Glad you enjoyed it.

    + +
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    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/01/walking.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/01/walking.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b851bc9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/01/walking.txt @@ -0,0 +1,66 @@ +Walking +======= + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 08 January 2020 + +We've never stayed at the beach front campground in Edisto. We prefer the marsh campground, back from the beach, on the inland side of the salt grass marsh. It's not any less crowded, but there's at least some vegetation between sites. + +There's a trail that makes a roughly mile long loop through the marsh. It's partly boardwalk built over the water, and partly a sandy trail that follows a series of hammocks running half the length of the marsh. I managed to get out on it most mornings, partly for the birding, partly to experiment with a walking form of meditation. I tried to time it so I'd be in the middle of the marsh at or around dawn. + + + + +It's winter, which means many of the birds are well south, but there were enough around the make it interesting. I sat most mornings on the edge of the marsh for a few minutes marking all the slow waders that would disappear the minute I stepped out of the shadows. A kingfisher never cared what I did, it just fished and shrieked. As you do fishing. + +I stumbled upon and startled the same hooded merganzer couple three mornings in a row. The first time it was a true surprise to all present when I rounded a corner and there they were. The second time we were all more startled that it had happened again, than startled I think. By the third morning it was no longer shocking, none of us flinched, we merely regarded each other for a while before moving on, they deeper into the water channels tracing their way through the marsh, me to the sandy side of the marsh walk. + + + + +One morning there was almost no bird life at all. I was standing in the middle of the boardwalk, wondering where everyone had gone, when a black glimmer of shadow shot across the water beside me. I knew it was an eagle before I ever looked up. I spent some time later trying to work out how I knew that, but I never arrived at anything beyond: I felt it. + +By the time I found it with the binoculars it was on the far side of the marsh perched exactly where you'd expect an eagle to land, near the top of a huge dead pine, sitting on the most gnarled, skeletal branch. It sat watching the marsh, feathers ruffled, head cocked, unperturbed by cars passing on the road below. + +As long as it was out there bird life in the marsh ceased. The kingfisher was still out fishing, but he was decidedly quite. Everything else made itself scarce. I walked the rest of the way back to the campground without touching my binoculars. When you see a bald eagle you see little else. It's worth the trade off. + +
    + +Charleston is a good town for wandering. The main street is mostly shopping, but if you duck off on the side streets you'll stumble across all sort of odd things, little parks, squares, churches, centuries old buildings abound. + +We've always used the lack of laundry in Edisto as an excuse to drive up to Charleston. It's like a tradition at this point -- we do our laundry, eat some Thai or Vietnamese, and wander the streets of downtown, seeing what we see, including something new for us in our travels: a sunscreen dispenser. + + + + + +I don't know why I find this so disturbing but I do. There's some kind of cautionary metaphor in this disgusting clump of caked white paste, but I'm not exactly sure what it is yet. + + + + +Sometimes, when you're young, you've just had enough of walking. You just want to stand still and fish. Our friends Charlie and Allison have been coming down here for decades and they showed us the best fishing spots. This one was ridiculous. I've never fished somewhere you could throw out a line, wait less than five minutes and reel in a fish. Consistently. For hours. Best place to take your kids fishing ever. + +
    + + + + + + + + + +
    + +Standing still has its place, but if you're young and you happen to live with us, you'll probably be walking again before too long. The world is too big to see standing still. + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/02/learning.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/02/learning.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..81dc3bb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/02/learning.html @@ -0,0 +1,586 @@ + + + + + Learning - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    + + + +
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    +

    Learning

    +

    The cold, quiet winter forest has much to teach.

    +
    +
    +

    Watson Mill State Park, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Winter is a good time to remain still and watch. The world is naked, dazzling in the winter light. It is easy to focus. Single flowers break through the frost. Buttercups, trout lily, dandelion, and Skunk Cabbage leaves in the wet bottomlands. You can count the buds on bare dogwood branches and still-leafed holly.

    +

    There is less of you here, more of the world around you. You learn by being quiet. Leaves fall one by one, each with a clatter as it lands, all winter long. Orange dust appears, grows and extends to reveal fungi, and returns to dust again. The wind tastes of rain long before the clouds appear.

    +

    All of this is to say, it is not you and the world, it is the world with you.

    +
    + + + Georgia wood in black and white photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + Lake at Fort Yargo photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + boy looking through magnifying glass photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + detail of fungi under magnifying glass photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    It is the world within you. There is no world without you. Existence is a relationship. It put you in it to learn. You put what you learn in it. It puts more in you. Give and give. No taking. You’re not here for long, there’s no time to take. Barely time to give what you can. Better still: remain motionless, watch, wait, listen, observe.

    +
    + + forest in fog photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + boy climbing tree photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Watson Mill Covered Bridge in black and white photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Down below the falls I watched a great heron feed. It moved slowly, sometimes not at all for longer than I can endure sitting still. And then when it need to, it snapped so fast I could not see it move, only the head coming up with a fish.

    +

    This is the way to learn I think. Moments of sudden insight are rare. Rather there are a whole lot of moments that come together so gradually you don’t notice them. Even in hindsight they seem painfully slow in arriving. But then, at some point, you holding that fish in your beak and you know.

    +

    Watching the kids learn is like this. There is no day I could point to and say, this is when they learned to read, this is when they learned to write. There are simply days that pass, and more days, and more days, and then — fish.

    +
    + + + Girls at table with notebooks, Homeschooling photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + boy smiling, homeschooling photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + homeschool playing photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + Children painting bark photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + painted bark photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + seashells, books, magnifying glass photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    When we decided to spend autumn and winter here it felt like another defeat to me, like spending summer in Texas, like we had once again failed life’s geographic climate test. We’re supposed to chase the weather, be in the sunny deserts of the west, or down at the beaches of Mexico.

    +

    Now though I am glad we were here. There is much to learn in not getting what you want.

    +

    There is much to learn from discomfort — like how fast you adapt to cold for instance — much to learn from the leaves falling, much to learn from herons fishing in the cold waters, much to learn from the forest when it falls silent for the winter.

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    +
    +
    +
    You might also enjoy
    + +
    +
    + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
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    + + + +
    + + +
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    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/02/learning.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/02/learning.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f93b937 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/02/learning.txt @@ -0,0 +1,52 @@ +Learning +======== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 05 February 2020 + +Winter is a good time to remain still and watch. The world is naked, dazzling in the winter light. It is easy to focus. Single flowers break through the frost. Buttercups, trout lily, dandelion, and Skunk Cabbage leaves in the wet bottomlands. You can count the buds on bare dogwood branches and still-leafed holly. + +There is less of you here, more of the world around you. You learn by being quiet. Leaves fall one by one, each with a clatter as it lands, all winter long. Orange dust appears, grows and extends to reveal fungi, and returns to dust again. The wind tastes of rain long before the clouds appear. + +All of this is to say, it is not you and the world, it is the world with you. + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +It is the world within you. There is no world without you. Existence is a relationship. It put you in it to learn. You put what you learn in it. It puts more in you. Give and give. No taking. You're not here for long, there's no time to take. Barely time to give what you can. Better still: remain motionless, watch, wait, listen, observe. + + + + + +Down below the falls I watched a great heron feed. It moved slowly, sometimes not at all for longer than I can endure sitting still. And then when it need to, it snapped so fast I could not see it move, only the head coming up with a fish. + +This is the way to learn I think. Moments of sudden insight are rare. Rather there are a whole lot of moments that come together so gradually you don't notice them. Even in hindsight they seem painfully slow in arriving. But then, at some point, you holding that fish in your beak and you *know*. + +Watching the kids learn is like this. There is no day I could point to and say, this is when they learned to read, this is when they learned to write. There are simply days that pass, and more days, and more days, and then -- fish. + +
    + + + + + + + + + + +
    + +When we decided to spend autumn and winter here it felt like another defeat to me, like spending summer in Texas, like we had once again failed life's geographic climate test. We're supposed to chase the weather, be in the sunny deserts of the west, or down at the beaches of Mexico. + +Now though I am glad we were here. There is much to learn in not getting what you want. + +There is much to learn from discomfort -- like how fast you adapt to cold for instance -- much to learn from the leaves falling, much to learn from herons fishing in the cold waters, much to learn from the forest when it falls silent for the winter. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/02/snow-day.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/02/snow-day.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ef5028e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/02/snow-day.html @@ -0,0 +1,617 @@ + + + + + Snow Day - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    + + +
    +
    + + + +
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    +

    Snow Day

    +

    Cold white magic

    +
    +
    +

    Watson Mill State Park, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    It starts falling when we’re at the hardware store, filling the propane tank. At first I try to downplay it for the kids. I don’t want them to be disappointed if it turns out to be just a couple flurries, which is all we’re likely to get in this part of the world. Still, the chickadees and titmice were particularly chatty and busy this morning. Maybe.

    +

    Driving back to the campsite though I can see it’s sticking to the ground in the colder areas, the tops of trees, on grass in open fields. The birds are on to something I think. I allow myself to get a little excited. The kids are way ahead of me, yelling about a real snow day.

    +

    By the time we get back to the site it’s coming down hard and clearly sticking to the ground. Jackets and gloves go on, everyone piles outside into the winter wonderland.

    +
    + + + snow falling on bare trees and road photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + girl in red jacket in the snow photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + man in black hoodie in snow photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + kids playing in falling snow photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    Anyone living north of Georgia will probably chuckle at this amount of snow. I know. I lived in Massachusetts for a few years. It’s not snow much, but it’s enough to put smiles on everyone’s faces.

    +

    Maybe it’s more special because it is harder to come by snow in these parts. Six inches of snow in this part of Georgia somehow feels more miraculous than three feet ever did in Northampton. Maybe I am just weird though, I used to get excited every time it snowed up there too. Even when it snowed in May. There’s just something great about snow.

    +

    This was not the first time the kids have seen snow, but it might as well have been — it’s been years since they’ve been in it.

    +

    I always say we chase the weather, and we try to, but when you fail at that, then you might as well get some snow out of it. And for once, we did.

    +
    + + kids playing in the snow photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + kids playing in the snow photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + girl in red jacket walking through the snowy woods photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    After an hour so the cold began to set in. We don’t really have the clothes for snow. Cotton is not your friend in a snowball fight. Wet and cold I was ready to warm up. Lilah was undaunted though. She made me take her for a snow hike.

    +

    We walked down the river to see snow on the covered bridge, but water was running high and cold made white vapor that all but obscured the bridge. On the hike back the cold finally overcame her and I carried her the last half mile up the hill. We caught a couple last snowflakes on our tongues and ducked inside to dry off and drink hot cocoa. And play a few intensely competitive games of Uno. As you do.

    +
    + + + dirt road through the snowy woods photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + snow on bare winter branches photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + watson mill bridge through heavy fog and mist photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + girl trying to catch snowflakes on her tongue photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + boy drinking hot cocoa photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    The world seemed to warm up with us. By the time we went back outside for round two, melting snow was coming down like a hard rain. By evening our white wonderland was gone.

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    You might also enjoy
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    1 Comment

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    + Patty Hahn + March 31, 2020 at 12:48 p.m. +
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    Really like your blog

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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/02/snow-day.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/02/snow-day.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d583531 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/02/snow-day.txt @@ -0,0 +1,49 @@ +Snow Day +======== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 19 February 2020 + +It starts falling when we're at the hardware store, filling the propane tank. At first I try to downplay it for the kids. I don't want them to be disappointed if it turns out to be just a couple flurries, which is all we're likely to get in this part of the world. Still, the chickadees and titmice *were* particularly chatty and busy this morning. Maybe. + +Driving back to the campsite though I can see it's sticking to the ground in the colder areas, the tops of trees, on grass in open fields. The birds are on to something I think. I allow myself to get a little excited. The kids are way ahead of me, yelling about a real snow day. + +By the time we get back to the site it's coming down hard and clearly sticking to the ground. Jackets and gloves go on, everyone piles outside into the winter wonderland. + +
    + + + + + + +
    + +Anyone living north of Georgia will probably chuckle at this amount of snow. I know. I lived in Massachusetts for a few years. It's not snow much, but it's enough to put smiles on everyone's faces. + +Maybe it's more special because it is harder to come by snow in these parts. Six inches of snow in this part of Georgia somehow feels more miraculous than three feet ever did in Northampton. Maybe I am just weird though, I used to get excited every time it snowed up there too. Even when it snowed in May. There's just something great about snow. + +This was not the first time the kids have seen snow, but it might as well have been -- it's been years since they've been in it. + +I always say we chase the weather, and we try to, but when you fail at that, then you might as well get some snow out of it. And for once, we did. + + + + + +After an hour so the cold began to set in. We don't really have the clothes for snow. Cotton is not your friend in a snowball fight. Wet and cold I was ready to warm up. Lilah was undaunted though. She made me take her for a snow hike. + +We walked down the river to see snow on the covered bridge, but water was running high and cold made white vapor that all but obscured the bridge. On the hike back the cold finally overcame her and I carried her the last half mile up the hill. We caught a couple last snowflakes on our tongues and ducked inside to dry off and drink hot cocoa. And play a few intensely competitive games of Uno. As you do. + +
    + + + + + + + +
    + +The world seemed to warm up with us. By the time we went back outside for round two, melting snow was coming down like a hard rain. By evening our white wonderland was gone. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/03/distant-early-warning.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/03/distant-early-warning.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cc4adb3 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/03/distant-early-warning.html @@ -0,0 +1,528 @@ + + + + + Distant Early Warning - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Distant Early Warning

    +

    A good storm and a change of plans

    +
    +
    +

    Hunting Island State Park, South Carolina, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    There is nothing like a good storm by the sea. The smell of salt on the wind, the slash and clatter of palms as the wind comes ashore. The muffled thick thick think of the first drops spitting on the sand. The lightning flashing far out at sea is always visible long before you hear any hint of a rumble. It blinks like Christmas lights on the horizon.

    +

    The waves of wind begin to swing ashore, it’s then that you can sense the life in the storm, the personalities, the intentions. Storms are alive too. They have a path to follow just like us. Just because something only lasts a few days, does not mean it doesn’t have intentions. Just because you can’t decipher the intentions doesn’t mean they aren’t there.

    +
    + + storm clouds on the horizen photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Tonight I sat by the fire feeling the barometer drop, feeling the stir of wind, watching the whirl of embers as the fire died down and the wind came up. I could feel it coming, I could sense its presence.

    +

    This storm comes from the southwest, a mix a southern and western personalities, a storm we all know in this part of the world. I never worry about a storm unless it comes from the north. Storms from the north aren’t more dangerous exactly, but they’re chaotic and unpredictable. You never know what a north wind will bring. Though around here the ones you really have to watch out for are the east and southeast winds. But we’re months from those.

    +

    This one we watched arrive. Storm clouds sweeping up from the southwest all day. One or two at first, floating lazily along. Then more, as if they were forming up around some kind of a plan. Whatever the plan was, it didn’t involve Edisto. Despite spitting rain a little during the night it was back to sunshine the next day.

    +

    I love a good storm, but not when I have to drive. That morning we headed down the coast a couple hours to Hunting Island State Park.The drive was sunny, fortunately. Uneventful. Beaufort proved to be a charming little coastal southern town. Or it looked that way anyway. By the time we drove through, the rest of the country was starting to lock down over the coronavirus. South Carolina remained in a state of blissful ignorance, but having watched the virus spread via stories of friends and family on the west coast, I wasn’t about to head out and wander the streets.

    +

    I’d just as soon strangers always keep a six foot distance from me. But South Carolina wasn’t about to make rules regarding that or anything else. South Carolina is the south’s “live free or die” state. There still aren’t helmet laws here, which I think is great actually. But a virus is not a motorcycle. A virus is not something you choose to do. A virus really has nothing to do with “rights”. A virus is a good reminder that rights are a thing conferred by communities of people to members of those communities. There are no “natural” rights.

    +

    It’s also important to dig too, because behind all the talk of rights, usually you find someone making money. As one of the camp hosts put to it when I asked if he thought the South Carolina State Parks would close, “These greedy bastards? Never.” And he was right. The parks down there remained essentially open through April 12.

    +

    So we missed Beaufort because the virus-exposure-to-fun ratio did not work out in its favor. We did get to spend a few days on Hunting Island though. By a stroke of pure luck we had the nicest campsite in the campground, which was good because otherwise it was packed in and crowded, as beach campgrounds tend to be. The best I can say for it was that the water was walking distance away.

    +
    + + ocean, hunting island photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + storm over the beach, hunting island photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The kids spent all day every day out on the sand. We even made in the water a couple times despite the cold. As you do.

    +
    + + kids on the beach, hunting island state beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + kids running on the beach, hunting island state beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + jellyfish on the beach, hunting island photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + kids in the water, hunting island beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + kids in the water, hunting island beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The beach here was not nearly as forthcoming with treasures. There were shells, and a lot of jellyfish, but little of the fossils and other things we’d been finding in Edisto.

    +
    + + kids playing on driftwood, hunting island state park photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + storm over the dunes, hunting island photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + deer on the dunes, hunting island photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    And then our options began to fade. North Carolina shut down its parks, which killed our next plan, which was head to the Outer Banks for a few months. Then Florida shut down its state parks and we were starting to feel the squeeze. Competition for what few camping spots remained became much more intense. We full timers may fly under the radar for most people, but there are far more of us than you know. Take away public camping and the options get thin quickly. We decided it was time to get out of South Carolina.

    +

    At the time most people were not taking the virus very seriously. Here’s the thing. Maybe you can get Covid-19 and be fine. But what if you can’t? Do you really want to find out right now when there’s no treatment and hospitals are crowded? When we don’t even really understand what the virus does, especially any long term effects? Just because you survive it does not mean you go back to normal. Ask anyone who lives with Lyme, RSV, chronic fatigue syndrome, or any of the other virus-borne diseases with long term consequences. Viruses are nothing new, sickness and death are nothing new, but that doesn’t mean we should run full speed toward them without a care.

    +

    We decided to take steps we felt would best help us avoid coming in contact with SARS-CoV-2. Unfortunately that meant changing our plans. But it’s hardly the first time we’ve had to change plans. These things happen. Traveling around in RV isn’t a right you know, it’s a privilege that we’ve enjoyed, but right now it isn’t possible. A big part of travel is waiting, so that’s what we’re doing right now, just like everyone else.

    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    + + +
    + +
    +
    +
    +
    You might also enjoy
    + +
    +
    + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/03/distant-early-warning.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/03/distant-early-warning.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..01ca72e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/03/distant-early-warning.txt @@ -0,0 +1,49 @@ +Distant Early Warning +===================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 11 March 2020 + +There is nothing like a good storm by the sea. The smell of salt on the wind, the slash and clatter of palms as the wind comes ashore. The muffled *thick thick think* of the first drops spitting on the sand. The lightning flashing far out at sea is always visible long before you hear any hint of a rumble. It blinks like Christmas lights on the horizon. + +The waves of wind begin to swing ashore, it's then that you can sense the life in the storm, the personalities, the intentions. Storms are alive too. They have a path to follow just like us. Just because something only lasts a few days, does not mean it doesn't have intentions. Just because you can't decipher the intentions doesn't mean they aren't there. + + + +Tonight I sat by the fire feeling the barometer drop, feeling the stir of wind, watching the whirl of embers as the fire died down and the wind came up. I could feel it coming, I could sense its presence. + +This storm comes from the southwest, a mix a southern and western personalities, a storm we all know in this part of the world. I never worry about a storm unless it comes from the north. Storms from the north aren't more dangerous exactly, but they're chaotic and unpredictable. You never know what a north wind will bring. Though around here the ones you really have to watch out for are the east and southeast winds. But we're months from those. + +This one we watched arrive. Storm clouds sweeping up from the southwest all day. One or two at first, floating lazily along. Then more, as if they were forming up around some kind of a plan. Whatever the plan was, it didn't involve Edisto. Despite spitting rain a little during the night it was back to sunshine the next day. + +I love a good storm, but not when I have to drive. That morning we headed down the coast a couple hours to Hunting Island State Park.The drive was sunny, fortunately. Uneventful. Beaufort proved to be a charming little coastal southern town. Or it looked that way anyway. By the time we drove through, the rest of the country was starting to lock down over the coronavirus. South Carolina remained in a state of blissful ignorance, but having watched the virus spread via stories of friends and family on the west coast, I wasn't about to head out and wander the streets. + +I'd just as soon strangers always keep a six foot distance from me. But South Carolina wasn't about to make rules regarding that or anything else. South Carolina is the south's "live free or die" state. There still aren't helmet laws here, which I think is great actually. But a virus is not a motorcycle. A virus is not something you choose to do. A virus really has nothing to do with "rights". A virus is a good reminder that rights are a thing conferred by communities of people to members of those communities. There are no "natural" rights. + +It's also important to dig too, because behind all the talk of rights, usually you find someone making money. As one of the camp hosts put to it when I asked if he thought the South Carolina State Parks would close, "These greedy bastards? Never." And he was right. The parks down there remained essentially open through April 12. + +So we missed Beaufort because the virus-exposure-to-fun ratio did not work out in its favor. We did get to spend a few days on Hunting Island though. By a stroke of pure luck we had the nicest campsite in the campground, which was good because otherwise it was packed in and crowded, as beach campgrounds tend to be. The best I can say for it was that the water was walking distance away. + + + + +The kids spent all day every day out on the sand. We even made in the water a couple times despite the cold. As you do. + + + + + + + +The beach here was not nearly as forthcoming with treasures. There were shells, and a lot of jellyfish, but little of the fossils and other things we'd been finding in Edisto. + + + + + +And then our options began to fade. North Carolina shut down its parks, which killed our next plan, which was head to the Outer Banks for a few months. Then Florida shut down its state parks and we were starting to feel the squeeze. Competition for what few camping spots remained became much more intense. We full timers may fly under the radar for most people, but there are far more of us than you know. Take away public camping and the options get thin quickly. We decided it was time to get out of South Carolina. + +At the time most people were not taking the virus very seriously. Here's the thing. Maybe you can get Covid-19 and be fine. But what if you can't? Do you really want to find out right now when there's no treatment and hospitals are crowded? When we don't even really understand what the virus does, [especially any long term effects](https://mobile.twitter.com/lilienfeld1/status/1251335135909122049)? Just because you survive it does not mean you go back to normal. Ask anyone who lives with Lyme, RSV, chronic fatigue syndrome, or any of the other virus-borne diseases with long term consequences. Viruses are nothing new, sickness and death are nothing new, but that doesn't mean we should run full speed toward them without a care. + +We decided to take steps we felt would best help us avoid coming in contact with SARS-CoV-2. Unfortunately that meant changing our plans. But it's hardly the first time we've had to change plans. These things happen. Traveling around in RV isn't a right you know, it's a privilege that we've enjoyed, but right now it isn't possible. A big part of travel is waiting, so that's what we're doing right now, just like everyone else. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/03/high-water.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/03/high-water.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..81a93b3 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/03/high-water.html @@ -0,0 +1,572 @@ + + + + + High Water - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    High Water

    +

    Sand, sky, birds, and water everywhere

    +
    +
    +

    Edisto River, South Carolina, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    After a winter in Georgia, we were ready for some warmer climes. We managed to book up a month of beach time at some South Carolina State Parks. Everything came together well, weather, work, and bus repairs. Like we did nearly three years ago, we split the drive down into two days. This time we stopped off for a night at a tiny state park on the Edisto River.

    +
    + + edisto river in flood. photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    This part of the country, and upriver of here, has out-rained even the pacific northwest so far this year, and it showed. The river was ten feet over flood stage. It was difficult to even tell where the river was, it looked more like a lake. Another three feet and the campground would have been underwater. There wasn’t much land to explore, we settled for an early fire and some marshmallows.

    +
    + + + + roasting marshmellows over the fire photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + roasting marshmellows over the fire photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + high water edisto river photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    The next day we headed the rest of the way out to what I still think of as the edge of the continent. Edisto Island is remote, for the east coast anyway. It’s true, Charleston is only an hour and half away, but somehow Edisto still feels like the edge of the world.

    +

    Civilization falls away as you drive. The road winds through alternating stretches of muddy marshland and deep stands of gnarled oak trees, bearded with Spanish Moss. Chain stores and strip malls disappear, replaced by crumbling no-name gas stations, fish shacks, cinder block garages, old single story motels.

    +
    + + marshland, edisto island, sc photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + oak trees with spanish moss, edisto island, sc photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + edisto motel, shot while driving photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It’s not some idyllic world out here of course. The land and people here are abused like they are everywhere. Environmental destruction and the deep, unsolvable poverty that follows it linger everywhere in the shadows. The ruin of modern systems is always more obvious out here at the leading edges, the places where the supposed benefits never quite reached, just inexhaustible desires. These are the places from which life was extracted to enable comfort in some other place.

    +

    There’s a divide. I notice it every time we come down here. You cross a high bridge over the Intercoastal waterway onto Edisto Island proper and everything after that is magically fine, derelict buildings hidden away, poverty pushed off the main highway to some backroad most of us will never take.

    +

    Life here is different let’s say. And we’ll leave it at that.

    +
    + + dodge travco at edisto state beach campground photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Humans are latecomers here anyway, newcomers to this world of sea and sand and muddy marsh. This is the time of year that other migrants are passing through. Every morning we get to wake to the tea-kett-le, tea-kett-le of Carolina wrens, the chip chip chip of cardinals, and the more elaborate songs of the warblers headed north to their summer homes. I can’t think of a better way to wake up than lifting your head, looking out the window, and seeing a Carolina wren staring back at you.

    +

    Our time at the beach here is starkly divided. I am a sitter. To me the beach is a place to come and watch the sea, the sky, the birds. For much of the rest of my family it’s a place to hunt for treasures from previous worlds. While I relaxed, staring up at the blue veil of sky, occasionally given depth by a passing gull or brown pelican, Corrinne and the kids wandered up and down the shore finding fossil shark’s teeth, bones, bits of black, fossilized turtle shells, and thoroughly modern seashells.

    +
    + + + kids walking the beach, edisto state park, sc photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + girl holding a shell photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + kids playing on the beach, edisto state beach photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + kids sitting in an oak tree photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + girls walking on the beach, edisto island state park photographed by luxagraf + + +
    + +

    The temperature always hovered on the edge of warm, usually tipping over by late afternoon.Most days you could find a small depression in the sand to stay out of the breeze and it was warm enough to relax in shorts. Sit up though and the temperature dropped considerably.

    +
    + + boy playing in the sand, edisto state beach, sc photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + girl playing in the sand, edisto state beach, sc photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + seagull on the beach, close up, edisto state beach, sc photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + boy running on the beach, edisto state beach, sc photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + girl running on the beach, edisto state beach, sc photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + seagull in flight, edisto beach, sc photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I did a lot of staring at the sky. I’m not sure if it’s the act of lying down and looking up, or the actual view of the blue sky, or warmth and light of the sun itself, or some combination of those things and more I haven’t sussed out, but there is something wonderfully cathartic and healing about staring up at the sky.

    +

    I did it every chance I got, which alas was not quite as much as the last time we were here. But things change, morph, I wouldn’t want them to stay the same. If they stayed the same it never would have warmed up enough to coax me off my back and out into the water.

    +
    + + kids running on the shore, edisto state beach photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + boy jumping on the shoreline photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    The water was cold, biting cold when the wind hit you after you came up. But you have to get in. And not just when it’s easy, not just when everyone is swimming.

    +

    You have to get in even on the days when you don’t want to. Even when it’s so cold your teeth are chattering before you even get your shirt off. Those are the times when you have to reach down inside and find some way to get out there. The ocean pulls me in, it’s part of an understanding I’ve reached with it, with myself. There are certain rituals that must be performed or the world stops working. And so you get in. When it’s cold. When it’s not. It doesn’t matter. Just get in.

    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +
    +
    +
    You might also enjoy
    + +
    +
    + + + + + +
    + +
    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + + +
    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + + +
    + +

    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/03/high-water.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/03/high-water.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a70ebee --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/03/high-water.txt @@ -0,0 +1,70 @@ +High Water +========== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 04 March 2020 + +After a winter in Georgia, we were ready for some warmer climes. We managed to book up a month of beach time at some South Carolina State Parks. Everything came together well, weather, work, and bus repairs. Like we did nearly three years ago, we split the drive down into two days. This time we stopped off for a night at a tiny state park on the Edisto River. + + + +This part of the country, and upriver of here, has out-rained even the pacific northwest so far this year, and it showed. The river was ten feet over flood stage. It was difficult to even tell where the river was, it looked more like a lake. Another three feet and the campground would have been underwater. There wasn't much land to explore, we settled for an early fire and some marshmallows. + +
    + + + + + +
    + +The next day we headed the rest of the way out to what I still think of as the [edge of the continent](/jrnl/2017/04/edge-continent). Edisto Island is remote, for the east coast anyway. It's true, Charleston is only an hour and half away, but somehow Edisto still feels like the edge of the world. + +Civilization falls away as you drive. The road winds through alternating stretches of muddy marshland and deep stands of gnarled oak trees, bearded with Spanish Moss. Chain stores and strip malls disappear, replaced by crumbling no-name gas stations, fish shacks, cinder block garages, old single story motels. + + + + + +It's not some idyllic world out here of course. The land and people here are abused like they are everywhere. Environmental destruction and the deep, unsolvable poverty that follows it linger everywhere in the shadows. The ruin of modern systems is always more obvious out here at the leading edges, the places where the supposed benefits never quite reached, just inexhaustible desires. These are the places from which life was extracted to enable comfort in some other place. + +There's a divide. I notice it every time we come down here. You cross a high bridge over the Intercoastal waterway onto Edisto Island proper and everything after that is magically fine, derelict buildings hidden away, poverty pushed off the main highway to some backroad most of us will never take. + +Life here is different let's say. And we'll leave it at that. + + + +Humans are latecomers here anyway, newcomers to this world of sea and sand and muddy marsh. This is the time of year that other migrants are passing through. Every morning we get to wake to the *tea-kett-le, tea-kett-le* of Carolina wrens, the *chip chip chip* of cardinals, and the more elaborate songs of the warblers headed north to their summer homes. I can't think of a better way to wake up than lifting your head, looking out the window, and seeing a Carolina wren staring back at you. + +Our time at the beach here is starkly divided. I am a sitter. To me the beach is a place to come and watch the sea, the sky, the birds. For much of the rest of my family it's a place to hunt for treasures from previous worlds. While I relaxed, staring up at the blue veil of sky, occasionally given depth by a passing gull or brown pelican, Corrinne and the kids wandered up and down the shore finding fossil shark's teeth, bones, bits of black, fossilized turtle shells, and thoroughly modern seashells. + +
    + + + + + + + +
    + +The temperature always hovered on the edge of warm, usually tipping over by late afternoon.Most days you could find a small depression in the sand to stay out of the breeze and it was warm enough to relax in shorts. Sit up though and the temperature dropped considerably. + + + + + + + + +I did a lot of staring at the sky. I'm not sure if it's the act of lying down and looking up, or the actual view of the blue sky, or warmth and light of the sun itself, or some combination of those things and more I haven't sussed out, but there is something wonderfully cathartic and healing about staring up at the sky. + +I did it every chance I got, which alas was not quite as much as the last time we were here. But things change, morph, I wouldn't want them to stay the same. If they stayed the same it never would have warmed up enough to coax me off my back and out into the water. + + + + +The water was cold, biting cold when the wind hit you after you came up. But you have to get in. And not just when it's easy, not just when everyone is swimming. + +You have to get in even on the days when you don't want to. Even when it's so cold your teeth are chattering before you even get your shirt off. Those are the times when you have to reach down inside and find some way to get out there. The ocean pulls me in, it's part of an understanding I've reached with it, with myself. There are certain rituals that must be performed or the world stops working. And so you get in. When it's cold. When it's not. It doesn't matter. Just get in. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/03/pre-apocalyptic-driving-adventures.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/03/pre-apocalyptic-driving-adventures.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e7f196f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/03/pre-apocalyptic-driving-adventures.html @@ -0,0 +1,486 @@ + + + + + Pre-Apocalyptic Driving Adventures - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Pre-Apocalyptic Driving Adventures

    +

    Just keep driving. You’ll get there. Eventually

    +
    +
    +

    Hunting Island State Park, South Carolina, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    There are days that are good for driving and days that are not. I prefer Wednesdays. This was a Thursday. Close enough. I took the day off work and we hit the road, back to Athens.

    +
    + + on the road from hunting island photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We didn’t want to go. But to avoid a pandemic you have to be willing to sacrifice. And where we were there were no sacrifices being made. There is a sense of entitlement that runs deep in this country. I can’t figure it out, but I see it all around me — this idea that you can get everything you want out of life without compromise or concession. It’s annoying when you’re talking about politics or economics, but it’s disastrous when it comes to community health.

    +

    Staying six feet away from other people is socially awkward, but if that’s all it takes to stop a pandemic, that’s not a big deal for a few months. People spent years avoiding London and Paris during the plague. If all we need to do is stay six feet apart, and remain at home for a few months, we’re getting off light. Unfortunately, even that wasn’t happening in the campground. Rather the opposite in fact.

    +

    We’ve already had a bout of bad illness in the bus and let’s just say it’s not an ideal place to be ill. If one person gets something, everyone gets it, there’s no way around that. We were not interested in dealing with that and having South Carolina State Parks close on us.

    +

    Our reservation at Hunting Island was up. We’d planned to go back to Edisto for a couple more weeks, but the uncertainty regarding public lands — would state parks in SC stay open? Would we be safe in them? Would groceries continue to make it to a small island at the edge of the world? Would the residents of that island mind our presence if things got real bad? — made it an easy decision. We decided to head for some private land.

    +

    Fortunately we had a friend back in Athens with a place we could stay for a while, so we jumped on it. We just had to make the four hour drive back. No big deal.

    +
    + + On the road in georgia photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + On the road in georgia photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It started inauspiciously, as stressful drives inevitably do. I was dumping the tank when I noticed the driver’s rear tire was low. There’s two wheels in the back, so I wasn’t overly worried, but it wasn’t a great way to start. Still, it was only a couple hundred miles, what could possibly go wrong?

    +

    Nothing for the first 70 or so miles. I even managed to get the rear tire filled up at a truck stop. All my tires in fact. No charge. And the woman stayed well away from me while doing it. Perfect. For minute I thought, hey, maybe this will all work out.

    +

    Forty miles later the engine sputtered. At first I thought maybe my foot had let up off the gas pedal by accident. My knee had been swollen and driving was painful, so it wasn’t out of the question. But no. Ten minutes later, it happened again. This time it was worse. I pulled over. Naturally it was the only stretch of the drive with no cell service.

    +

    I knew from the way it behaved that the problem was gas, specifically not enough of it getting to the engine. I had a quick look and saw air bubbling into the fuel filter. Not good. I knew there was a little leak in the filling hose at the rear of the gas tank. I decided to start there, I got out old trusty — the rigged up combo of small hose clamps that, along with some aluminum foil and header tape, once let us limp along with a cracked exhaust manifold — and put it to new use on the rear of the gas tank. It stopped the leaking gas (a task I’d had on my list for the following weekend anyway), and for about ten miles I was pretty happy with myself.

    +

    Then it happened again. Damnit. Stopped again. Now Corrinne wasn’t just looking at me with that look that said, really? today, she actually said, “Really? Today?” I didn’t say anything. I opened up the doghouse again. There were still bubbles leaking up in the fuel filter, so I knew the problem was somewhere between that and the gas tank. About 18 feet of fuel line and one pump. I put on my headlamp, crawled under the bus, inhaled unholy amounts of grass pollen, and slowly worked my way up the fuel line to the pump. No leaks. I stared at the fuel pump. The very first thing I ever replaced in the bus. It’s probably the fuel pump I thought as I lay there in the pollen.

    +

    Under ordinary circumstances I’d just hop in the car, drive to the nearest parts shop, get a new fuel pump and install it. But that would mean all kinds of potential exposure of me and the family to coronavirus. That would defeat the purpose of this drive, which was to get us away from people, not closer to them.

    +

    I considered the problem for a bit, lying there, staring up at the engine. If there’s extra air coming in, maybe if I tightened up the carburetor to cut the air coming in that way it would balance out? At least enough to let me limp back to Athens. I crawled out and did it. It didn’t help much — the real problem was not enough fuel, not too much air — but it helped enough that it got us back on the road, limping along.

    +

    After experimenting some I figured out how to accelerate in such a way that it would not stutter much and I could get up to about 50 miles an hour. It took a while, but I limped into Augusta. I decided to skip the interstate and drove through on surface streets. It was slow going, but the bus didn’t stutter as much at lower speeds, and eventually we got out of the city and back onto the highway to Athens.

    +
    + + Ramshackle house in Georgia photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    In the end it took an extra three hours, but we made it to the old farmhouse turned schoolhouse where we’ve been staying ever since. I was tired, but grateful to have made it. I squared the bus away, and made dinner. We put the kids to bed, and I went online and ordered a fuel pump from Rock Auto. Problem solved, no one sick.

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    4 Comments

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    + classical_liberal + May 05, 2020 at 12:41 a.m. +
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    + +

    What I always find interesting about your “something went wrong” stories, is how easily you seem to overcome. Now, I don’t know you IRL, but personally, I’m swearing up a storm when SHTF. Are you mostly cool, calm, and collected in such circumstances? If so, what got you there? Just experience dealing with these issues in travel over your life, or is it more of a speed of life issue?

    +

    Glad you made it to a safe spot!

    + +
    +
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    + +
    + Scott + May 05, 2020 at 9:00 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    classical_liberal-

    +

    haha, I definitely do some swearing when I’m under the bus at the side of the road. So there’s some element of me just leaving that out of the story.

    +

    It depends on the problem though. For this particular incident, I knew what the problem was, so there was some security in that (worst case scenario I could have gone to a parts place and purchased a fuel pump). When the problem is brake-related, I tend to freak out more, because there’s not much I can do about that at the side of the road.

    +

    In general though I think what keeps me calm is two things: experience (at this point we’ve spent many a day broken down at the side of the road, you learn to cope better every time), and having my kids there. I’m always more careful to keep it together when I know the kids are watching. I mean there’s nothing life-threatening in breaking down (usually). Most of the time the worst case scenario is we spend a night at the side of the road. That does suck, but you know, it’ll pass.

    +

    That said, I feel like I lose my shit way more than I should. I’ve been re-reading the stoics lately, especially The Enchiridion by Epictetus, because I find some those strategies for coping to be extremely helpful.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Drew + May 14, 2020 at 3:38 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Yo! Just got caught up on your adventures- now you need to catch us up on how Farm/School living has been treating you! Are you all still there? With school out for the summer- and no end in sight for the virus- how long can you stay there?

    +

    Weve been threatening to take the bus camping, but every time I look the parks are overcrowded, esp in TN/GA- if and when they are open.

    +

    Sucks too- The bus is running great right now, with no destinations possible. By the time were ready to hit the road, i guarantee the bus will not have the same mindset.

    + +
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    + +
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    + Scott + May 25, 2020 at 8:12 a.m. +
    + +
    + +

    Drew-

    +

    We are no longer at the schoolhouse, we only ended up staying there about a month. It was great when we thought we’d get back on the road soon, but not so great long term, so we moved on. I’ll write about that soonish. Oddly enough, we’re in another farm house from roughly the same era. 1880s farmhouses seem to be our thing lately.

    +

    And yeah, crowds. I have some thoughts on that. I think crowds are going to be real bad for some time to come, which convinced us it was time to shift gears. When everyone zigs, it’s time to zag.

    + +
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    +

    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/03/pre-apocalyptic-driving-adventures.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/03/pre-apocalyptic-driving-adventures.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5acdfa7 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/03/pre-apocalyptic-driving-adventures.txt @@ -0,0 +1,43 @@ +Pre-Apocalyptic Driving Adventures +================================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Wednesday, 18 March 2020 + +There are days that are good for driving and days that are not. I prefer Wednesdays. This was a Thursday. Close enough. I took the day off work and we hit the road, back to Athens. + + + +We didn't want to go. But to avoid a pandemic you have to be willing to sacrifice. And where we were there were no sacrifices being made. There is a sense of entitlement that runs deep in this country. I can't figure it out, but I see it all around me -- this idea that you can get everything you want out of life without compromise or concession. It's annoying when you're talking about politics or economics, but it's disastrous when it comes to community health. + +Staying six feet away from other people is socially awkward, but if that's all it takes to stop a pandemic, that's not a big deal for a few months. People spent *years* avoiding London and Paris during the plague. If all we need to do is stay six feet apart, and remain at home for a few months, we're getting off light. Unfortunately, even that wasn't happening in the campground. Rather the opposite in fact. + +We've already had a [bout of bad illness in the bus](/jrnl/2018/01/escaping-california) and let's just say it's not an ideal place to be ill. If one person gets something, everyone gets it, there's no way around that. We were not interested in dealing with that *and* having South Carolina State Parks close on us. + +Our reservation at Hunting Island was up. We'd planned to go back to Edisto for a couple more weeks, but the uncertainty regarding public lands -- would state parks in SC stay open? Would we be safe in them? Would groceries continue to make it to a small island at the edge of the world? Would the residents of that island mind our presence if things got real bad? -- made it an easy decision. We decided to head for some private land. + +Fortunately we had a friend back in Athens with a place we could stay for a while, so we jumped on it. We just had to make the four hour drive back. No big deal. + + + + +It started inauspiciously, as stressful drives inevitably do. I was dumping the tank when I noticed the driver's rear tire was low. There's two wheels in the back, so I wasn't overly worried, but it wasn't a great way to start. Still, it was only a couple hundred miles, what could possibly go wrong? + +Nothing for the first 70 or so miles. I even managed to get the rear tire filled up at a truck stop. All my tires in fact. No charge. And the woman stayed well away from me while doing it. Perfect. For minute I thought, hey, maybe this will all work out. + +Forty miles later the engine sputtered. At first I thought maybe my foot had let up off the gas pedal by accident. My knee had been swollen and driving was painful, so it wasn't out of the question. But no. Ten minutes later, it happened again. This time it was worse. I pulled over. Naturally it was the only stretch of the drive with no cell service. + +I knew from the way it behaved that the problem was gas, specifically not enough of it getting to the engine. I had a quick look and saw air bubbling into the fuel filter. Not good. I knew there was a little leak in the filling hose at the rear of the gas tank. I decided to start there, I got out old trusty -- the rigged up combo of small hose clamps that, along with some aluminum foil and header tape, once let us limp along with a cracked exhaust manifold -- and put it to new use on the rear of the gas tank. It stopped the leaking gas (a task I'd had on my list for the following weekend anyway), and for about ten miles I was pretty happy with myself. + +Then it happened again. Damnit. Stopped again. Now Corrinne wasn't just looking at me with that look that said, *really? today*, she actually said, "Really? Today?" I didn't say anything. I opened up the doghouse again. There were still bubbles leaking up in the fuel filter, so I knew the problem was somewhere between that and the gas tank. About 18 feet of fuel line and one pump. I put on my headlamp, crawled under the bus, inhaled unholy amounts of grass pollen, and slowly worked my way up the fuel line to the pump. No leaks. I stared at the fuel pump. The very [first thing I ever replaced in the bus](/jrnl/2016/06/engine). It's probably the fuel pump I thought as I lay there in the pollen. + +Under ordinary circumstances I'd just hop in the car, drive to the nearest parts shop, get a new fuel pump and install it. But that would mean all kinds of potential exposure of me and the family to coronavirus. That would defeat the purpose of this drive, which was to get us away from people, not closer to them. + +I considered the problem for a bit, lying there, staring up at the engine. If there's extra air coming in, maybe if I tightened up the carburetor to cut the air coming in that way it would balance out? At least enough to let me limp back to Athens. I crawled out and did it. It didn't help much -- the real problem was not enough fuel, not too much air -- but it helped enough that it got us back on the road, limping along. + +After experimenting some I figured out how to accelerate in such a way that it would not stutter much and I could get up to about 50 miles an hour. It took a while, but I limped into Augusta. I decided to skip the interstate and drove through on surface streets. It was slow going, but the bus didn't stutter as much at lower speeds, and eventually we got out of the city and back onto the highway to Athens. + + + +In the end it took an extra three hours, but we made it to the old farmhouse turned schoolhouse where we've been staying ever since. I was tired, but grateful to have made it. I squared the bus away, and made dinner. We put the kids to bed, and I went online and ordered a fuel pump from Rock Auto. Problem solved, no one sick. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/04/reflections.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/04/reflections.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6a59d41 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/04/reflections.html @@ -0,0 +1,616 @@ + + + + + Reflections - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Reflections

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    Three years on the road.

    +
    +
    +

    Athens, Georgia, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    April 1, 2020 marked three years on the road for us.

    +

    For all practical purposes our time on the road really ended in October 2018 when we flew to Mexico. After that we’ve continued to live in the bus, but we haven’t traveled like we did those first 18 months. Still, three years of traveling and living in the bus is far longer than we intended when we set out.

    +
    + + Driving into Colorado photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Living in the bus was always about far more than traveling. It would not be inaccurate to say that traveling was really a byproduct of living in the bus. A nice fringe benefit if you will.

    +

    More importantly living in the bus was more about stepping outside, literally and figuratively. Stepping back from life, taking stock, and critically evaluating the assumptions that had been handed to me about how to live a good life.

    +

    Do you need a house to live a good life? What about a car? What about a refrigerator? What about a fixed address? What about a phone? Oven? Books? Speedometer?

    +

    Living in the bus very quickly became about living with less. When you have less than 160 square feet of space — with only about a third of that truly “livable” — everything becomes about doing more with less. That’s what we wanted to learn how to do, which is why the bus was perfect.

    +
    + + inside the bus photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It eliminated a lot of things by necessity. We did without and got to see if any of that stuff mattered. It is one thing to sit around and wish you could get rid of things because they cost money or you think you might be able to get along without them.

    +

    It’s another story entirely to actually do it.

    +

    Living in the bus provided a way to experiment in doing without, but offset any sense of loss with the adventure and excitement of travel and living on the road. If you want to eliminate something and learn to do without it, fill that open niche in the ecosystem of your life with something you do want. Otherwise the weeds will take over.

    +

    You might miss having a hot bath for instance, but you know, it’s also nice to be sitting here on this perfect white sand beach in the Gulf of Mexico. Or you can think, gosh I’d really love to have some ice in this drink, but… since I was willing to forgo it I get to sit here in the amazing smelling pine forest 8000 feet up in the mountains of Colorado watching thunderstorms roll in all afternoon. And I could get ice actually, but I no longer need it.

    +
    + + lifitng elliott high above the waves photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It’s harder to notice what’s missing when you’re surrounded by the beauty of the world. You spend less time thinking of what you miss when you can’t wait to see what’s over the next hill. It also helps to know you couldn’t get over the next hill — you can’t have that feeling of freedom and peace — without having given up those old requirements.

    +

    So your mindset shifts over time. The things that you were “giving up” turn out to be things you don’t need. There’s no giving up in the end, you free yourself of those unnecessary burdens — those burdens you didn’t even realize were burdens.

    +

    I could see the beginnings of this before we left. I could read it in between the lines of some of the long term travelers I follow, like Rolf Potts, Wade Sheppard, the Bumfuzzle crew, and others. But you don’t really know something until you live it yourself. Happily, I was right. And it grows. The further you go, the more any sense of loss fades and the sense of gain grows.

    +

    Having less became really wonderful quite quickly. By the time we made it to Fort Pickens the first time, about a month into our trip, I don’t think we were missing anything. And we didn’t have solar power, a water tank, or even a working shower yet.

    +

    To even get on the road in the first place we had to get rid of a ton of stuff. And that is helpful, but I think it was more important to take that step back, to, as I said above, think critically about the assumptions your culture has handed you, and to question those assumptions. Once you do that deliberately for a while it becomes second nature. You start to look at everything a little sideways.

    +

    So we questioned everything, trying to look at it sideways and see if there was another way to solve the problem. In doing so we learned all kinds of things about how we live. Do we need a large living space? No. Provided we have a large outdoor space we don’t really need any more than a place to sleep and get out of the rain. Did we really need an extra car? No. Do we really need air conditioning? No, but it can be really nice at times. How about refrigeration? No, but again, nice for some things. The list here is very long, but you get the idea.

    +
    + + pacific ocean, patrick's point, humbolt photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    It took a bit longer to extract overarching principles from these small lessons, but I think there are two very important things I’ve taken away from this experience so far.

    +

    The first principle is: accept the environment for what it is and learn to live in it.

    +

    One of our unspoken cultural values is that we can shape the environment the way we want it and that this is good. This is barely-consciously a part of our daily lives in very subtle, seldom-noticed ways. Take air conditioning for example. For the entirety of human history no one had air conditioning. Somehow, those people did not all expire of heat exhaustion1.

    +

    If you don’t turn on the air conditioning, eventually you won’t need it. The first time you get hot make it a point to sweat. Deal with a little discomfort and let your body adapt to the heat. In the end you’ll be cooler and have no dependency on air conditioning. This frees you up to explore and exist in places others cannot. You body is phenomenally well-designed, it is capable of miraculous things if you give it a chance to adapt.

    +

    This principle — adapting to, rather than changing, the environment — also applies at the micro level. Don’t change the environment around you by adding an extra fork, wash the one you have. Don’t bother fixing your oven, buy a waffle iron. And so on. This is something that, once I saw it, I was never able to unsee it. I see it everywhere I look in the world, ways to make do without abound when you’re looking for them.

    +
    + + banana bread chocolate chip waffles. photographed by luxagraf + +
    Banana bread chocolate chip waffles.
    +
    + +

    The second principle is really just an extension of the first: stop worrying about what you can’t control.

    +

    How do you do that? You learn to adapt to things. You let go of the need to make the “right” choice and you make the best choice you can based on the best information you have at the time. You make a choice and you move on. You can always adjust and chose differently when conditions change.

    +

    Are you going to make it to that campsite you wanted to get to? Maybe? Maybe not? Okay, then where are we going? Well, on the map there’s something over there… let’s try that. If I had a dollar for every time this played out I could buy you a couple dozen tacos.

    +

    Are you going to have enough water to stay another night? Maybe? Are the tanks full? Maybe? There are dozens of unknowns like this every day in traveling, you either make peace with the uncertainty of it or you become stressed out and miserable. It’s not for everyone.

    +

    It’s not a matter of solving all the unknowns. That’s not an option. There are always more of them. You have to learn to be at peace with them because you know you can adapt. That is peace, knowing that whatever happens, you’re going to adapt to it.

    +

    That’s not to say I don’t have moments of stress and misery because my world falls apart. I would actually say there’s been far more world falling apart situations on the road than there ever were before. If your house has a engine, expect your world to fall apart frequently.

    +
    + + Dolores River photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Part of adapting is learning when you should do something. Traveling has made me very suspicious of myself whenever I say “no”. Whenever I don’t do something I force myself to stop and think, why not? Why not go swim in the river with the kids? Why not take a walk to watch the birds at dusk? Why not sit around the campfire half the night? Too many times there is no good reason for not doing it. It’s painful to admit, but sometimes I’m essentially refusing to go swimming because I don’t have a towel. That’s crazy.

    +
    + + broken axle bolts photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    That said, sometimes the answer to the question why not? is because your axle is falling off genius. The picture above is of our rear axle mount, which supports about 5000 pounds, with three of the four pins sheared off. I don’t care how comfortable you get with uncertainty, how much you can push aside worry, how much you say yes to, there’s no way to stop yourself from freaking out when your axle hangs by a single, obviously weak pin. Ditto when your head gasket blows and takes out a cylinder, or when you run out of money in Mexico, or any of the other things that will come up in life whether you travel or not. There are times you will not be able to stop yourself from worrying to some degree.

    +

    What I’ve learned is that the things worth worrying about are fewer and farther between with every passing year. After the axle almost broke and the head gasket blew, I wasn’t all that concerned when the exhaust manifold cracked in half. I’ve built a tolerance perhaps.

    +

    I’ve also learned that worry is often a way of avoiding the work that needs to be done. Worry and stress don’t fix anything.

    +

    If you want to have any control over which future you get, you have to figure out how to turn your worry into action. You have to stop freaking out and get to work. When your axle mount is about to shear off you have to turn that worry (actually more terror in that case) into action. Call a tow truck. Call a friend. Call everyone you know. In our case, my uncle came to our rescue). When there’s a pandemic and you have nowhere to park your rig, figure out your options, pick the best one, and make it happen. Call a friend. Call everyone you know. Spend all day pouring over Zillow and Craigslist. Do whatever you need to do to find the solution.

    +

    Someone said to me the other day that things always seem to work out for us. I won’t argue, but I take except to the implication that this is solely the result of luck. We are very lucky, and yes that does help, but to be completely honest the main reason we’ve had so much good “luck” is because Corrinne works very hard to make things happen for us.

    +

    I might write more about coaxing the engine along, but she’s the one who spends long hours solving all the other, much more frequent problems we encounter, like where to live in Mexico, what to do when the budget has to stretch farther than you thought, or where to go and what to do when the world shuts down. To figure those things out you have to set aside the worry and do the hard work.

    +
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      +
    1. +

      It is true that in many case their homes were more intelligently constructed than ours, and they understood their land and its microclimates at lot better than we did, which gave them more ways to escape the heat. These are things worth exploring should you decide you want to free yourself of tyranny of air conditioning. ↩

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    You might also enjoy
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    2 Comments

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    + Patty Hahn + May 29, 2020 at 7:41 a.m. +
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    Very beautiful and so true!

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    + Scott + May 30, 2020 at 10:49 a.m. +
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    Thank Patty!

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    Thoughts?

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    Please leave a reply:

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    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/04/reflections.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/04/reflections.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..09ccdb3 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/04/reflections.txt @@ -0,0 +1,90 @@ +Reflections +=========== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Saturday, 18 April 2020 + +April 1, 2020 marked three years on the road for us. + +For all practical purposes our time on the road really ended in October 2018 when we [flew to Mexico](/jrnl/2018/09/big-exit). After that we've continued to live in the bus, but we haven't traveled like we did those first 18 months. Still, three years of traveling and living in the bus is far longer than we intended [when we set out](https://live.luxagraf.net/jrnl/2017/04/april-fools). + + + +Living in the bus was always about far more than traveling. It would not be inaccurate to say that traveling was really a byproduct of living in the bus. A nice fringe benefit if you will. + +More importantly living in the bus was more about stepping outside, literally and figuratively. Stepping back from life, taking stock, and critically evaluating the assumptions that had been handed to me about how to live a good life. + +Do you need a house to live a good life? What about a car? What about a refrigerator? What about a fixed address? What about a phone? Oven? Books? Speedometer? + +Living in the bus very quickly became about living with less. When you have less than 160 square feet of space -- with only about a third of that truly "livable" -- everything becomes about doing more with less. That's what we wanted to learn how to do, which is why the bus was perfect. + + + +It eliminated a lot of things by necessity. We did without and got to see if any of that stuff mattered. It is one thing to sit around and wish you could get rid of things because they cost money or you think you might be able to get along without them. + +It's another story entirely to actually do it. + +Living in the bus provided a way to experiment in doing without, but offset any sense of loss with the adventure and excitement of travel and living on the road. If you want to eliminate something and learn to do without it, fill that open niche in the ecosystem of your life with something you *do* want. Otherwise the weeds will take over. + +You might miss having a hot bath for instance, but you know, it's also nice to be sitting here on this perfect white sand beach in the Gulf of Mexico. Or you can think, gosh I'd really love to have some ice in this drink, but... since I was willing to forgo it I get to sit here in the amazing smelling pine forest 8000 feet up in the mountains of Colorado watching thunderstorms roll in all afternoon. And I could get ice actually, but I no longer need it. + + + +It's harder to notice what's missing when you're surrounded by the beauty of the world. You spend less time thinking of what you miss when you can't wait to see what's over the next hill. It also helps to know you couldn't get over the next hill -- you can't have that feeling of freedom and peace -- without having given up those old requirements. + +So your mindset shifts over time. The things that you were "giving up" turn out to be things you don't need. There's no giving up in the end, you free yourself of those unnecessary burdens -- those burdens you didn't even realize were burdens. + +I could see the beginnings of this before we left. I could read it in between the lines of some of the long term travelers I follow, like Rolf Potts, Wade Sheppard, the Bumfuzzle crew, and others. But you don't really know something until you live it yourself. Happily, I was right. And it grows. The further you go, the more any sense of loss fades and the sense of gain grows. + +Having less became really wonderful quite quickly. By the time we made it to [Fort Pickens the first time](/jrnl/2017/04/gulf-islands-national-seashore), about a month into our trip, I don't think we were missing anything. And we didn't have solar power, a water tank, or even a working shower yet. + +To even get on the road in the first place we had to get rid of a ton of stuff. And that is helpful, but I think it was more important to take that step back, to, as I said above, think critically about the assumptions your culture has handed you, and to question those assumptions. Once you do that deliberately for a while it becomes second nature. You start to look at everything a little sideways. + +So we questioned everything, trying to look at it sideways and see if there was another way to solve the problem. In doing so we learned all kinds of things about how we live. Do we need a large living space? No. Provided we have a large outdoor space we don't really need any more than a place to sleep and get out of the rain. Did we really need an extra car? No. Do we really need air conditioning? No, but it can be really nice at times. How about refrigeration? No, but again, nice for some things. The list here is very long, but you get the idea. + + + +It took a bit longer to extract overarching principles from these small lessons, but I think there are two very important things I've taken away from this experience so far. + +The first principle is: accept the environment for what it is and learn to live in it. + +One of our unspoken cultural values is that we can shape the environment the way we want it and that this is good. This is barely-consciously a part of our daily lives in very subtle, seldom-noticed ways. Take air conditioning for example. For the entirety of human history no one had air conditioning. Somehow, those people did not all expire of heat exhaustion[^1]. + +If you don't turn on the air conditioning, eventually you won't need it. The first time you get hot make it a point to sweat. Deal with a little discomfort and let your body adapt to the heat. In the end you'll be cooler and have no dependency on air conditioning. This frees you up to explore and exist in places others cannot. You body is phenomenally well-designed, it is capable of miraculous things if you give it a chance to adapt. + +This principle -- adapting to, rather than changing, the environment -- also applies at the micro level. Don't change the environment around you by adding an extra fork, wash the one you have. Don't bother fixing your oven, [buy a waffle iron](/essay/waffle-world). And so on. This is something that, once I saw it, I was never able to unsee it. I see it everywhere I look in the world, ways to make do without abound when you're looking for them. + + + +The second principle is really just an extension of the first: stop worrying about what you can't control. + +How do you do that? You learn to adapt to things. You let go of the need to make the "right" choice and you make the best choice you can based on the best information you have at the time. You make a choice and you move on. You can always adjust and chose differently when conditions change. + +Are you going to make it to that campsite you wanted to get to? Maybe? Maybe not? Okay, then where are we going? Well, on the map there's something over there... let's try that. If I had a dollar for every time this played out I could buy you a couple dozen tacos. + +Are you going to have enough water to stay another night? Maybe? Are the tanks full? Maybe? There are dozens of unknowns like this every day in traveling, you either make peace with the uncertainty of it or you become stressed out and miserable. It's not for everyone. + +It's not a matter of solving all the unknowns. That's not an option. There are always more of them. You have to learn to be at peace with them because you know you can adapt. That is peace, knowing that whatever happens, you're going to adapt to it. + +That's not to say I don't have moments of stress and misery because my world falls apart. I would actually say there's been far more world falling apart situations on the road than there ever were before. If your house has a engine, expect your world to fall apart frequently. + + + +Part of adapting is learning when you *should* do something. Traveling has made me very suspicious of myself whenever I say "no". Whenever I don't do something I force myself to stop and think, why not? Why not go swim in the river with the kids? Why not take a walk to watch the birds at dusk? Why not sit around the campfire half the night? Too many times there is no good reason for not doing it. It's painful to admit, but sometimes I'm essentially refusing to go swimming because I don't have a towel. That's crazy. + + + +That said, sometimes the answer to the question *why not?* is *because your axle is falling off genius*. The picture above is of our rear axle mount, which supports about 5000 pounds, with three of the four pins sheared off. I don't care how comfortable you get with uncertainty, how much you can push aside worry, how much you say yes to, there's no way to stop yourself from freaking out when your axle hangs by a single, obviously weak pin. Ditto when your head gasket blows and takes out a cylinder, or when you run out of money in Mexico, or any of the other things that will come up in life whether you travel or not. There are times you will not be able to stop yourself from worrying to some degree. + +What I've learned is that the things worth worrying about are fewer and farther between with every passing year. After the axle almost broke and the head gasket blew, I wasn't all that concerned when the exhaust manifold cracked in half. I've built a tolerance perhaps. + +I've also learned that worry is often a way of avoiding the work that needs to be done. Worry and stress don't fix anything. + +If you want to have any control over which future you get, you have to figure out how to turn your worry into action. You have to stop freaking out and get to work. When your axle mount is about to shear off you have to turn that worry (actually more terror in that case) into action. Call a tow truck. Call a friend. Call everyone you know. In our case, [my uncle came to our rescue](/jrnl/2017/10/trains-hot-springs-and-broken-buses)). When there's a pandemic and you have nowhere to park your rig, figure out your options, pick the best one, and make it happen. Call a friend. Call everyone you know. Spend all day pouring over Zillow and Craigslist. Do whatever you need to do to find the solution. + +Someone said to me the other day that things always seem to work out for us. I won't argue, but I take except to the implication that this is solely the result of luck. We are very lucky, and yes that does help, but to be completely honest the main reason we've had so much good "luck" is because Corrinne works very hard to make things happen for us. + +I might write more about coaxing the engine along, but she's the one who spends long hours solving all the other, much more frequent problems we encounter, like where to live in Mexico, what to do when the budget has to stretch farther than you thought, or where to go and what to do when the world shuts down. To figure those things out you have to set aside the worry and do the hard work. + +[^1]: It is true that in many case their homes were more intelligently constructed than ours, and they understood their land and its microclimates at lot better than we did, which gave them more ways to escape the heat. These are things worth exploring should you decide you want to free yourself of tyranny of air conditioning. diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/06/hands-on-the-wheel.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/06/hands-on-the-wheel.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e304ca2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/06/hands-on-the-wheel.html @@ -0,0 +1,633 @@ + + + + + Hands On The Wheel - by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    +

    Hands on the Wheel

    +

    When the world zigs, zag.

    +
    +
    +

    Iva, South Carolina, U.S.

    + – Map +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    I once had the opportunity to float for a while in the confluence of two great rivers. It was hot, the middle of summer in the Utah desert. I waded out into the cold water and floated along for a while, half my body in the Yampa River, half in the Green River.

    +

    The Green River was true to its name. The Yampa was muddy brown. The brown and green waters met at a surprisingly sharp line you could see and feel.

    +
    + + Confluence of the Yampa and Green Rivers, Utah photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    I floated along for maybe five minutes. Ten at the most. It was a pit stop on a long day’s paddle, but I think about that confluence all the time. I think about how sharp the division was there, and how utterly it vanished two hundred meters further down the channel. Two very large, incomprehensibly powerful things join together and become one in a matter of feet.

    +

    What’s perhaps more startling, having started out on only one river, is to suddenly see that second one join in. A world you didn’t even know existed suddenly arrives and blends into what you thought was the world. Everything changes in an instant and then carries on toward the sea as if nothing happened. Rivers of thought, rivers of possibilities, rivers of history, rivers of choice all coming together, opening and closing worlds in ways that are sometimes difficult to predict. Everything always heading toward the sea.

    +
    +

    We spent some time at the beginning of the pandemic lockdown in an old farmhouse that had been converted into a schoolhouse. It seemed in keeping with our general strategy that, when the world zigs, you should zag. In a world where no one was going to school anymore, our kids, who have never been to school in their lives, suddenly lived in one. Zig, zag.

    +

    While everyone else struggled to entertain their kids at home, ours suddenly had access to swing sets, climbing structures, stages for plays and magic shows, and every STEM-related learning toy and tool you can imagine. There was even a zip line. From my kids point of view, for a few weeks, the pandemic was the best thing that had ever happened to them.

    +
    + + kids stitting on a climber photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + Kids putting on a magic show on a stage photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + kids on a zip line photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + girl riding a zip line photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    We tried to make the best of things and not let the pandemic intrude on the kids’ life too much. We were isolated of course, no campground playmates to run and bike around with, no campground even, but otherwise we tried to stick with our normal routines — school and work in the mornings, playing outside, climbing trees, zip lines, swings in the afternoon. Then after the kids were in bed I finished up work. Naturally there was plenty of time for waffling.

    +
    + + + kids reading books photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + girl climbing tree photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + girl climbing tree photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + playing guitar orangewood oliver jr photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + + Waffle iron grilled cheese photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + boy playing chess photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    When it became apparent that the lockdown would last more than a few weeks, we started looking around for a place to hole up a while. The school house lacked beds, and its future was uncertain. It also had a ghost that liked to walk around smoking a cigarette.

    +

    As so often has happened to us in our travels, someone we barely knew offered us a place to stay. We took them up on it for a few weeks while we tossed around ideas for the future beyond that.

    +

    It turned out to be a perfect place for us, plenty of room for the bus, and a huge yard for the kids to play in. There was even fancy stuff like an oven, which we used to make brownies, because brownies don’t work in a waffle iron, we’ve tried.

    +
    + + + playing in the yard photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + kids painting photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + None photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + + + combing photographed by luxagraf + + + + + + brownies photographed by luxagraf + + + +
    + +

    We toyed with a variety of plans, but we’re more strategy people. Broad sweeping life aims are pretty well defined around here. We know what we want, but there are a lot of ways to get what you want.

    +

    Consider for instance this trip. We had a few goals, but one of the biggest things that’s emerged over time is that we like to spend time in the wilderness, undisturbed by the trappings of modern culture. A plan to achieve this would be to look at BLM land and maps. A strategy to achieve this would be to modify your life in such a way that you can get to the BLM land, or get it to you.

    +

    One day Corrinne ran across a Zillow listing for an 19th century farmhouse for rent in the middle of a 300-acre forest. I dismissed it out of hand because real estate descriptions are usually nothing but lies. Still, it did get me thinking. Thinking strategically. Instead of wondering when we’d get back on the road again, I began to wonder if getting back on the road again was the best strategy.

    +

    What if you could rent the wilderness for a while? Bring the wilderness to you so to speak.

    +

    Those two rivers swirled around me for a while. On one hand there was the comfort of the familiar, life in the bus. But you can’t go home again, things are always changing. With international travel largely shutdown we knew people would turn to camping. RV sales went up 600% in April 2020. This year is shaping up to be an Eternal September for RVing in the U.S. and I was not at all sure I wanted to be part of that.

    +

    There was also a parallel current that’s been pulling at me for some time, one that seems to want me away from the road for a while. We flirted with this in Mexico, but that didn’t work out quite the way we wanted. We were not able to get the things done that we intended to get done. At the end of the day, we were still on the road in Mexico.

    +

    One of the strange things about writing about travel is that it’s very tough to do when you’re actually traveling. To write you need long uninterrupted periods of nothingness, which travel generally fails to provide. Most writers I know travel in bursts, then retreat to write about it. And to be clear, I mean writing longer projects. Creating a site like this on the road is a lot of work, but it happens in short bursts so it’s not too tough to do.

    +

    Eventually, these two streams for ideas began to mingle. Both Corrinne and I have projects we want to get off the ground that we just can’t swing from the road. And that property? It turns out the description wasn’t all lies. It really was an old farmhouse in the middle of 300 acres of pine forest.

    +
    + + farmhouse from the air photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +
    + + pine forest from the air photographed by luxagraf + +
    +
    + +
    + + +
    + +
    +
    +
    +
    You might also enjoy
    + +
    +
    + + + + + +

    3 Comments

    + + + + + + +
    + +
    + +
    + Gwen + July 22, 2020 at 9:42 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    I am quite curious about the cigarette smoking ghost…

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Jake + July 25, 2020 at 11:07 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    The story took a turn I didn’t expect! Can’t wait to find out how this works.

    + +
    +
    + +
    + +
    + Scott + July 26, 2020 at 9:30 p.m. +
    + +
    + +

    @gwen- haha, I enjoy dropping things like that in there. Unfortunately, there’s not a whole lot more to the story. It happened quite frequently, we’d be sitting there, inside, all the windows closed because the pollen was insane outside, and out of nowhere all the sudden all of us would smell cigarette smoke. There was no one else around. I went out and walked around the property once just to make sure. Then I realized the room we stayed in was an add on that had enclosed what would have originally been the back porch, where presumably people would have sat and smoked. Then, when we were looking for a place to stay, we ran across an ad that mentioned this phenomena in the exact same context, different house. But again it was a ~100-year-old house where the porch had been enclosed. The current owners smelled smoke on a regular basis. As this ad said, ‘yes there’s a ghost that smokes, no we don’t mess with it, it doesn’t mess with us’, which pretty well describes our experience as well. ¯_(ツ)_/¯

    +

    So far no ghosts smoking or otherwise were we are now.

    +

    @jake- We like to keep people guessing. But so far it’s working out great. Corrinne is much more industrious than me. She’s already almost done with what she wanted to do. Me, I got some serious writing ahead of me yet.

    + +
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    Thoughts?

    +

    Please leave a reply:

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    All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

    + + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/06/hands-on-the-wheel.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/06/hands-on-the-wheel.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c73f695 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2020/06/hands-on-the-wheel.txt @@ -0,0 +1,80 @@ +Hands on the Wheel +================== + + by Scott Gilbertson + + Thursday, 25 June 2020 + +I once had the opportunity to float for a while in the confluence of two great rivers. It was hot, the middle of summer in the Utah desert. I waded out into the cold water and floated along for a while, half my body in the Yampa River, half in the Green River. + +The Green River was true to its name. The Yampa was muddy brown. The brown and green waters met at a surprisingly sharp line you could see and feel. + + + +I floated along for maybe five minutes. Ten at the most. It was a pit stop on a long day's paddle, but I think about that confluence all the time. I think about how sharp the division was there, and how utterly it vanished two hundred meters further down the channel. Two very large, incomprehensibly powerful things join together and become one in a matter of feet. + +What's perhaps more startling, having started out on only one river, is to suddenly see that second one join in. A world you didn't even know existed suddenly arrives and blends into what you thought was the world. Everything changes in an instant and then carries on toward the sea as if nothing happened. Rivers of thought, rivers of possibilities, rivers of history, rivers of choice all coming together, opening and closing worlds in ways that are sometimes difficult to predict. Everything always heading toward the sea. + +--- + +We spent some time at the beginning of the pandemic lockdown in an old farmhouse that had been converted into a schoolhouse. It seemed in keeping with our general strategy that, when the world zigs, you should zag. In a world where no one was going to school anymore, our kids, who have never been to school in their lives, suddenly lived in one. Zig, zag. + +While everyone else struggled to entertain their kids at home, ours suddenly had access to swing sets, climbing structures, stages for plays and magic shows, and every STEM-related learning toy and tool you can imagine. There was even a zip line. From my kids point of view, for a few weeks, the pandemic was the best thing that had ever happened to them. + + + + + + +We tried to make the best of things and not let the pandemic intrude on the kids' life too much. We were isolated of course, no campground playmates to run and bike around with, no campground even, but otherwise we tried to stick with our normal routines -- school and work in the mornings, playing outside, climbing trees, zip lines, swings in the afternoon. Then after the kids were in bed I finished up work. Naturally there was plenty of time for waffling. + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + +When it became apparent that the lockdown would last more than a few weeks, we started looking around for a place to hole up a while. The school house lacked beds, and its future was uncertain. It also had a ghost that liked to walk around smoking a cigarette. + +As so often has happened to us in our travels, someone we barely knew offered us a place to stay. We took them up on it for a few weeks while we tossed around ideas for the future beyond that. + +It turned out to be a perfect place for us, plenty of room for the bus, and a huge yard for the kids to play in. There was even fancy stuff like an oven, which we used to make brownies, because brownies don't work in a waffle iron, we've tried. + +
    + + + + + + + + + +
    + +We toyed with a variety of plans, but we're more strategy people. Broad sweeping life aims are pretty well defined around here. We know what we want, but there are a lot of ways to get what you want. + +Consider for instance this trip. We had a few goals, but one of the biggest things that's emerged over time is that we like to spend time in the wilderness, undisturbed by the trappings of modern culture. A plan to achieve this would be to look at BLM land and maps. A strategy to achieve this would be to modify your life in such a way that you can get to the BLM land, or get it to you. + +One day Corrinne ran across a Zillow listing for an 19th century farmhouse for rent in the middle of a 300-acre forest. I dismissed it out of hand because real estate descriptions are usually nothing but lies. Still, it did get me thinking. Thinking strategically. Instead of wondering when we'd get back on the road again, I began to wonder if getting back on the road again was the best strategy. + +What if you could rent the wilderness for a while? Bring the wilderness to you so to speak. + +Those two rivers swirled around me for a while. On one hand there was the comfort of the familiar, life in the bus. But [you can't go home again](/jrnl/2008/06/you-cant-go-home-again), things are always changing. With international travel largely shutdown we knew people would turn to camping. RV sales went up 600% in April 2020. This year is shaping up to be an [Eternal September](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eternal_September) for RVing in the U.S. and I was not at all sure I wanted to be part of that. + +There was also a parallel current that's been pulling at me for some time, one that seems to want me away from the road for a while. We flirted with this in Mexico, but that didn't work out quite the way we wanted. We were not able to get the things done that we intended to get done. At the end of the day, we were still on the road in Mexico. + +One of the strange things about writing about travel is that it's very tough to do when you're actually traveling. To write you need long uninterrupted periods of nothingness, which travel generally fails to provide. Most writers I know travel in bursts, then retreat to write about it. And to be clear, I mean writing longer projects. Creating a site like this on the road is a lot of work, but it happens in short bursts so it's not too tough to do. + +Eventually, these two streams for ideas began to mingle. Both Corrinne and I have projects we want to get off the ground that we just can't swing from the road. And that property? It turns out the description wasn't all lies. It really was an old farmhouse in the middle of 300 acres of pine forest. + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/3/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/3/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3345713 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/3/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,596 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Around the World -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal

    +
    +
    + Swamped +
    +

    Swamped

    + + +

    + + Okefenokee Swamp, Georgia, U.S. + + 30.730813688628597 + -82.53927583057352 + + – + + From Edisto we took a few back roads through the low country, headed south and west. We were headed for the middle of nowhere, but it was further than we wanted to go in a day. So we spent a night at the mouth of the Altamaha River before heading on to the middle of nowhere. Or the edge of the Okefenokee swamp. Same thing really. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Storming +
    +

    Storming

    + + +

    + + Edisto Island, South Carolina, U.S. + + 32.509299424657236 + -80.30565018047915 + + – + + We woke up on our third day to cloudy skies and predictions of a massive storm. Seemed like a good day to head up to Charleston, do some laundry, run errands and check out the city. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Edge of the Continent +
    +

    The Edge of the Continent

    + + +

    + + Edisto Island, South Carolina, U.S. + + 32.508647989854175 + -80.3035902439571 + + – + + We avoid interstates and even divided highways for the most part, sticking to the county roads, the thin gray lines on the map known only by local names, no number at all. We follow the river, more or less, down out of the red Georgia mud into the Carolina coastal plain. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + April Fools +
    +

    April Fools

    + + +

    + + Raysville, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.63195904692882 + -82.47742409070177 + + – + + Our original plan called for us to hit the road on the first day of spring. In reality we finally got going, fittingly enough, on April 1st. Not that we went far, but hey, the road is the road. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Watson Mill Bridge +
    +

    Watson Mill Bridge

    + + +

    + + Watson Mill State Park, Georgia, U.S. + + 34.03350040134611 + -83.07300323795661 + + – + + In which we get fancy RV stuff, like propane and running water. The new carburetor I ordered is nowhere to be found, but hey, new wheels and new tires. Plus, did I mention we can cook indoors now? Luxury living. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Mooring of Starting Out +
    +

    The Mooring of Starting Out

    + + +

    + + Watson Mill State Park, Georgia, U.S. + + 34.034211686271625 + -83.0760931427401 + + – + + starting out is like being in that weird moment where Wily E Coyote has merrily run past the edge of the cliff and managed to keep going out of sheer blissful ignorance -- until he looks down. Starting out is that moment when you look down and realize the edge of the cliff is well behind you now -- you're on your way down. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Wilds of Winder +
    +

    The Wilds of Winder

    + + +

    + + Fort Yargo State Park, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.96861504910654 + -83.7242972308598 + + – + + A couple weeks back we thought we had a buyer for the house but it fell through last minute. It was enough, however, to get everyone excited at the prospect of actually hitting the road. And then that hope was yanked away. To make up for that we decided it was time to do something of an exploratory trip, to test out life in the bus with a two night trip to Fort Yargo State Park + +

    +
    +
    +
    + 1969 Dodge Travco Before +
    +

    1969 Dodge Travco Before

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.958221674854826 + -83.40821499175449 + + – + + To close out the year I thought I'd post some images from all the work that I've done on the bus over the last 12 months. It's not finished yet, but here's some pictures of what she used to look like, along with some of the damage I uncovered and repaired. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Happy Birthday, Sun +
    +

    Happy Birthday, Sun

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.958711117373646 + -83.40825790709812 + + – + + I've always found it a little curious that so many people, myself included, who don’t otherwise practice the Christian faith, choose to celebrate Christmas. Winter solstice makes far more sense as a holiday to latch onto if you want an excuse to celebrate this time of year. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Waiting for the Sun +
    +

    Waiting for the Sun

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95917830987785 + -83.40837592429536 + + – + + November came and went. The ginko down the street buried the still green grass in a blanket of brilliant yellow. The maples at the park had a banner year of blood red leaves. Even the oaks seemed brighter than usual. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Nothing is Finished, Nothing is Perfect +
    +

    Nothing is Finished, Nothing is Perfect

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95815048298076 + -83.40810770339355 + + – + + A dozen years ago this week I was at an Iraqi restaurant in Paris. It was a tiny place near the cross roads of two very forgettable avenues, an unassuming door, a small menu board of the kind you see dozens of on nearly every block. I have no recollection of what drew us in, maybe just hunger. The only other people in it were the owner and his wife. To this day I would call it the best meal of my life. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Halloween +
    +

    Halloween

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95636176760647 + -83.40707773513215 + + – + + Every Halloween I complain about how hot it is. I'm not sure where I got the idea that it was cold in Georgia come Halloween, but reviewing some pictures from the last half decade or so very clearly shows me wrong. It's often quite hot on Halloween and probably always will be from here on out. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Useless Stuff +
    +

    Useless Stuff

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95799920005176 + -83.40821499175449 + + – + + Normally when you move you just shove all that stuff you don't really acknowledge that you've been dragging around for years without using into a box and truck it on to the next place you'll live where you can happily shove it in the back of a new closet. When you're moving into a 1969 Dodge Travco with four other people and less than 100 square feet of usable space that's not an option. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Equinox +
    +

    Equinox

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.9850879025932 + -83.38062578983113 + + – + + I have a thing for solar cycles. I was born a few hours before the winter solstice. My wife and I were married on the summer solstice. My son was born a few hours before the winter solstice. None of that was planned. It's all synchronicity. Coincidence some would say, though I don't believe that synchronicities like that are coincidence. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Cloudland Canyon +
    +

    Cloudland Canyon

    + + +

    + + Cloudland Canyon, Georgia, U.S. + + 34.8338921973676 + -85.4818844250578 + + – + + I have a terrible habit of never going to obvious places that are right around me. For example I lived within 100 miles or so of Death Valley for 26 years and never once went. Then I moved thousands of miles across the country and finally arranged a trip to Death Valley. Except that it appears I'm getting better about these things. Maybe. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Autumn Bus Update +
    +

    Autumn Bus Update

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95793690700317 + -83.40810770339355 + + – + + The bare walls are gone, the ceiling is in, but still there is still much to do -- even if we do plan to leave before it's completely finished. We need a floor and couch at the bare minimum, though I'd like to have the propane and sewage system working as well. Oh and then there's a cab area, which I really haven't touched. Miles to go before I sleep. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Change of Ideas (The Worst) +
    +

    Change of Ideas (The Worst)

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.90329999583211 + -83.33059998840027 + + – + + I want the bus to be The Best. But. as an article I'm fond of says, "the best means waiting, planning, researching, and saving until one can acquire the perfect equipment for a given task." On the other side of the coin there is The Worst. if you have to have everything perfect you're never going to go. The Worst just goes. Now. The Worst figures things out from experience rather than hopes and fears. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + What Are You Going to Do? +
    +

    What Are You Going to Do?

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95701140490208 + -83.40944880790045 + + – + + We've started telling people about our plans to live full time in the blue bus. After the eyebrows come down and the puzzled frowns flatten out, the questions come. Most of them revolve around some form of, but, but but... *what will you do without a house? What will you do when that thing breaks down? What will you do when...* Rather than answer everyone individually I thought I'd answer all those questions here, as best I can: ***I don't know***. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Engine +
    +

    Engine

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.958194977909265 + -83.4081398899018 + + – + + The Travco is not starting. I can see the problem in my head, but I cannot make it work. It has to be the fuel pump. I have spark. I have compression. The missing ingredient in the basic trifecta of the internal combustion engines is fuel. But seeing it and understanding it are different than actually making it work. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Back From Somewhere +
    +

    Back From Somewhere

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.96708459770432 + -83.38646227664735 + + – + + Neither the intense afternoon sun beating down on the concrete slab of parking lot, nor the humidity left over from morning rains convinced my kids to abandon the Jittery Joe's skate contest. We were there all afternoon, over four hours of skating, pulled pork and the occasional train rolling by. They never stopped loving it. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Root Down +
    +

    Root Down

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95784791685379 + -83.40821499175358 + + – + + The longer you've been in one location the more stuff that's accumulated. As far as I can tell there is no real way to combat the detritus of the world seeping into your space, save cutting off all contact with the outside world. I imagine monasteries are generally immaculate; the rest of us get out the pick axes and clear the rubble. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Another Spring +
    +

    Another Spring

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.88121959056056 + -83.31667656250653 + + – + + This becomes a day like any other that is somehow different. Then another and another. Little things. The air feels brighter. The river is lower. Less practical footwear appears on the feet around you. The mornings are crisp and the pollen hasn't started yet. The trees still bare though the smaller shrubs turn purple and white. Everything feels fragile but possible again. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Up in the Air +
    +

    Up in the Air

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95794580601253 + -83.40819353408179 + + – + + I tore the rear air conditioning unit off the back of the bus today. Afterward I stood back and looked at the Travco. All the clean lines and curves joined together again, no more air conditioning warts to interrupt the sliding smooth and unbroken swoop of white and blue. The big blue bus looked sleek and whole again. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bring on the Change +
    +

    Bring on the Change

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.958016998057886 + -83.4080862457218 + + – + + I've been thinking about this little mantra ever since I saw it six or seven years ago. I don't think I've ever seen what I consider the secret to happiness so succinctly and completely captured. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/4/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/4/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5266ea1 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/4/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,596 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Around the World -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal

    +
    +
    + Tools +
    +

    Tools

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95817717994103 + -83.40842956847534 + + – + + We are not things, Alan Watts was fond of saying, we are happenings. But we are happenings with things. Specifically with tools, many of which help us happen in one way or another. What to make of these tools then? + +

    +
    +
    +
    + 8-Track Gorilla +
    +

    8-Track Gorilla

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.9579814020434 + -83.40812916106634 + + – + + I just sold an antiquated music player that takes a format no one has manufactured in over three decades for $86. It was an old Oldsmobile 8-track cassette player I pulled out of the bus. I have no idea how it came to be in a 1969 Dodge Travco. What I do have an idea about is why I just sold it, as-is, could-be-working, could not be working, for $86 more than you would think it was worth. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Progress +
    +

    Progress

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.957904369989365 + -83.4083437377863 + + – + + I'm not crazy anti-tech, I just think the good, sustainable technologies are rare. I'm not a delusional lunatic who thinks I'm living in the Victorian era or anything. I just don't really like air conditioning. Or heaters. Or generators. And I prefer a good fire to electric light. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Elvis Has Left the Building +
    +

    Elvis Has Left the Building

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.963774457452075 + -83.40132707900412 + + – + + It's not that I have anything against the king, it's that I don't have anything at all, no feelings one way or the other on Elvis, so he came out and won't be going back in. The walls, ceiling and floor of the Travco are also coming out. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Big Blue Bus +
    +

    The Big Blue Bus

    + + +

    + + Asheville Area, North Carolina, U.S. + + 35.82050050961864 + -82.54565948803042 + + – + + Change of plans, sold the trailer, bought a 1969 Dodge Travco, the coolest vehicle ever made. The first few corners were nerve-wracking, the kind of white knuckled terror-inducing driving I haven't done since the very first time I sat down behind a wheel. Or the time I claimed I could ride a motorcycle when I actually had no clue. It all works out in the end. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ode to the Outdoor Shower +
    +

    Ode to the Outdoor Shower

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.660804289800733 + -84.86735815332483 + + – + + The outdoor shower may be one of life's greatest joys. Certainly it makes for memorable showers. I have fond memories of sunshowers hung from the mast of a sailboat, the slick mossy wood of an outdoor shower in Laos, the cold marble of bucket showers in India, the sandy tile of the beach showers where I grew up. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + A Big Long Week +
    +

    A Big Long Week

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.660095736315927 + -84.86705774591675 + + – + + Whenever Lilah and Olivia want to convey long lengths of time they use the phrase "in a big long week". As in, "we have not had any cookies in a big long week." A big long week could be anywhere from two days to over a year. In this case we had two big long weeks on the island. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Tate's Hell +
    +

    Tate’s Hell

    + + +

    + + Tate’s Hell, Florida, U.S. + + 29.854238614588233 + -84.8141645841502 + + – + + Tate supposedly wandered out of his eponymous hell swamp and managed to say "my name is Cebe Tate, and I just came from Hell!" before promptly dropping dead. If you're like me you're not going to take this legend very seriously. You're going to think, pshaw, swamps are fun, how bad can this one be? As it happens, if you're not prepared, it can be pretty bad. Especially in Yellow Fly season. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + We're Here +
    +

    We’re Here

    + + +

    + + Thomasville, Georgia, U.S. + + 30.841040782644317 + -83.98170346556772 + + – + + Right now the girls call everywhere "here". This greatly simplifies the whole "are we there yet" dilemma of driving with children. That's not the question. On the drive down here to St. George Island they would ask "are we here yet?" To which Corrinne and I would answer, "yes, we are here." They're young enough that they let us get away with that. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Coming Home +
    +

    Coming Home

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95742966190523 + -83.40147728270863 + + – + + I am happy to report that, despite a sketchy tow hookup that doesn't lock to the ball, some last-minute wiring snafus, a considerable amount of dry rot on one tire and of course the fact that it still isn't registered, I did nevertheless succeed in getting our 1969 Yellowstone back to our house. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Poison You’ve Been Dreaming Of +
    +

    The Poison You’ve Been Dreaming Of

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95273082672748 + -83.40319389647894 + + – + + Everyday we go to the store and blithely buy things without ever thinking about how they got here or what the cost of these items might be. We trade our time (all we have) for money to buy things that are killing us and the people we love. And we consider this totally sane. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Down The River +
    +

    Down The River

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95799920005253 + -83.4382557327161 + + – + + Rivers make the familiar foreign in an instant. For the entirety of this trip I almost no idea where I was in Athens. I floated through an area that I have lived in and explored off and on for almost 20 years now and yet all it takes to make it utterly unknown is looking at it from a waterway rather than the land. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Pig Roast +
    +

    Pig Roast

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95240599235981 + -83.39672977275296 + + – + + I was headed downtown about a week ago when I noticed a sign that said, "free pig roast". There are two types of people in this world, those who go to free pig roasts and vegans fools. Sign me up. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Schoolhouse +
    +

    Schoolhouse

    + + +

    + + Oconee County, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.76306639858435 + -83.43694681471746 + + – + + Something called touch-a-truck that rolls through town, or just south of town at a place call Heritage Park, every year. It turns out to be pretty much what it sounds like: a place where kids can touch trucks — semi-trucks, fire engines, ambulances and more. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ice Storm +
    +

    Ice Storm

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.94511246686547 + -83.37615722961178 + + – + + I love storms, preferably summer storms with plenty of warm humid wind, lightning and the attendant thunder, but winter storms are nice too. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Walking in the Woods +
    +

    Walking in the Woods

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.984367309819 + -83.38138753719177 + + – + + It’s always struck me as strange that we have a separate word for walking in nature, hiking, as opposed to just walking. Is walking just too mundane? + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Purcell Wooden Toys +
    +

    Purcell Wooden Toys

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.950381311835336 + -83.37821716613469 + + – + + The evolution of toys in my opinion starts with what is still the greatest of all toys -- the stick. After that, I suggest my friend Chris's handcrafted wooden toys. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sunrise +
    +

    Sunrise

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.94724852440723 + -83.37856048888914 + + – + + Watching the sun rise, coffee on the stove, light in the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Hoppin' John +
    +

    Hoppin’ John

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.93927363608245 + -83.38577026672033 + + – + + New Year's cynics are boring. What they miss is that, sure, the only meaning in New Years is what you bring to the table, but that’s true of every day you exist on this planet. So bring something to the table damn it. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Our New 1969 Yellowstone Trailer +
    +

    Our New 1969 Yellowstone Trailer

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.955507442515085 + -83.39298004455148 + + – + + There are no real blank parts of the map anymore, to misquote Conrad, but there sure are a lot of empty spaces left. We intend to see some of them in our new (to us anyway) 1969 Yellowstone travel trailer. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Night Before +
    +

    The Night Before

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.947319725402615 + -83.40491051024922 + + – + + Every voyage has a night before. We tend to remember the excitement of the next morning, when our senses are on edge, hyper-aware and it's easy to be anchored in the now. But me, I like that night before. I like when you're still imagining what it might be like. Still trying to picture it all in your head, fit yourself into your own imagination. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bourbon Bacon Bark +
    +

    Bourbon Bacon Bark

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.94981172269912 + -83.37375397033351 + + – + + Searching for what the Danes call Hygge in the sugar deliciousness that is Bourbon Bacon Bark. Because you rarely go wrong with alliteration. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Creamed Corn +
    +

    Creamed Corn

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95322920033558 + -83.40053314513801 + + – + + Creamed corn doesn't lend itself to showy food photography, but then neither do most Thanksgiving dishes. Strange holiday that one. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Colors +
    +

    Colors

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.96668418436029 + -83.4123777801458 + + – + + Autumn in the South is never as spectacular as is in New England. The colors here are neither as intense nor as long lasting. But still, it is our autumn, our season, our reminder. And this is by far the most colorful year of leaves that we’ve seen in 15 years. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/5/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/5/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c5a8b87 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/5/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,596 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Around the World -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal

    +
    +
    + Muffins +
    +

    Muffins

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.96380115264605 + -83.40128416365957 + + – + + When you're two years old everything in the world is new every day. Even things you saw yesterday look different, feel different, *are*, inexplicably, different today. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Memorial Park +
    +

    Memorial Park

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.926604399603534 + -83.3854269439668 + + – + + Loons, Maine, Memorial Park. *What that sound is?* + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Halloween +
    +

    Halloween

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95550744251432 + -83.37426895446605 + + – + + Halloween with three owls, a Theremin-wielding ghost band and a zoo full of ghouls. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + King of Birds +
    +

    King of Birds

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.65740132288772 + -84.87336630151736 + + – + + Watching birds teaches you to see the world a bit differently. You're always alert to flittering movements in your peripheral vision. After a while you start to scan the tree line, the edges of the marsh, the place where the buildings meet the sky, the borderlands where movement begins. You quite literally see the world differently. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Oysterman Wanted +
    +

    Oysterman Wanted

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.664094724906768 + -84.86566792845446 + + – + + The world of oystermen and local fishing industry is doomed. Even the people resisting the transition know they’re no longer fighting for their way of life. They’re just fighting to keep the thinnest resemblance of what they’ve always known around until they leave this world. They’re fighting to keep from having to watch the death of everything they know. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + All the Pretty Beaches +
    +

    All the Pretty Beaches

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.65981806259068 + -84.87047444700387 + + – + + St. George is just off the Gulf Coast of northwest Florida, only about 7 hours from where I live. There are better places if you're looking to dive or snorkel. Ditto if it's nightlife you're after. But if you're looking for a seemingly endless amount of gorgeous white sand beaches you'll share with only a few migratory birds, St. George is the place to be. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Consider the Apalachicola Oyster +
    +

    Consider the Apalachicola Oyster

    + + +

    + + Apalachicola, Florida, U.S. + + 29.728672056480878 + -84.9837897312466 + + – + + If you know the name Apalachicola at all it’s likely because of its eponymous oysters. Very few things, let alone culinary things, are as attached to place as oysters. In fact, once you get beyond the Rockefeller, ordering “oysters” is akin to walking in a bar and ordering “a beer.” But unlike beer, oysters don’t have brands, they have places — Pemaquid, Wellfleet, Blue Point, Apalachicola. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Things Behind the Sun +
    +

    Things Behind the Sun

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95674257719642 + -83.37592612645985 + + – + + My grandparents left the home they lived in for 60 years today. I don't know how much of my life was spent in that house, probably well over a year if you added up all the holidays and family gatherings. And now I'm thousands of miles away and someone is clearing out the house. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Street Food in Athens Georgia +
    +

    Street Food in Athens Georgia

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.959861666904274 + -83.37601195713451 + + – + + Cheap food, made fresh, in front of you. Served hot, wrapped in newspaper. Street food is the people's food, it removes the mystery of the kitchen, lays the process bare. It's also the staple diet of people around the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Worst Place on Earth +
    +

    The Worst Place on Earth

    + + +

    + + Gili Trawangan, Indonesia + + -8.348272379374627 + 116.0405144294601 + + – + + They aren't really the worst place on Earth (everyone knows that's Yuma, AZ), but the Gili Islands would top my list of places you should never go to. In the end they're not even a real place, just a collection of paradise fantasies culled from decades of hippie travelers, scuba divers, honeymooners, and the rich, lost children of the West. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Best Snorkeling in the World +
    +

    The Best Snorkeling in the World

    + + +

    + + Nusa Lembongan, Bali, Indonesia + + -8.667603048330887 + 115.448325594412 + + – + + Drift snorkeling is like watching fish float by the window of an underwater train. And Indonesia has more marine life than anywhere I've ever been. Fish I have previously seen perhaps two or three at a time are swimming in massive schools. The blue depths are filled with dozens of Moorish Idols, schools of deep purple tangs, so dark they look black until you get up close, parrotfish in clusters, munching on the coral, bright, powder blue tangs, yellow-masked angelfish, countless butterfly fish, wrasses, triggerfish, pufferfish and even bright blue starfish that crawl slowly over the reef. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Balinese Temple Ceremony +
    +

    The Balinese Temple Ceremony

    + + +

    + + Ubud, Bali, Indonesia + + -8.480557093648551 + 115.26582809308304 + + – + + While Balinese temples look partly like Hindu temples in India, there are other elements that come from older religions. Bali is what happens when Hindu beliefs collide with animism. The Balinese seem to embrace the basic tenants of traditional Hinduism, but then add plenty of their own animist flourishes to the mix -- like frequent and elaborate temple ceremonies. We were lucky enough to be invited to a temple ceremony in Tegallantang, Bali. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Motor City is Burning +
    +

    Motor City is Burning

    + + +

    + + Ubud, Bali, Indonesia + + -8.512942106321157 + 115.26119323594054 + + – + + Awesome as it was to be back on the Asian version of a motorbike, it wasn't quite the relaxing riding I did in Laos and elsewhere. You can never recapture the magic, and I wasn't trying.... Okay, maybe I was, but it didn't work. regrettably Honda seems to have phased out the Dream in the last five years, replacing it with something called the Nitro, which just doesn't have the same ring to it. But the bike is irrelevant, was always irrelevant. I missed my friends. It just wasn't the same by myself. Debi, Matt, where are you? There are roads to be ridden, locals with ten people on a bike to be humbled by. Six fingered men to be seen, by some. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Cooking in Rome +
    +

    Cooking in Rome

    + + +

    + + Rome, Italy + + 41.865455693141165 + 12.461011283881284 + + – + + In the end Italy and I didn't really get along, but the food redeemed it for me. The restaurants are good, but if you really want to experience the glory of Italian food you need to head to the market, grab some utterly amazing raw ingredients and whip up something yourself. This is what food is supposed to be, simple, fresh and great. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Natural Science +
    +

    Natural Science

    + + +

    + + Firenze (Florence), Italy + + 43.76987122050593 + 11.254618042254865 + + – + + There's no way around it; Florence is crowded. It may well be that Naples is the only Italian city that isn't overrun with tourists in the summer, but after three days of hardly seeing another traveler, I wasn't prepared for the crowds. Luckily it isn't hard to avoid the tourist hordes, just get up early and then when everyone else is starting to stir, head for obscure museums like La Specola, part of the Museo di Storia Naturale di Firenze. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Forever Today +
    +

    Forever Today

    + + +

    + + Pompeii, Italy + + 40.75211491821789 + 14.480285518306573 + + – + + Pompeii feels both very old and not that different from the modern cities that surround it now. The gap between then and now feels small because when you wander around places like Pompeii you realize that human beings have changed very little over vast expanses of time. Pompeii had the same elements of cities today, a central square, markets, temples, government offices, even fast food. Not much has changed over the years, though togas aren’t much in vogue these days. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The New Pollution +
    +

    The New Pollution

    + + +

    + + Napoli (Naples), Italy + + 40.84484016249223 + 14.255757801685794 + + – + + Naples Italy is a big, crowded, graffiti-filled city. It's an intimidating place that is by turns a bit like Philadelphia, a bit Mumbai, a bit some post-apocalyptic video game and, in the end, something else entirely. Still, given the tourist epidemic that sweeps Italy every summer, Naples is a place worth appreciating for what it is not, even if what is isn't, perhaps, enough to ever bring you back. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Language of Cities +
    +

    The Language of Cities

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.85846248575372 + 2.3375712584730377 + + – + + Paris is angry. Cities can get angry. This isn't the first time it's happened to me. New York threw me out once. Los Angeles and I left on mutually hostile terms, though we've since made up. Cities have personalities just like people, and to really be part of a city your personalities have to mesh, you have to find each other on your own terms everyday. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + From Here We Go Sublime +
    +

    From Here We Go Sublime

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.861291192122714 + 2.3879055928465776 + + – + + Just arrived Dulles-Reykjavik-Paris, 26-hour trip, no sleep. I see things. I see a grizzly looking Spaniard selling old railway lanterns at the flea market, I see muslim men playing basketball in skull caps, I see a Michael Faraday experiment with bulbs and wires enclosed in glass that turns out to be just an elevator. I see a stout Frenchwoman closing the gates of Pere Lachaise, no more dead, we've had enough of you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + We Used to Wait For It +
    +

    We Used to Wait For It

    + + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + 34.04477171337467 + -118.25204621066614 + + – + + When we first came here, there was nothing. Downtown Los Angeles was an empty husk of a place fifteen years ago. Now it's reborn, alive and kicking. Yet there is something in the older buildings, something in the old walls, something lost in the bricks, something in the concrete, the marble. Something you don’t find anymore. Something we need to find again. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The World Outside +
    +

    The World Outside

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.96016249314553 + -83.4028816107045 + + – + + The world outside the house is blanketed in snow, a monochrome of white interrupted only by the dark, wet trunks of trees, the red brick of chimneys, the occasional green of shrubs poking through. The roads are unbroken expanses of smooth white, no one is out yet, no footprints track their way through the snowy sidewalk. The world outside is the same as it was last night, before the snow began, and yet, it feels totally different. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Charleston A-Z +
    +

    Charleston A-Z

    + + +

    + + Charleston, South Carolina, U.S. + + 32.7859576527261 + -79.9366307147337 + + – + + Charleston alphabetically. For example, Q is for quiet, Charleston has a lot of it. Just head down to the Battery area, walk through the park and starting walking down the side streets. Take one of the many alleys and walkways that weave between the massive, stately houses. Get lost. It doesn't take much to find a quiet place of your own. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River

    + + +

    + + Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado, U.S. + + 40.457462390627 + -109.25843237269746 + + – + + This is the only real way to see Dinosaur National Monument — you must journey down the river. There are two major rivers running through Dinosaur, the Yampa, which carves through Yampa Canyon, and the Green, which cuts through Lodore. Adventure Bound Rafting runs some of the best whitewater rafting trips in Colorado and I was lucky enough to go down the Green River with them, through the majestic Lodore Canyon. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park

    + + +

    + + Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado, U.S. + + 40.52063402652926 + -108.99388073317648 + + – + + Dinosaur National Monument was poorly named. The best parts of it are not the fossils in the quarry (which is closed for 2010 anyway) but the canyon country — some of the best, most remote canyon country you'll find in this part of the world. + +

    +
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    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/6/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/6/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bb1f8bc --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/6/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,596 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Around the World -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal

    +
    +
    + The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone +
    +

    The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone

    + + +

    + + Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming, U.S. + + 44.46180292448713 + -110.82196979172171 + + – + + There is wilderness in Yellowstone, even if it's just inches from the boardwalks that transport thousands around the geothermal pools. It may not be wilderness on a grand scale — the sweeping mountain peaks or wild rivers of other parks — but in some ways that makes it more enticing. As one Ranger told me, Yellowstone isn't about the big picture, the grand scenery, it's about the tiny details within each pool. To really see Yellowstone, he said, you have to take your time, move slowly and look closely. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Backpacking in the Grand Tetons +
    +

    Backpacking in the Grand Tetons

    + + +

    + + Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming, U.S. + + 43.79315431684632 + -110.79651831037907 + + – + + Hiking into the wilderness empties your mind. You fall into the silence of the mountains and you can relax in a way that's very difficult to do in the midst of civilization. The white noise that surrounds us in our everyday lives, that noise we don't even notice as it adds thin layers of stress that build up over days, weeks, years, does not seem capable of following us into the mountains. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Great Sand Dunes National Park +
    +

    Great Sand Dunes National Park

    + + +

    + + Great Sand Dunes National Park, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.72673718028319 + -105.55097578487117 + + – + + Something about the desert inspires me to get up early and watch the sunrise. The cool mornings seem worth getting up for out here in the high plains of Colorado, especially when there's the chance to watch the sunrise from the largest sand dunes in North America, here in Great Sand Dune National Park. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Comanche National Grasslands +
    +

    Comanche National Grasslands

    + + +

    + + Comanche National Grasslands, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.14748995999048 + -103.0095720147769 + + – + + To say the Comanche National Grasslands is off the grid would be an understatement. With the exception of Highway 50 in Nevada, I've never driven through such isolation and vast openness anywhere in the world. And it's easy to get lost. There are no signs, no road names even, just dirt paths crisscrossing a wide, perfectly flat expanses of grass. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks +
    +

    Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks

    + + +

    + + Amarillo, Texas, U.S. + + 35.18854030957816 + -101.9194793559329 + + – + + There are many reasons, but here's the one I currently consider most important: National Parks never close. Take Palo Dura State park outside of Amarillo, Texas. Were it a National Park, I would be there right now. But it's not, it's a state park and so I'm sitting in a hotel room in Amarillo because everyone knows nature closes at 10PM. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Legend of Billy the Kid +
    +

    The Legend of Billy the Kid

    + + +

    + + Hico, Texas, U.S. + + 31.981920692582488 + -98.03087709969479 + + – + + History rarely offers neat, tidy stories. But the messier, more confusing and more controversial the story becomes, the more it works its way into our imaginations. The legend of Billy the Kid is like that of Amelia Earhart or D.B. Cooper — the less we know for sure, the more compelling the story becomes. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Dixie Drug Store +
    +

    The Dixie Drug Store

    + + +

    + + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.955903613807074 + -90.06511865792525 + + – + + New Orleans is it's own world. So much so that's it's impossible to put your finger on what it is that makes it different. New Orleans is a place where the line between consensus reality and private dream seems to have never fully developed. And a wonderful world it is. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Begin the Begin +
    +

    Begin the Begin

    + + +

    + + Gulf Port, Mississippi, U.S. + + 30.380400296597216 + -89.03081058216594 + + – + + It's travel time again. This time I'm driving my 1969 Ford truck out west, to Texas, Colorado, Utah and more — a road trip around the western United States. The first stop is Gulf Port, Mississippi. It's hard to believe, sitting here on the deserted beaches of Gulf Shore, watching the sun break through the ominous clouds, but soon this beauty will be gone. The BP oil spill is somewhere out there, blown slowly ashore by the storm hovering over us, waiting to drown the beaches in crude. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Los Angeles, I'm Yours +
    +

    Los Angeles, I’m Yours

    + + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + 34.05582387432624 + -118.23588250455148 + + – + + Los Angeles is all about the car. Shiny, air-conditioned comfort, gliding you soundlessly from one place to another without the need to interact with anything in between. But I have discovered that if you abandon the car for the subway and your own two feet, the illusion that L.A. is just a model train set world — tiny, plastic and devoid of any ground beneath the ground — fades and you find yourself, for a time, in a real city. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + (There'll Be) Peace in the Valley +
    +

    (There’ll Be) Peace in the Valley

    + + +

    + + Death Valley, California, U.S. + + 36.42090257717807 + -116.80985925955854 + + – + + Sometimes you ignore the places close to home because, well, there's always next weekend. Which is why I never made it Death Valley in the twenty-five years I lived in California. It took being all the way across the country to get me out to Death Valley. Which might explain why I actually got up before dawn just to watch the sunrise at Zabriskie Point. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + So Far, I Have Not Found The Science +
    +

    So Far, I Have Not Found The Science

    + + +

    + + Okefenokee Swamp, Georgia, U.S. + + 30.91341551845187 + -82.18322287959928 + + – + + A canoe trip through the Okefenokee Swamp down in the southern most corner of Georgia. Paddling the strange reddish and incredibly still waters. Begging alligators, aching muscles and the kindly folks of Stintson's Barbecue all getting their due. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + How to Get Off Your Butt and Travel the World +
    +

    How to Get Off Your Butt and Travel the World

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95763520280544 + -83.40871809752001 + + – + + How do you make the leap from cubicle daydreams to life on to the road? You want to travel the world, but, like me, you have a million excuses stopping you. How do overcome the inertia that keeps you trapped in a life that isn't what you want it to be? Here's a few practical tips and how tos designed to motivate you to get off your butt and travel the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + No Strangers on a Train +
    +

    No Strangers on a Train

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95818694160937 + -83.40824602873336 + + – + + We mythologize trains because they harken back to an age of community travel, a real, tangible community of travelers, not just backpackers, but people from all walks of life, people traveling near and far together in a shared space that isn't locked down like an airplane and isn't isolated like a car; it's a shared travel experience and there are precious few of those left in our world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies +
    +

    Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies

    + + +

    + + Birmingham, Alabama, U.S. + + 33.521441993672646 + -86.81079982502803 + + – + + A few pages from Leonardo Da Vinci's notebooks make a rare trip outside Italy, to Birmingham, AL, of all places. But the Birmingham Museum of Art is home to far more alarming works of art, works which depict the eventual, inevitable, bunny takeover, after which all the elements of our reality will be replaced by bunnies. Seriously. You heard it here first. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains +
    +

    Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains

    + + +

    + + Great Smoky Mountains, Tennessee, U.S. + + 35.680446234758236 + -83.65024565485956 + + – + + Pigeon Forge is Myrtle Beach in the mountains. Redneck weddings cascade straight out of the chapel and into the mini golf reception area. Pigeon Forge is everything that's wrong with America. But we aren't here for Pigeon Forge, it just happens to have a free condo we're staying in. We're here for the mountains. Smoky Mountain National Park is just a few miles up the road. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Rope Swings and River Floats +
    +

    Rope Swings and River Floats

    + + +

    + + Mountain Cabin, Georgia, U.S. + + 34.53463159921271 + -83.90280245566663 + + – + + Two weekends ago we went up to the mountains, just outside of Dahlonega GA, and floated the Chestatee River using inner tubes, various pool toys and one super-cool inflatable seahorse. Unfortunately, proving one of my travel mottos -- you can never go back -- a return trip proved disastrous. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Our Days Are Becoming Nights +
    +

    Our Days Are Becoming Nights

    + + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + 12.436482242903942 + -86.88458203059939 + + – + + A short thought on the eve of our departure from Nicaragua: Everywhere I go I think, I should live here... I should be able to not just visit places, but in habit them. Of course that isn't possible, which is too bad. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Tiny Cities Made of Ash +
    +

    Tiny Cities Made of Ash

    + + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + 12.435654551658532 + -86.88220022899453 + + – + + The church bells of León have become a constant cacophony, not the rhythmic ringing out of the hours or tolling from Mass that the human mind seems to find pleasant, but the atonal banging that only appeals to the young and dumb. But Francisco is entirely unperturbed; He's too fascinated with the tattoo on Corrinne's shoulder to bother with what slowly just becomes yet another sound echoing through León. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You Can't Go Home Again +
    +

    You Can’t Go Home Again

    + + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + 12.289688381766881 + -82.97098158635038 + + – + + The first time we came to Little Corn Island it was April, the tail end of the dry season. It rained once or twice, but never for more than five minutes and always followed by more sunshine. This time it's the end of June, just well into the wet season, and the island is an entirely different place. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Returning Again &mdash; Back on Little Corn Island +
    +

    Returning Again — Back on Little Corn Island

    + + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + 12.290694745245395 + -82.97132490910438 + + – + + Generally speaking, the world seems so huge and so full of amazing destinations that repeating one never struck me as a judicious use of my short allotment of time. But for Little Corn Island I'm willing to make an exception and of course, the universe being what it is, our second trip to Little Corn Island has been unpredictable and entirely new. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + In Love With a View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty and Living Well +
    +

    In Love With a View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty and Living Well

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.944877470043906 + -83.38860689432926 + + – + + Why all the vitriol about a seemingly innocuous concept -- that traveling doesn't have to cost a lot of money, isn't all that difficult and hey, you can even go right now? People like us, who feel tied down by responsibility, find the suggestion that we actually aren't tied down patronizing and yes, elitist. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Little Island in the Sun +
    +

    Little Island in the Sun

    + + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + 12.297403736673346 + -82.97458647526604 + + – + + We arrived on Little Corn Island around sundown and met Ali, whom I at first took to be a tout, but he showed us the way to our guesthouse and, after settling in and getting a feel for the island, I realized that Ali, wasn't a tout, he was just a really nice guy who enjoyed doing favors for tourists, just beware the Yoni beverage he offers. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Return to the Sea +
    +

    Return to the Sea

    + + +

    + + San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua + + 11.254384499067603 + -85.8734750628141 + + – + + Southwestern Nicaragua is a very small strip of land with Lago Nicaragua to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west. The main town in the area, Juan Del Sur, is nestled around a well protected harbor with a mediocre strip of sand. For the nice beaches you have to head up or down the coast to one of the many small inlets. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ring The Bells +
    +

    Ring The Bells

    + + +

    + + Granada, Nicaragua + + 11.932062265861589 + -85.95813630814854 + + – + + The Church, which dates from the 1600s has the the narrowest, steepest, circular concrete staircase that I've ever encountered. It had a low railing and circled up four stories worth of precipitous dropoffs before you hit solid ground. From the top was a views of Granada's endless sea of mottled pink, orange and brown hues -- terra cotta roof tiles stretching from the shores of Lago Nicaragua all the way back toward the hills. + +

    +
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    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/7/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/7/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4c30470 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/7/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,598 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Around the World -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal

    +
    +
    + Fall +
    +

    Fall

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.9448641194789 + -83.38856934340312 + + – + + The trees are in full technicolor swing. The land is slowly dying, and not just because it's Fall, we're also in the middle of a prolonged drought and this year the leaves are opting for a James Dean-style, leave-a-good-looking-corpse exit. If you're a leaf and you've got to go, do it with class. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + On The Other Ocean +
    +

    On The Other Ocean

    + + +

    + + Catalina Island, California, U.S. + + 33.46191438592164 + -118.52130172987002 + + – + + Consider what would happen if your house were tilted 30 degrees to the left, how this would complicate ordinary activities -- like say walking. Now throw in a bouncing motion that lifts the floor five or six feet up and down in a seesaw-like motion on a perpendicular axis to the 30 degree tilt -- things become more like riding a seesaw that's attached to a merry-go-round which is missing a few bolts. That's sailing. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Being There +
    +

    Being There

    + + +

    + + Myrtle Beach Airport, South Carolina, U.S. + + 33.68392513093142 + -78.92835615966722 + + – + + Myrtle Beach does not exist. Nearly everything in Myrtle Beach is a paltry derivative of some original form. For instance, most of the country has golf courses, in Myrtle Beach there are endless rows of putt-putt courses, where most towns attempt to draw in big name musical acts for their tourist venues, Myrtle Beach is content with impersonators. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sailing Through +
    +

    Sailing Through

    + + +

    + + Charleston, South Carolina, U.S. + + 32.83557033524099 + -79.82256172976372 + + – + + The rumors are true. I moved back to the south; Athens GA to be exact. But I hate staying in one place for too long, so after a month or two in Athens I headed up to Charleston to visit a friend. The south is curious place. If you've never been here I couldn't hope to explain it, but it's not so much a place as an approach. A way of getting somewhere more than anywhere specific. Perhaps even a wrong turn. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Goodbye to the Mother and the Cove +
    +

    Goodbye to the Mother and the Cove

    + + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + 34.040907225218874 + -118.47207783003557 + + – + + It's strange how you can plan something, go through all the motions of making it happen without ever really understanding what you're doing. I've been doing this for the better part of three years now. I realized recently that I have no real idea how I came to be here. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Everything All The Time +
    +

    Everything All The Time

    + + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + 33.97530686407635 + -118.42890499373785 + + – + + I don't know if I'm just overly paranoid but when I call up memories in the dark hours of the Beaujolais-soaked pre-dawn, I see a collection of mildly amusing, occasionally painful series of embarrassments, misunderstandings and general wrong-place, wrong-time sort of moments. Which isn't to imply that my life is a British sitcom, just that I'm not in a hurry to re-live any of it. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Sun Came Up With No Conclusions +
    +

    The Sun Came Up With No Conclusions

    + + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + 33.97517340607632 + -118.42887280722941 + + – + + "And so it is that we, as men, do not exist until we do; and then it is that we play with our world of existent things, and order and disorder them, and so it shall be that non-existence shall take us back from existence and that nameless spirituality shall return to Void, like a tired child home from a very wild circus." -- Robert Anton Wilson and Kerry Thornley. Good luck and Godspeed Mr. Wilson. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Give It Up Or Turnit A Loose +
    +

    Give It Up Or Turnit A Loose

    + + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + 33.97519564909091 + -118.42893718024602 + + – + + Traveling soul. Soul is not something out there or in you, it's the place where you meet the out there; something very similar to what I think James Brown meant — a mixture of the secular and the spiritual, the profane and the sublime. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Homeward +
    +

    Homeward

    + + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + 33.975160060264834 + -118.42903373977045 + + – + + New York, New York. John F Kennedy airport 1 am date unknown, sleepy looking customs guard stamps a passport without hardly looking at, without even checking to see where I had been. A light drizzle is falling outside and the subways extension to the terminal never looked so good. What is it like to be home? I don't know, I'll tell you when I get there. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Cadenza +
    +

    Cadenza

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.86345844378468 + 2.3610842224649087 + + – + + Paris - Outside it's raining. Beads of water form on the window in front of me. The glow of the unseen sun is fading behind midnight blue clouds and darkening sky. An old man in a butcher apron selling oysters under an awning smokes a cigarette and watches the mothers and children walking home with bags of groceries. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + I Don't Sleep I Dream +
    +

    I Don’t Sleep I Dream

    + + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + 48.209967769727996 + 16.370648143396814 + + – + + How can Freud's former residence in Vienna lack a couch? The closest thing is up against the wall, behind a small writing desk in what was then the waiting room — a small divan where one might stare at the patternless ceiling until the patterns emerge as it were. “Tell me about it,” he began. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Unreflected +
    +

    Unreflected

    + + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + 48.209967769727996 + 16.370648143396814 + + – + + The Kunsthistorisches Museum contains probably the best collection of art outside of France — Rubens, Rembrandt, Vermeer, Raphael, Velazquez, Bruegel and a certain Italian for whom I have a festering personal obsession, which shall be addressed shortly — and what's remarkable about this magnificent assemblage is that the vast majority of it was once the Hapsburg's private collection. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds +
    +

    Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds

    + + +

    + + Prague, Czech Republic + + 50.089846390847725 + 14.418117998023494 + + – + + Just north of Prague's old town square and east of the River Vltava is Josefov, the old Jewish quarter of Prague. The Pinkas Synagogue in Josefov is an unassuming pale, sand-colored building with a slightly sunken entrance. Inside is a small alter and little else. The floor is bare; there are no places for worshipers to sit. The synagogue is little more than walls. And on the walls inscribed in extremely small print are the names of the 77,297 Jewish citizens of Bohemia and Moravia who died in the Holocaust. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Inside and Out +
    +

    Inside and Out

    + + +

    + + Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic + + 48.81053057801549 + 14.317352769766009 + + – + + Chasing Egon Schiele: The attention to detail that makes the difference between a building and work of art was everywhere in Cesky Krumlov, from the delicate pink and red complements of a fine dovetailed corner, to the white plaster and oak beams of the Egon Schiele museum, which, despite geometric differences, looked not unlike the Globe Theatre in London. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two

    + + +

    + + Bled, Slovenia + + 46.365209982615575 + 14.109942911091283 + + – + + There is a roughly 200km loop of road that leads northwest out of Bled, through a pass in the Julian Alps and then down the other side, twisting and winding back toward Bled by way of craggy canyons, small hamlets and crystalline rivers. We set out sometime after breakfast. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ghost +
    +

    Ghost

    + + +

    + + Ljubljana, Slovenia + + 46.05085985632457 + 14.50674891269926 + + – + + Like Dubrovnik, Trogir is a walled city of roughly Venetian vintage, but Trogir's wall has largely crumbled away or been removed. Still, it has the gorgeous narrow cobblestone streets, arched doorways and towering forts that give all Dalmatian towns their Rapunzel-like fairly tale quality. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Feel Good Lost +
    +

    Feel Good Lost

    + + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + 42.64133838429178 + 18.10905217872305 + + – + + Dubrovnik, Croatia was heavily shelled during the Bosnian conflict and roughly 65 percent of its buildings were hit, built for the most part you'd never know it. Most of the buildings date from about 1468, though some were destroyed in the great earthquake of 1667, still, by and large, the city looks as it did in the fifteenth century. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Blue Milk +
    +

    Blue Milk

    + + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + 42.64133838429178 + 18.10905217872305 + + – + + It's hard to understand, standing on the banks of such crystalline, cerulean lakes, whose dazzling colors come from the mineral rich silt runoff of glaciers, that the largest European conflict since world war two began here, at Like Plitvice Croatia. But indeed this is where the first shots were fired on Easter Sunday in 1991 and the first casualty was a park policeman. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Refracted Light and Grace +
    +

    Refracted Light and Grace

    + + +

    + + Budapest, Hungary + + 47.483800862289485 + 19.062137601106286 + + – + + Evening, after dinner, outside on the balcony, smoking cigarettes and contemplating the nightscape of Buda's Castle Hill rising up out of its own golden reflection in the shimmering Danube waters. The drone of car horns in the distance and the electric tram squealing as it pulls out of the station below on the river a boat slowly churns upstream... + +

    +
    +
    +
    + London Calling +
    +

    London Calling

    + + +

    + + London, United Kingdom + + 51.55119204682159 + -0.1495599746495864 + + – + + London: The British don't want me -- no money, no proof I'm leaving and no real reason for coming, good lord, I must be a vagabond, up to no good, surely. Eventually the customs agent relents and lets me in, a favor I repay by nearly burning down one of London's bigger parks. Seriously. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Closing Time +
    +

    Closing Time

    + + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + 7.0586452366957175 + 98.53981016694692 + + – + + Headed back to Europe: I started to write a bit of reminiscence, trying to remember the highlights of my time in Asia before I return to the west, but about halfway through I kept thinking of a popular Buddhist saying — be here now. Most of these dispatches are written in past tense, but this time I want to simply be here now. This moment, on this train. This is the last time I'll post something from Southeast Asia. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bird of Paradise +
    +

    Bird of Paradise

    + + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + 7.308899962925842 + 99.25542353204538 + + – + + I wasn't expecting much from Ko Kradan, but in the end I discovered a slice of Thailand the way it's often describe by wistful hippies who first came here twenty years ago. Nok and Ngu and the rest of the Thais working at Paradise Lost were the nicest people I met in Thailand and Wally was by far the most laid back farang I've come across. I ended up staying on Ko Kradan for the remainder of my time in the south. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning of the End +
    +

    Beginning of the End

    + + +

    + + Koh Hai, Thailand + + 7.41778171093197 + 99.21022179617557 + + – + + I will confess to being a bit melancholy on the ferry from Ko Phi Phi to Ko Lanta. It was slowly beginning to sink in that my trip was nearly over, the money nearly gone and coming home no longer felt so far in the future. Still, it;s hard to be too melancholy in the Thai Islands, even the one's that are covered in trash. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Going Down South +
    +

    Going Down South

    + + +

    + + Koh Phi Phi, Thailand + + 7.735826857017756 + 98.77876280363327 + + – + + The Phi Phi Island Resort, where some friends were staying, is nestled on the leeward shore of Koh Phi Phi Island and posts a private beach, beautiful reef, fancy swimming pools and rooms with real sheets. Unheard of. I sauntered in a day early, acted like I owned the place, rented snorkel gear, charged it to a random room number and spent the afternoon on the reef. If only I could have put it on the Underhill's credit card. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/8/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/8/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5e4555d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/8/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,597 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Around the World -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal

    +
    +
    + The Book of Right On +
    +

    The Book of Right On

    + + +

    + + Sinoukville, Cambodia + + 10.626275865572227 + 103.49945066918632 + + – + + The next day we continued on to Sinoukville which is Cambodia's attempt at a seaside resort. Combining the essential elements of Goa and Thailand, Sinoukville is a pleasant, if somewhat hippy-oriented, travelers haven. We rented Honda Dreams and cruised down the coast to deserted white sand beaches, thatched huts serving noodles and rice, where we watched sunsets and dodged rain storms. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Midnight in a Perfect World +
    +

    Midnight in a Perfect World

    + + +

    + + Death Island, Cambodia + + 10.438267017137903 + 104.32325361706974 + + – + + Death Island, as Rob nicknamed it, was just what I needed. The first day we sat down for lunch and ordered crab; a boy in his underwear proceeded to run out of the kitchen, swam out in the ocean and began unloading crabs from a trap into a bucket. It doesn't get much fresher than that. Throw in a nice beach, some cheap bungalows and you're away. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Angkor Wat +
    +

    Angkor Wat

    + + +

    + + Angkor Wat, Cambodia + + 13.497808126788645 + 103.89289854510803 + + – + + Roughly half a million people a year visit Angkor Wat. The first evening we decided to see just how tourist-filled Angkor was by heading to the most popular sunset temple, Phnom Bakheng, to watch the sunset. And there were a lot of tourists. Thousands of them. And that was just at one temple. Thus was hatched the plan: see Angkor in the heat of the day. Yes it will be hot. Hot hot hot. Fucking hot. But hopefully empty. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + ...Wait 'til it Blows +
    +

    …Wait ‘til it Blows

    + + +

    + + Seam Reap, Cambodia + + 13.361228724078332 + 103.86148451313011 + + – + + One the things I may have failed to mention thus far in my Cambodia reportage is that this was/is one of the most heavily mined areas in the world. You might think that removing landmines involves sophisticated technology of the sort you see in BBC documentaries on Bosnia, but here in Cambodia landmine removal is most often handled by the technological marvel of southeast Asia — the bamboo stick. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning to See the Light +
    +

    Beginning to See the Light

    + + +

    + + Floating Village, Cambodia + + 12.821174848475923 + 104.04052732926735 + + – + + Surprisingly, a floating village is not that different than a village on the land. There are the same stores, the computer repair shop, the grocers, the petrol station, the temple, the dance hall and all the other things that makeup a town. I could even say with some authority that the town is laid out in streets, watery pathways that form nearly perfect lines. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Blood on the Tracks +
    +

    Blood on the Tracks

    + + +

    + + Phenom Phen, Cambodia + + 11.56597559052094 + 104.92750166386062 + + – + + As I mentioned in the last entry I came down with a bit of a fever for a few days. This was accompanied by what we in the group have come to term, for lack of a nicer, but equally descriptive phrase — pissing out the ass. It's not a pretty picture. Nor is it a pleasant experience, and consequently I don't have a real clear recollection of the journey from Ban Lung to Kratie or from Kratie out to Sen Monoron. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ticket To Ride +
    +

    Ticket To Ride

    + + +

    + + Ban Lung, Cambodia + + 13.734549299840165 + 106.97941301763984 + + – + + I can't see. My eyebrows are orange with dust. I cannot see them, but I know they must be; they were yesterday. Every now and then when her legs clench down on my hips or her fingernails dig into my shoulders, I remember Debi is behind me and I am more or less responsible for not killing both of us. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Little Corner of the World +
    +

    Little Corner of the World

    + + +

    + + Four Thousand Islands, Lao (PDR) + + 14.130915842740961 + 105.83782194571636 + + – + + It's difficult to explain but the further south you go in Laos the more relaxed life becomes. Since life in the north is not exactly high stress, by the time we arrived in the four thousand Islands we had to check our pulse periodically to ensure that time was in fact still moving forward. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Can&#8217;t Get There From Here +
    +

    Can’t Get There From Here

    + + +

    + + Attapeu, Lao (PDR) + + 14.806085524831946 + 106.83689115944449 + + – + + The most magical light in Laos lives on the Bolevan Plateau. For some reason not many tourists seem to make it out to the Bolevan Plateau, in spite of the fact that the roads are quite good, transport runs regularly, the villages peaceful, even sleepy, little hamlets. In short, the Bolevan Plateau is wonderful, and not the least in part because no one else is there. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Safe as Milk +
    +

    Safe as Milk

    + + +

    + + Sekong, Lao (PDR) + + 14.623949505069236 + 106.5756225437582 + + – + + You would think, if you were the United States and you were illegally and unofficially bombing a foreign country you might not want to stamp "US Bomb" on the side of your bombs, and yet there it was all over Laos: "US Bomb." Clearly somebody didn't think things all the way through, especially given that roughly one third of said bombs failed to explode. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Everyday the Fourteenth +
    +

    Everyday the Fourteenth

    + + +

    + + Savannakhet, Lao (PDR) + + 16.560435757136183 + 104.75026129218114 + + – + + We piled four large bags, four daypacks and five people in a six meter dugout canoe. The boat was powered by the ever-present-in-southeast-Asia long tail motor which is essential a lawnmower engine with a three meter pole extending out of it to which a small propeller is attached — perfect for navigating shallow water. And by shallow I mean sometimes a mere inch between the hull and the riverbed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Water Slides and Spirit Guides +
    +

    Water Slides and Spirit Guides

    + + +

    + + Konglor Cave, Lao (PDR) + + 18.06285035750356 + 104.49783323740189 + + – + + The dramatic black karst limestone mountains ringing Ban Na Hin grew darker as the light faded. I was sitting alone on the back porch of our guesthouse watching the light slowly disappear from the bottoms of the clouds and wondering absently how many pages it would take to explain how I came to be in the tiny town of Ban Na Hin, or if such an explanation even really existed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Lovely Universe +
    +

    The Lovely Universe

    + + +

    + + Vang Vieng, Lao (PDR) + + 18.92544862065571 + 102.43755339150223 + + – + + I would like to say that I have something memorable to write about Vang Vieng, but the truth is we mostly sat around doing very little, making new friends, drinking a beer around the fire and waiting out the Chinese new year celebrations, which meant none of us could get Cambodian visas until the following Monday. We were forced to relax beside the river for several more days than we intended. Yes friends, traveling is hard, but I do it for you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan +
    +

    I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan

    + + +

    + + Luang Nam Tha, Lao (PDR) + + 20.853678554651314 + 101.19094847224211 + + – + + The next time someone asks you, “would you like to live in a tree house and travel five hundred feet above the ground attached to a zip wire?” I highly suggest you say, “yes, where do a I sign up?” If you happen to be in Laos, try the Gibbon Experience. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Hymn of the Big Wheel +
    +

    Hymn of the Big Wheel

    + + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + 19.827433510057354 + 102.42279051308633 + + – + + Jose Saramago writes in The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis that the gods "journey like us in the river of things, differing from us only because we call them gods and sometimes believe in them." Sitting in the middle of the river listening to the gurgle of water moving over stone and around trees I began to think that perhaps this is the sound of some lost language, a sound capable of creating mountains, valleys, estuaries, isthmuses and all the other forms around us, gurgling and sonorous but without clear meaning, shrouded in turquoise, a mystery through which we can move our sense of wonder intact. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Down the River +
    +

    Down the River

    + + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + 19.875064447947235 + 102.13199614056808 + + – + + Morning in Chiang Khong Thailand revealed itself as a foggy, and not a little mysterious, affair with the far shore of the Mekong, the Laos shore, almost completely hidden in a veil of mist. The first ferry crossed at eight and I was on it, looking to meet up with the slow boat to Luang Prabang. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers

    + + +

    + + Doi Inthanan National Park, Thailand + + 19.315031381446268 + 98.84262083585028 + + – + + The light outside the windows was still a pre-dawn inky blue when the freezing cold water hit my back. A cold shower at six thirty in the morning is infinitely more powerful, albeit not at long lasting, as a cup of coffee. After dropping my body temperature a few degrees and having no towel to dry off with, just a dirty shirt and ceaseless ceiling fan, a cup of tea seemed like a good idea so I stopped in at the restaurant downstairs and, after a cup of hot water with some Jasmine leaves swirling at the bottom of it, I climbed on my rental motorbike and set out for Doi Inthanan National Park. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You and I Are Disappearing +
    +

    You and I Are Disappearing

    + + +

    + + Chang Mai, Thailand + + 18.787042343613653 + 98.9876746993555 + + – + + The all night bus reached Chiang Mai well past dawn, the city already beginning to stir. I considered trying to nap, but in the end decided to explore the town. What better way to see Buddhist temples than in the dreamy fog of sleeplessness? Chiang Mai has over three hundred wats within the somewhat sprawling city limits, most of them reasonably modern and, in my opinion, not worth visiting. I narrowed the field to three, which I figured was a nice round one percent. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Buddha on the Bounty +
    +

    Buddha on the Bounty

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.726128126466529 + 100.547304139446 + + – + + The house Jim Thompson left behind in Bangkok is gorgeous, but the real charm is the garden and its orchids. I wandered around the gardens which really aren't that large for some time and then found a bench near a collection of orchids, where I sat for the better part of an hour, occasionally taking a photograph or two, but mostly thinking about how human orchids are. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Brink of the Clouds +
    +

    Brink of the Clouds

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.750921779579318 + 100.54314135105552 + + – + + "The city is a cathedral" writes James Salter, "its scent is dreams." Salter may have been referring to New York, but his words ring true in Bangkok. And the best place to feel it at night is on the river or from the top of the Baiyoke Sky Hotel — where a circular, revolving observation deck offers 360° views of the Bangkok nightscape. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Are You Amplified to Rock? +
    +

    Are You Amplified to Rock?

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.761790973148347 + 100.4934453824343 + + – + + It's a new year, are you amplified to rock? Ready, set, go. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Merry Christmas 2005 +
    +

    Merry Christmas 2005

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.761790973148347 + 100.49344538243446 + + – + + Seasons Greeting from luxagraf. I'm in Bangkok, Thailand at the moment. I am taking a short break from traveling to do a little working so I don't have much to report. I've seen the two big temples down in the Khaosan Rd area, but otherwise I've been trying to live an ordinary life in Bangkok, if such a thing is possible. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sunset Over the Himalayas +
    +

    Sunset Over the Himalayas

    + + +

    + + Pokhara, Nepal + + 28.210482777870325 + 83.95820616507119 + + – + + After about forty-five minutes of paddling I reached a point where the views of the Annapurna range were, in the words of an Englishman I met in Katmandu, "gob smacking gorgeous." I put down the paddle and moved to the center of the boat where the benches were wider and, using my bag a cushion, lay back against the gunwale and hung my feet over the opposite side so that they just skimmed the surface of the chilly water. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Pashupatinath +
    +

    Pashupatinath

    + + +

    + + Pashupatinath, Nepal + + 27.71057315568692 + 85.34853457216452 + + – + + Nestled on a hillside beside the Bagmati River, Pashupatinath is one of the holiest sites in the world for Hindus, second only to Varanasi in India. Pashupatinath consists of a large temple which is open only to Hindus, surrounded by a number of smaller shrines and then down on the banks of the Bagmati are the burning ghats where bodies are cremated. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/9/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/9/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..24d9f54 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/9/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,596 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Around the World -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal

    +
    +
    + Durbar Square Kathmandu +
    +

    Durbar Square Kathmandu

    + + +

    + + Kathmandu, Nepal + + 27.703363690641837 + 85.31737803225191 + + – + + After saturating myself with the streets of Thamel I went on a longer excursion down to Durbar Square to see the various pagodas, temples and the old palace. The palace itself no longer houses the King, but is still used for coronations and ceremonies and Durbar Square is still very much the hub of Katmandu. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Goodbye India +
    +

    Goodbye India

    + + +

    + + Delhi, India + + 28.6418241967323 + 77.21092699883451 + + – + + I have taken almost 750 photos and traveled nearly 4000 km (2500 miles) in India, the vast majority of it by train. I have seen everything from depressing squalor to majestic palaces and yet I still feel as if I have hardly scratched the surface. I can't think of another and certainly have never been to a country with the kind of geographic and ethnic diversity of India. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Taj Express +
    +

    The Taj Express

    + + +

    + + Agra, India + + 27.17280401257652 + 78.04176806317186 + + – + + The Taj Mahal is one of the Seven Wonders of the World, and, given the level of hype I was fully prepared to be underwhelmed, but I was wrong. I have never in my life seen anything so extravagant, elegant and colossal. The Taj Mahal seems mythically, spiritually, as well as architecturally, to have risen from nowhere, without equal or context. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + On a Camel With No Name +
    +

    On a Camel With No Name

    + + +

    + + Thar Desert, India + + 27.004078760567136 + 70.89065550770995 + + – + + The Thar Desert is a bewitching if stark place. It reminded me of areas of the Great Basin between Las Vegas and St. George, Utah. Twigging mesquite-like trees, bluish gray bushes resembling creosote, a very large bush that resembled a Palo Verde tree and grew in impenetrable clumps, and, strangely, only one species of cactus and not a whole lot of them. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Majestic Fort +
    +

    The Majestic Fort

    + + +

    + + Jodhpur, India + + 26.29741635354351 + 73.01766871389577 + + – + + The next day I hopped in a rickshaw and headed up to tour Meherangarh, or the Majestic Fort as it's known in English. As its English name indicates, it is indeed perched majestically atop the only hill around, and seems not so much built on a hill as to have naturally risen out the very rocks that form the mesa on which it rests. The outer wall encloses some of the sturdiest and most impressive ramparts I've seen in India or anywhere else. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Around Udaipur +
    +

    Around Udaipur

    + + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + 24.667610368715458 + 73.78486632273662 + + – + + Just out of Udaipur is a government sponsored "artist colony" for various cultures from the five nearby states, Rajasthan, Gujarat, Karnataka, Goa and Madhya Pradesh. On one hand Shilpogram is a wonderful idea on the part of the government, but on the other hand the "artists colony" is slightly creepy. Amidst displays of typical tribal life there were artists and craftsmen and women hawking their wares along with dancers and musicians performing traditional songs. The whole thing had the feel of a living museum, or, for the creepy angle — human zoo. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Monsoon Palace +
    +

    The Monsoon Palace

    + + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + 24.66199437588058 + 73.68804930614868 + + – + + We started out in the early evening quickly leaving behind Udaipur and its increasing urban sprawl. The road to the Monsoon Palace passes through the Sajjan Garh Nature Preserve and there was a sudden and dramatic drop in temperature, but then the road climbed out of the hollow and the temperature jumped back up to comfortable as we began to climb the mountain in a series of hairpin switchbacks. As the sun slowly slunk behind the mountain range to the west the balconies and balustrades of the Monsoon Palace took on an increasingly orange hue. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The City Palace +
    +

    The City Palace

    + + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + 24.591304879190837 + 73.69319914745653 + + – + + I spent some time sitting in the inner gardens of the City Place, listening to rustling trees and the various guides bringing small groups of western and Indian tourists through the garden. In the center of the hanging gardens was the kings, extremely oversized bath, which reminded me of children's book that I once gave to a friend's daughter; it was a massively oversized and lavishly illustrated book that told the story of a king who refused to get out of the bath and instead made his ministers, advisors, cooks and even his wife conduct business by getting in the bath with him. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Living in Airport Terminals +
    +

    Living in Airport Terminals

    + + +

    + + Ahmedabad, India + + 23.009675285624738 + 72.56237982693523 + + – + + Airport terminals are fast becoming my favorite part of traveling. When you stop and observe them closely as I have been forced to do on this trip, terminals are actually quite beautiful, weird places. Terminals inhabit a unique space in the architecture of humanity, perhaps the strangest of all spaces we have created; a space that is itself only a boundary that delineates the border between what was and what will be without leaving any space at all for what is. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Anjuna Market +
    +

    Anjuna Market

    + + +

    + + Anjuna Beach, India + + 15.58128947293701 + 73.73886107371965 + + – + + Earlier today I caught a bus up to the Anjuna Flea Market and can now tell you for certain that old hippies do not die, they simply move to Goa. The flea market was quite a spectacle; riots of color at every turn and more silver jewelry than you could shake a stick at. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Fish Story +
    +

    Fish Story

    + + +

    + + Colva Beach, India + + 15.277230227117771 + 73.91541479989145 + + – + + The Arabian Sea is warm and the sand sucks at your feet when you walk, schools of tiny fish dart and disappear into each receding wave. In the morning the water is nearly glassy and the beach slopes off so slowly one can walk out at least 200 meters and be only waist deep. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Backwaters of Kerala +
    +

    The Backwaters of Kerala

    + + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + 9.958029970964114 + 76.2533569229791 + + – + + The guide showed us Tamarind trees, coconut palms, lemon trees, vanilla vine, plantain trees and countless other shrubs and bushes whose names I have already forgotten. The most fascinating was a plant that produces a fruit something like a miniature mango that contains cyanide and which, as our guide informed us, is cultivated mainly to commit suicide with — as if it was no big deal and everyone is at least occasionally tempted to each the killer mango. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Vasco de Gama Exhumed +
    +

    Vasco de Gama Exhumed

    + + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + 9.964370231041409 + 76.24091147315164 + + – + + Fort Cochin is curious collision of cultures — Chinese, India and even Portuguese. Many of the obviously older buildings are of a distinctly Iberian-style — moss covered, adobe-colored arches abound. There is graveyard just down the road with a tombstone that bears the name Vasco de Gama, who died and was buried here for fourteen years before being moved to Lisbon (there we go again, more Europeans digging up and moving the dead). + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine +
    +

    Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.863514907961644 + 2.3610734936288558 + + – + + Well it's my last night here in Paris and I've chosen to return to the best restaurant we've been to so far, an Iraqi restaurant in a Marais. I am using all my willpower right now to avoid having a political outburst re the quality of Iraqi food versus the intelligence of George Bush etc etc. I'm traveling; I don't want to get into politics except to say that my dislike for the current El Presidente was no small factor in my decision to go abroad. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bury Your Dead +
    +

    Bury Your Dead

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.88623656623962 + 2.343757152231122 + + – + + I would like to say that the catacombs of Paris had some spectacular effect on me seeing that I strolled through human remains, skulls and femurs mainly, "decoratively arranged," but the truth is, after you get over the initial shock of seeing a skull, well, it turns out you can get adjusted to just about anything. Maybe that in and off itself is the scary part. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Houses We Live In +
    +

    The Houses We Live In

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.86409366210158 + 2.3615670200875383 + + – + + I've been thinking the last couple of days about something Bill's dad said to me before I left. I'm paraphrasing here since I don't remember the exact phrasing he used, but something to the effect of "people are essentially the same everywhere, they just build their houses differently." Indeed, Parisian architecture is completely unlike anything in America. Perhaps more than any other single element, architecture reflects culture and the ideas of the people that make up culture. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sainte Chapelle +
    +

    Sainte Chapelle

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.85556694853056 + 2.3452591892792514 + + – + + Sainte Chapelle was interesting to see after the modern, conceptual art stuff at the Pompidou, rather than simple stained glass, Sainte Chapelle felt quite conceptual. In a sense the entire Bible (i.e. all history from that perspective) is unfolding simultaneously, quite a so-called post-modern idea if you think about it. And yet it was conceived and executed over 800 years ago. Kind of kicks a lot pretentious modern art in its collective ass. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Living in a Railway Car +
    +

    Living in a Railway Car

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.86416424141684 + 2.3617815968086964 + + – + + This French apartment is more like a railway sleeper car than apartment proper. Maybe fifteen feet long and only three feet wide at the ceiling. More like five feet wide at the floor, but, because it's an attic, the outer wall slopes in and you lose two feet by the time you get to the ceiling. It's narrow enough that you can't pass another body when you walk to length of it. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Twenty More Minutes to Go +
    +

    Twenty More Minutes to Go

    + + +

    + + Newport Beach, California, U.S. + + 33.63332664528318 + -117.90302036551485 + + – + + Well it's the night before I leave. I just got done pacing around the driveway of my parents house smoking cigarettes… nervously? Excitedly? Restlessly? A bit of all of those I suppose. I walk across the street, over the drainage ditch and head for the swing set at the park. Right now I'm swinging in a park in Costa Mesa California. Tomorrow France. Weird. [Photo to the right, via Flickr] + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Travel Tips and Resources +
    +

    Travel Tips and Resources

    + + +

    + + Newport Beach, California, U.S. + + 33.63209390723631 + -117.90123937840589 + + – + + An overview of the things you might want to bring on an extended trip, as well as some tips and recommendations on things like visas and vaccinations. The part that was most helpful for me was learning what I didn't need to bring — as it turns out, quite a bit. Nowadays my pack is much smaller and lighter. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The New Luddites +
    +

    The New Luddites

    + + +

    + + Newport Beach, California, U.S. + + 33.632147504909575 + -117.90106771735248 + + – + + An older, non-travel piece about Google's plan to scan all the world's books and Luddite-like response from many authors. Let's see, someone wants to make your book easier to find, searchable and indexable and you're opposed to it? You're a fucking idiot. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + New Adventures in HiFi Text +
    +

    New Adventures in HiFi Text

    + + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + 42.32272216993563 + -72.62770885922362 + + – + + This project is no longer maintained or necessary thanks to projects like Pandoc which can take Markdown use it to create LaTeX and a dozen other types of files. It's just here as an historical artifact of my own amusement. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + One Nation Under a Groove +
    +

    One Nation Under a Groove

    + + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + 42.32254049078502 + -72.62804030361056 + + – + + The sky is falling! The iPod! It's ruining our culture! Or, uh, maybe it's just like the Walkman, but better. And since, so far as I can tell, the world did not collapse with the introduction of the Walkman and headphones, it probably isn't going to fall apart just because the storage format for our music has changed. [Photo to the right via Flickr] + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Farewell Mr. Hunter S Thompson +
    +

    Farewell Mr. Hunter S Thompson

    + + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + 42.322635681187286 + -72.62795447292216 + + – + + Hunter S. Thompson departs on a journey to the western lands. Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas delivered the penultimate eulogy for the dreams of the 1960's, one that mourned, but also tried to lay the empty idealism to rest. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/austria/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/austria/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6307b43 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/austria/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,136 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Austria + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Austria

    +
    +
    + I Don't Sleep I Dream +
    +

    I Don’t Sleep I Dream

    + + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + 48.209967769727996 + 16.370648143396814 + + – + + How can Freud's former residence in Vienna lack a couch? The closest thing is up against the wall, behind a small writing desk in what was then the waiting room — a small divan where one might stare at the patternless ceiling until the patterns emerge as it were. “Tell me about it,” he began. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Unreflected +
    +

    Unreflected

    + + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + 48.209967769727996 + 16.370648143396814 + + – + + The Kunsthistorisches Museum contains probably the best collection of art outside of France — Rubens, Rembrandt, Vermeer, Raphael, Velazquez, Bruegel and a certain Italian for whom I have a festering personal obsession, which shall be addressed shortly — and what's remarkable about this magnificent assemblage is that the vast majority of it was once the Hapsburg's private collection. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/austria/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/austria/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..025379f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/austria/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,142 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Austria -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Austria

    +
    +
    + I Don't Sleep I Dream +
    +

    I Don’t Sleep I Dream

    + + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + 48.209967769727996 + 16.370648143396814 + + – + + How can Freud's former residence in Vienna lack a couch? The closest thing is up against the wall, behind a small writing desk in what was then the waiting room — a small divan where one might stare at the patternless ceiling until the patterns emerge as it were. “Tell me about it,” he began. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Unreflected +
    +

    Unreflected

    + + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + 48.209967769727996 + 16.370648143396814 + + – + + The Kunsthistorisches Museum contains probably the best collection of art outside of France — Rubens, Rembrandt, Vermeer, Raphael, Velazquez, Bruegel and a certain Italian for whom I have a festering personal obsession, which shall be addressed shortly — and what's remarkable about this magnificent assemblage is that the vast majority of it was once the Hapsburg's private collection. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/austriindex.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/austriindex.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1ecbda2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/austriindex.html @@ -0,0 +1,142 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Austria -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Austria

    +
    +
    + I Don't Sleep I Dream +
    +

    I Don’t Sleep I Dream

    + + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + 48.209967769727996 + 16.370648143396814 + + – + + How can Freud's former residence in Vienna lack a couch? The closest thing is up against the wall, behind a small writing desk in what was then the waiting room — a small divan where one might stare at the patternless ceiling until the patterns emerge as it were. “Tell me about it,” he began. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Unreflected +
    +

    Unreflected

    + + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + 48.209967769727996 + 16.370648143396814 + + – + + The Kunsthistorisches Museum contains probably the best collection of art outside of France — Rubens, Rembrandt, Vermeer, Raphael, Velazquez, Bruegel and a certain Italian for whom I have a festering personal obsession, which shall be addressed shortly — and what's remarkable about this magnificent assemblage is that the vast majority of it was once the Hapsburg's private collection. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/cambodia/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/cambodia/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d6486b8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/cambodia/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,236 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Cambodia + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Cambodia

    +
    +
    + The Book of Right On +
    +

    The Book of Right On

    + + +

    + + Sinoukville, Cambodia + + 10.626275865572227 + 103.49945066918632 + + – + + The next day we continued on to Sinoukville which is Cambodia's attempt at a seaside resort. Combining the essential elements of Goa and Thailand, Sinoukville is a pleasant, if somewhat hippy-oriented, travelers haven. We rented Honda Dreams and cruised down the coast to deserted white sand beaches, thatched huts serving noodles and rice, where we watched sunsets and dodged rain storms. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Midnight in a Perfect World +
    +

    Midnight in a Perfect World

    + + +

    + + Death Island, Cambodia + + 10.438267017137903 + 104.32325361706974 + + – + + Death Island, as Rob nicknamed it, was just what I needed. The first day we sat down for lunch and ordered crab; a boy in his underwear proceeded to run out of the kitchen, swam out in the ocean and began unloading crabs from a trap into a bucket. It doesn't get much fresher than that. Throw in a nice beach, some cheap bungalows and you're away. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Angkor Wat +
    +

    Angkor Wat

    + + +

    + + Angkor Wat, Cambodia + + 13.497808126788645 + 103.89289854510803 + + – + + Roughly half a million people a year visit Angkor Wat. The first evening we decided to see just how tourist-filled Angkor was by heading to the most popular sunset temple, Phnom Bakheng, to watch the sunset. And there were a lot of tourists. Thousands of them. And that was just at one temple. Thus was hatched the plan: see Angkor in the heat of the day. Yes it will be hot. Hot hot hot. Fucking hot. But hopefully empty. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + ...Wait 'til it Blows +
    +

    …Wait ‘til it Blows

    + + +

    + + Seam Reap, Cambodia + + 13.361228724078332 + 103.86148451313011 + + – + + One the things I may have failed to mention thus far in my Cambodia reportage is that this was/is one of the most heavily mined areas in the world. You might think that removing landmines involves sophisticated technology of the sort you see in BBC documentaries on Bosnia, but here in Cambodia landmine removal is most often handled by the technological marvel of southeast Asia — the bamboo stick. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning to See the Light +
    +

    Beginning to See the Light

    + + +

    + + Floating Village, Cambodia + + 12.821174848475923 + 104.04052732926735 + + – + + Surprisingly, a floating village is not that different than a village on the land. There are the same stores, the computer repair shop, the grocers, the petrol station, the temple, the dance hall and all the other things that makeup a town. I could even say with some authority that the town is laid out in streets, watery pathways that form nearly perfect lines. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Blood on the Tracks +
    +

    Blood on the Tracks

    + + +

    + + Phenom Phen, Cambodia + + 11.56597559052094 + 104.92750166386062 + + – + + As I mentioned in the last entry I came down with a bit of a fever for a few days. This was accompanied by what we in the group have come to term, for lack of a nicer, but equally descriptive phrase — pissing out the ass. It's not a pretty picture. Nor is it a pleasant experience, and consequently I don't have a real clear recollection of the journey from Ban Lung to Kratie or from Kratie out to Sen Monoron. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ticket To Ride +
    +

    Ticket To Ride

    + + +

    + + Ban Lung, Cambodia + + 13.734549299840165 + 106.97941301763984 + + – + + I can't see. My eyebrows are orange with dust. I cannot see them, but I know they must be; they were yesterday. Every now and then when her legs clench down on my hips or her fingernails dig into my shoulders, I remember Debi is behind me and I am more or less responsible for not killing both of us. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/cambodia/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/cambodia/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..93086dd --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/cambodia/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,242 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Cambodia -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Cambodia

    +
    +
    + The Book of Right On +
    +

    The Book of Right On

    + + +

    + + Sinoukville, Cambodia + + 10.626275865572227 + 103.49945066918632 + + – + + The next day we continued on to Sinoukville which is Cambodia's attempt at a seaside resort. Combining the essential elements of Goa and Thailand, Sinoukville is a pleasant, if somewhat hippy-oriented, travelers haven. We rented Honda Dreams and cruised down the coast to deserted white sand beaches, thatched huts serving noodles and rice, where we watched sunsets and dodged rain storms. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Midnight in a Perfect World +
    +

    Midnight in a Perfect World

    + + +

    + + Death Island, Cambodia + + 10.438267017137903 + 104.32325361706974 + + – + + Death Island, as Rob nicknamed it, was just what I needed. The first day we sat down for lunch and ordered crab; a boy in his underwear proceeded to run out of the kitchen, swam out in the ocean and began unloading crabs from a trap into a bucket. It doesn't get much fresher than that. Throw in a nice beach, some cheap bungalows and you're away. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Angkor Wat +
    +

    Angkor Wat

    + + +

    + + Angkor Wat, Cambodia + + 13.497808126788645 + 103.89289854510803 + + – + + Roughly half a million people a year visit Angkor Wat. The first evening we decided to see just how tourist-filled Angkor was by heading to the most popular sunset temple, Phnom Bakheng, to watch the sunset. And there were a lot of tourists. Thousands of them. And that was just at one temple. Thus was hatched the plan: see Angkor in the heat of the day. Yes it will be hot. Hot hot hot. Fucking hot. But hopefully empty. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + ...Wait 'til it Blows +
    +

    …Wait ‘til it Blows

    + + +

    + + Seam Reap, Cambodia + + 13.361228724078332 + 103.86148451313011 + + – + + One the things I may have failed to mention thus far in my Cambodia reportage is that this was/is one of the most heavily mined areas in the world. You might think that removing landmines involves sophisticated technology of the sort you see in BBC documentaries on Bosnia, but here in Cambodia landmine removal is most often handled by the technological marvel of southeast Asia — the bamboo stick. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning to See the Light +
    +

    Beginning to See the Light

    + + +

    + + Floating Village, Cambodia + + 12.821174848475923 + 104.04052732926735 + + – + + Surprisingly, a floating village is not that different than a village on the land. There are the same stores, the computer repair shop, the grocers, the petrol station, the temple, the dance hall and all the other things that makeup a town. I could even say with some authority that the town is laid out in streets, watery pathways that form nearly perfect lines. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Blood on the Tracks +
    +

    Blood on the Tracks

    + + +

    + + Phenom Phen, Cambodia + + 11.56597559052094 + 104.92750166386062 + + – + + As I mentioned in the last entry I came down with a bit of a fever for a few days. This was accompanied by what we in the group have come to term, for lack of a nicer, but equally descriptive phrase — pissing out the ass. It's not a pretty picture. Nor is it a pleasant experience, and consequently I don't have a real clear recollection of the journey from Ban Lung to Kratie or from Kratie out to Sen Monoron. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ticket To Ride +
    +

    Ticket To Ride

    + + +

    + + Ban Lung, Cambodia + + 13.734549299840165 + 106.97941301763984 + + – + + I can't see. My eyebrows are orange with dust. I cannot see them, but I know they must be; they were yesterday. Every now and then when her legs clench down on my hips or her fingernails dig into my shoulders, I remember Debi is behind me and I am more or less responsible for not killing both of us. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/cambodiindex.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/cambodiindex.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..db6b4f3 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/cambodiindex.html @@ -0,0 +1,242 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Cambodia -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Cambodia

    +
    +
    + The Book of Right On +
    +

    The Book of Right On

    + + +

    + + Sinoukville, Cambodia + + 10.626275865572227 + 103.49945066918632 + + – + + The next day we continued on to Sinoukville which is Cambodia's attempt at a seaside resort. Combining the essential elements of Goa and Thailand, Sinoukville is a pleasant, if somewhat hippy-oriented, travelers haven. We rented Honda Dreams and cruised down the coast to deserted white sand beaches, thatched huts serving noodles and rice, where we watched sunsets and dodged rain storms. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Midnight in a Perfect World +
    +

    Midnight in a Perfect World

    + + +

    + + Death Island, Cambodia + + 10.438267017137903 + 104.32325361706974 + + – + + Death Island, as Rob nicknamed it, was just what I needed. The first day we sat down for lunch and ordered crab; a boy in his underwear proceeded to run out of the kitchen, swam out in the ocean and began unloading crabs from a trap into a bucket. It doesn't get much fresher than that. Throw in a nice beach, some cheap bungalows and you're away. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Angkor Wat +
    +

    Angkor Wat

    + + +

    + + Angkor Wat, Cambodia + + 13.497808126788645 + 103.89289854510803 + + – + + Roughly half a million people a year visit Angkor Wat. The first evening we decided to see just how tourist-filled Angkor was by heading to the most popular sunset temple, Phnom Bakheng, to watch the sunset. And there were a lot of tourists. Thousands of them. And that was just at one temple. Thus was hatched the plan: see Angkor in the heat of the day. Yes it will be hot. Hot hot hot. Fucking hot. But hopefully empty. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + ...Wait 'til it Blows +
    +

    …Wait ‘til it Blows

    + + +

    + + Seam Reap, Cambodia + + 13.361228724078332 + 103.86148451313011 + + – + + One the things I may have failed to mention thus far in my Cambodia reportage is that this was/is one of the most heavily mined areas in the world. You might think that removing landmines involves sophisticated technology of the sort you see in BBC documentaries on Bosnia, but here in Cambodia landmine removal is most often handled by the technological marvel of southeast Asia — the bamboo stick. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning to See the Light +
    +

    Beginning to See the Light

    + + +

    + + Floating Village, Cambodia + + 12.821174848475923 + 104.04052732926735 + + – + + Surprisingly, a floating village is not that different than a village on the land. There are the same stores, the computer repair shop, the grocers, the petrol station, the temple, the dance hall and all the other things that makeup a town. I could even say with some authority that the town is laid out in streets, watery pathways that form nearly perfect lines. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Blood on the Tracks +
    +

    Blood on the Tracks

    + + +

    + + Phenom Phen, Cambodia + + 11.56597559052094 + 104.92750166386062 + + – + + As I mentioned in the last entry I came down with a bit of a fever for a few days. This was accompanied by what we in the group have come to term, for lack of a nicer, but equally descriptive phrase — pissing out the ass. It's not a pretty picture. Nor is it a pleasant experience, and consequently I don't have a real clear recollection of the journey from Ban Lung to Kratie or from Kratie out to Sen Monoron. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ticket To Ride +
    +

    Ticket To Ride

    + + +

    + + Ban Lung, Cambodia + + 13.734549299840165 + 106.97941301763984 + + – + + I can't see. My eyebrows are orange with dust. I cannot see them, but I know they must be; they were yesterday. Every now and then when her legs clench down on my hips or her fingernails dig into my shoulders, I remember Debi is behind me and I am more or less responsible for not killing both of us. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/central-america/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/central-america/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7ea8c43 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/central-america/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,236 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Central America + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Central America

    +
    +
    + Our Days Are Becoming Nights +
    +

    Our Days Are Becoming Nights

    + + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + 12.436482242903942 + -86.88458203059939 + + – + + A short thought on the eve of our departure from Nicaragua: Everywhere I go I think, I should live here... I should be able to not just visit places, but in habit them. Of course that isn't possible, which is too bad. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Tiny Cities Made of Ash +
    +

    Tiny Cities Made of Ash

    + + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + 12.435654551658532 + -86.88220022899453 + + – + + The church bells of León have become a constant cacophony, not the rhythmic ringing out of the hours or tolling from Mass that the human mind seems to find pleasant, but the atonal banging that only appeals to the young and dumb. But Francisco is entirely unperturbed; He's too fascinated with the tattoo on Corrinne's shoulder to bother with what slowly just becomes yet another sound echoing through León. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You Can't Go Home Again +
    +

    You Can’t Go Home Again

    + + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + 12.289688381766881 + -82.97098158635038 + + – + + The first time we came to Little Corn Island it was April, the tail end of the dry season. It rained once or twice, but never for more than five minutes and always followed by more sunshine. This time it's the end of June, just well into the wet season, and the island is an entirely different place. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Returning Again &mdash; Back on Little Corn Island +
    +

    Returning Again — Back on Little Corn Island

    + + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + 12.290694745245395 + -82.97132490910438 + + – + + Generally speaking, the world seems so huge and so full of amazing destinations that repeating one never struck me as a judicious use of my short allotment of time. But for Little Corn Island I'm willing to make an exception and of course, the universe being what it is, our second trip to Little Corn Island has been unpredictable and entirely new. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Little Island in the Sun +
    +

    Little Island in the Sun

    + + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + 12.297403736673346 + -82.97458647526604 + + – + + We arrived on Little Corn Island around sundown and met Ali, whom I at first took to be a tout, but he showed us the way to our guesthouse and, after settling in and getting a feel for the island, I realized that Ali, wasn't a tout, he was just a really nice guy who enjoyed doing favors for tourists, just beware the Yoni beverage he offers. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Return to the Sea +
    +

    Return to the Sea

    + + +

    + + San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua + + 11.254384499067603 + -85.8734750628141 + + – + + Southwestern Nicaragua is a very small strip of land with Lago Nicaragua to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west. The main town in the area, Juan Del Sur, is nestled around a well protected harbor with a mediocre strip of sand. For the nice beaches you have to head up or down the coast to one of the many small inlets. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ring The Bells +
    +

    Ring The Bells

    + + +

    + + Granada, Nicaragua + + 11.932062265861589 + -85.95813630814854 + + – + + The Church, which dates from the 1600s has the the narrowest, steepest, circular concrete staircase that I've ever encountered. It had a low railing and circled up four stories worth of precipitous dropoffs before you hit solid ground. From the top was a views of Granada's endless sea of mottled pink, orange and brown hues -- terra cotta roof tiles stretching from the shores of Lago Nicaragua all the way back toward the hills. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/central-america/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/central-america/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..aa345a3 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/central-america/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,242 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Central America -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Central America

    +
    +
    + Our Days Are Becoming Nights +
    +

    Our Days Are Becoming Nights

    + + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + 12.436482242903942 + -86.88458203059939 + + – + + A short thought on the eve of our departure from Nicaragua: Everywhere I go I think, I should live here... I should be able to not just visit places, but in habit them. Of course that isn't possible, which is too bad. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Tiny Cities Made of Ash +
    +

    Tiny Cities Made of Ash

    + + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + 12.435654551658532 + -86.88220022899453 + + – + + The church bells of León have become a constant cacophony, not the rhythmic ringing out of the hours or tolling from Mass that the human mind seems to find pleasant, but the atonal banging that only appeals to the young and dumb. But Francisco is entirely unperturbed; He's too fascinated with the tattoo on Corrinne's shoulder to bother with what slowly just becomes yet another sound echoing through León. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You Can't Go Home Again +
    +

    You Can’t Go Home Again

    + + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + 12.289688381766881 + -82.97098158635038 + + – + + The first time we came to Little Corn Island it was April, the tail end of the dry season. It rained once or twice, but never for more than five minutes and always followed by more sunshine. This time it's the end of June, just well into the wet season, and the island is an entirely different place. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Returning Again &mdash; Back on Little Corn Island +
    +

    Returning Again — Back on Little Corn Island

    + + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + 12.290694745245395 + -82.97132490910438 + + – + + Generally speaking, the world seems so huge and so full of amazing destinations that repeating one never struck me as a judicious use of my short allotment of time. But for Little Corn Island I'm willing to make an exception and of course, the universe being what it is, our second trip to Little Corn Island has been unpredictable and entirely new. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Little Island in the Sun +
    +

    Little Island in the Sun

    + + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + 12.297403736673346 + -82.97458647526604 + + – + + We arrived on Little Corn Island around sundown and met Ali, whom I at first took to be a tout, but he showed us the way to our guesthouse and, after settling in and getting a feel for the island, I realized that Ali, wasn't a tout, he was just a really nice guy who enjoyed doing favors for tourists, just beware the Yoni beverage he offers. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Return to the Sea +
    +

    Return to the Sea

    + + +

    + + San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua + + 11.254384499067603 + -85.8734750628141 + + – + + Southwestern Nicaragua is a very small strip of land with Lago Nicaragua to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west. The main town in the area, Juan Del Sur, is nestled around a well protected harbor with a mediocre strip of sand. For the nice beaches you have to head up or down the coast to one of the many small inlets. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ring The Bells +
    +

    Ring The Bells

    + + +

    + + Granada, Nicaragua + + 11.932062265861589 + -85.95813630814854 + + – + + The Church, which dates from the 1600s has the the narrowest, steepest, circular concrete staircase that I've ever encountered. It had a low railing and circled up four stories worth of precipitous dropoffs before you hit solid ground. From the top was a views of Granada's endless sea of mottled pink, orange and brown hues -- terra cotta roof tiles stretching from the shores of Lago Nicaragua all the way back toward the hills. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/central-americindex.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/central-americindex.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..245fecb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/central-americindex.html @@ -0,0 +1,242 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Central America -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Central America

    +
    +
    + Our Days Are Becoming Nights +
    +

    Our Days Are Becoming Nights

    + + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + 12.436482242903942 + -86.88458203059939 + + – + + A short thought on the eve of our departure from Nicaragua: Everywhere I go I think, I should live here... I should be able to not just visit places, but in habit them. Of course that isn't possible, which is too bad. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Tiny Cities Made of Ash +
    +

    Tiny Cities Made of Ash

    + + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + 12.435654551658532 + -86.88220022899453 + + – + + The church bells of León have become a constant cacophony, not the rhythmic ringing out of the hours or tolling from Mass that the human mind seems to find pleasant, but the atonal banging that only appeals to the young and dumb. But Francisco is entirely unperturbed; He's too fascinated with the tattoo on Corrinne's shoulder to bother with what slowly just becomes yet another sound echoing through León. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You Can't Go Home Again +
    +

    You Can’t Go Home Again

    + + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + 12.289688381766881 + -82.97098158635038 + + – + + The first time we came to Little Corn Island it was April, the tail end of the dry season. It rained once or twice, but never for more than five minutes and always followed by more sunshine. This time it's the end of June, just well into the wet season, and the island is an entirely different place. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Returning Again &mdash; Back on Little Corn Island +
    +

    Returning Again — Back on Little Corn Island

    + + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + 12.290694745245395 + -82.97132490910438 + + – + + Generally speaking, the world seems so huge and so full of amazing destinations that repeating one never struck me as a judicious use of my short allotment of time. But for Little Corn Island I'm willing to make an exception and of course, the universe being what it is, our second trip to Little Corn Island has been unpredictable and entirely new. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Little Island in the Sun +
    +

    Little Island in the Sun

    + + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + 12.297403736673346 + -82.97458647526604 + + – + + We arrived on Little Corn Island around sundown and met Ali, whom I at first took to be a tout, but he showed us the way to our guesthouse and, after settling in and getting a feel for the island, I realized that Ali, wasn't a tout, he was just a really nice guy who enjoyed doing favors for tourists, just beware the Yoni beverage he offers. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Return to the Sea +
    +

    Return to the Sea

    + + +

    + + San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua + + 11.254384499067603 + -85.8734750628141 + + – + + Southwestern Nicaragua is a very small strip of land with Lago Nicaragua to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west. The main town in the area, Juan Del Sur, is nestled around a well protected harbor with a mediocre strip of sand. For the nice beaches you have to head up or down the coast to one of the many small inlets. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ring The Bells +
    +

    Ring The Bells

    + + +

    + + Granada, Nicaragua + + 11.932062265861589 + -85.95813630814854 + + – + + The Church, which dates from the 1600s has the the narrowest, steepest, circular concrete staircase that I've ever encountered. It had a low railing and circled up four stories worth of precipitous dropoffs before you hit solid ground. From the top was a views of Granada's endless sea of mottled pink, orange and brown hues -- terra cotta roof tiles stretching from the shores of Lago Nicaragua all the way back toward the hills. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/central-asia/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/central-asia/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..01c861e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/central-asia/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,396 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Central Asia + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Central Asia

    +
    +
    + Sunset Over the Himalayas +
    +

    Sunset Over the Himalayas

    + + +

    + + Pokhara, Nepal + + 28.210482777870325 + 83.95820616507119 + + – + + After about forty-five minutes of paddling I reached a point where the views of the Annapurna range were, in the words of an Englishman I met in Katmandu, "gob smacking gorgeous." I put down the paddle and moved to the center of the boat where the benches were wider and, using my bag a cushion, lay back against the gunwale and hung my feet over the opposite side so that they just skimmed the surface of the chilly water. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Pashupatinath +
    +

    Pashupatinath

    + + +

    + + Pashupatinath, Nepal + + 27.71057315568692 + 85.34853457216452 + + – + + Nestled on a hillside beside the Bagmati River, Pashupatinath is one of the holiest sites in the world for Hindus, second only to Varanasi in India. Pashupatinath consists of a large temple which is open only to Hindus, surrounded by a number of smaller shrines and then down on the banks of the Bagmati are the burning ghats where bodies are cremated. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Durbar Square Kathmandu +
    +

    Durbar Square Kathmandu

    + + +

    + + Kathmandu, Nepal + + 27.703363690641837 + 85.31737803225191 + + – + + After saturating myself with the streets of Thamel I went on a longer excursion down to Durbar Square to see the various pagodas, temples and the old palace. The palace itself no longer houses the King, but is still used for coronations and ceremonies and Durbar Square is still very much the hub of Katmandu. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Goodbye India +
    +

    Goodbye India

    + + +

    + + Delhi, India + + 28.6418241967323 + 77.21092699883451 + + – + + I have taken almost 750 photos and traveled nearly 4000 km (2500 miles) in India, the vast majority of it by train. I have seen everything from depressing squalor to majestic palaces and yet I still feel as if I have hardly scratched the surface. I can't think of another and certainly have never been to a country with the kind of geographic and ethnic diversity of India. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Taj Express +
    +

    The Taj Express

    + + +

    + + Agra, India + + 27.17280401257652 + 78.04176806317186 + + – + + The Taj Mahal is one of the Seven Wonders of the World, and, given the level of hype I was fully prepared to be underwhelmed, but I was wrong. I have never in my life seen anything so extravagant, elegant and colossal. The Taj Mahal seems mythically, spiritually, as well as architecturally, to have risen from nowhere, without equal or context. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + On a Camel With No Name +
    +

    On a Camel With No Name

    + + +

    + + Thar Desert, India + + 27.004078760567136 + 70.89065550770995 + + – + + The Thar Desert is a bewitching if stark place. It reminded me of areas of the Great Basin between Las Vegas and St. George, Utah. Twigging mesquite-like trees, bluish gray bushes resembling creosote, a very large bush that resembled a Palo Verde tree and grew in impenetrable clumps, and, strangely, only one species of cactus and not a whole lot of them. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Majestic Fort +
    +

    The Majestic Fort

    + + +

    + + Jodhpur, India + + 26.29741635354351 + 73.01766871389577 + + – + + The next day I hopped in a rickshaw and headed up to tour Meherangarh, or the Majestic Fort as it's known in English. As its English name indicates, it is indeed perched majestically atop the only hill around, and seems not so much built on a hill as to have naturally risen out the very rocks that form the mesa on which it rests. The outer wall encloses some of the sturdiest and most impressive ramparts I've seen in India or anywhere else. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Around Udaipur +
    +

    Around Udaipur

    + + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + 24.667610368715458 + 73.78486632273662 + + – + + Just out of Udaipur is a government sponsored "artist colony" for various cultures from the five nearby states, Rajasthan, Gujarat, Karnataka, Goa and Madhya Pradesh. On one hand Shilpogram is a wonderful idea on the part of the government, but on the other hand the "artists colony" is slightly creepy. Amidst displays of typical tribal life there were artists and craftsmen and women hawking their wares along with dancers and musicians performing traditional songs. The whole thing had the feel of a living museum, or, for the creepy angle — human zoo. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Monsoon Palace +
    +

    The Monsoon Palace

    + + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + 24.66199437588058 + 73.68804930614868 + + – + + We started out in the early evening quickly leaving behind Udaipur and its increasing urban sprawl. The road to the Monsoon Palace passes through the Sajjan Garh Nature Preserve and there was a sudden and dramatic drop in temperature, but then the road climbed out of the hollow and the temperature jumped back up to comfortable as we began to climb the mountain in a series of hairpin switchbacks. As the sun slowly slunk behind the mountain range to the west the balconies and balustrades of the Monsoon Palace took on an increasingly orange hue. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The City Palace +
    +

    The City Palace

    + + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + 24.591304879190837 + 73.69319914745653 + + – + + I spent some time sitting in the inner gardens of the City Place, listening to rustling trees and the various guides bringing small groups of western and Indian tourists through the garden. In the center of the hanging gardens was the kings, extremely oversized bath, which reminded me of children's book that I once gave to a friend's daughter; it was a massively oversized and lavishly illustrated book that told the story of a king who refused to get out of the bath and instead made his ministers, advisors, cooks and even his wife conduct business by getting in the bath with him. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Living in Airport Terminals +
    +

    Living in Airport Terminals

    + + +

    + + Ahmedabad, India + + 23.009675285624738 + 72.56237982693523 + + – + + Airport terminals are fast becoming my favorite part of traveling. When you stop and observe them closely as I have been forced to do on this trip, terminals are actually quite beautiful, weird places. Terminals inhabit a unique space in the architecture of humanity, perhaps the strangest of all spaces we have created; a space that is itself only a boundary that delineates the border between what was and what will be without leaving any space at all for what is. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Anjuna Market +
    +

    Anjuna Market

    + + +

    + + Anjuna Beach, India + + 15.58128947293701 + 73.73886107371965 + + – + + Earlier today I caught a bus up to the Anjuna Flea Market and can now tell you for certain that old hippies do not die, they simply move to Goa. The flea market was quite a spectacle; riots of color at every turn and more silver jewelry than you could shake a stick at. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Fish Story +
    +

    Fish Story

    + + +

    + + Colva Beach, India + + 15.277230227117771 + 73.91541479989145 + + – + + The Arabian Sea is warm and the sand sucks at your feet when you walk, schools of tiny fish dart and disappear into each receding wave. In the morning the water is nearly glassy and the beach slopes off so slowly one can walk out at least 200 meters and be only waist deep. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Backwaters of Kerala +
    +

    The Backwaters of Kerala

    + + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + 9.958029970964114 + 76.2533569229791 + + – + + The guide showed us Tamarind trees, coconut palms, lemon trees, vanilla vine, plantain trees and countless other shrubs and bushes whose names I have already forgotten. The most fascinating was a plant that produces a fruit something like a miniature mango that contains cyanide and which, as our guide informed us, is cultivated mainly to commit suicide with — as if it was no big deal and everyone is at least occasionally tempted to each the killer mango. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Vasco de Gama Exhumed +
    +

    Vasco de Gama Exhumed

    + + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + 9.964370231041409 + 76.24091147315164 + + – + + Fort Cochin is curious collision of cultures — Chinese, India and even Portuguese. Many of the obviously older buildings are of a distinctly Iberian-style — moss covered, adobe-colored arches abound. There is graveyard just down the road with a tombstone that bears the name Vasco de Gama, who died and was buried here for fourteen years before being moved to Lisbon (there we go again, more Europeans digging up and moving the dead). + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/central-asia/2/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/central-asia/2/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d2d78df --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/central-asia/2/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,96 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Central Asia -- Page 2 + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Central Asia

    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/central-asia/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/central-asia/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fc8cf77 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/central-asia/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,402 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Central Asia -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Central Asia

    +
    +
    + Sunset Over the Himalayas +
    +

    Sunset Over the Himalayas

    + + +

    + + Pokhara, Nepal + + 28.210482777870325 + 83.95820616507119 + + – + + After about forty-five minutes of paddling I reached a point where the views of the Annapurna range were, in the words of an Englishman I met in Katmandu, "gob smacking gorgeous." I put down the paddle and moved to the center of the boat where the benches were wider and, using my bag a cushion, lay back against the gunwale and hung my feet over the opposite side so that they just skimmed the surface of the chilly water. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Pashupatinath +
    +

    Pashupatinath

    + + +

    + + Pashupatinath, Nepal + + 27.71057315568692 + 85.34853457216452 + + – + + Nestled on a hillside beside the Bagmati River, Pashupatinath is one of the holiest sites in the world for Hindus, second only to Varanasi in India. Pashupatinath consists of a large temple which is open only to Hindus, surrounded by a number of smaller shrines and then down on the banks of the Bagmati are the burning ghats where bodies are cremated. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Durbar Square Kathmandu +
    +

    Durbar Square Kathmandu

    + + +

    + + Kathmandu, Nepal + + 27.703363690641837 + 85.31737803225191 + + – + + After saturating myself with the streets of Thamel I went on a longer excursion down to Durbar Square to see the various pagodas, temples and the old palace. The palace itself no longer houses the King, but is still used for coronations and ceremonies and Durbar Square is still very much the hub of Katmandu. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Goodbye India +
    +

    Goodbye India

    + + +

    + + Delhi, India + + 28.6418241967323 + 77.21092699883451 + + – + + I have taken almost 750 photos and traveled nearly 4000 km (2500 miles) in India, the vast majority of it by train. I have seen everything from depressing squalor to majestic palaces and yet I still feel as if I have hardly scratched the surface. I can't think of another and certainly have never been to a country with the kind of geographic and ethnic diversity of India. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Taj Express +
    +

    The Taj Express

    + + +

    + + Agra, India + + 27.17280401257652 + 78.04176806317186 + + – + + The Taj Mahal is one of the Seven Wonders of the World, and, given the level of hype I was fully prepared to be underwhelmed, but I was wrong. I have never in my life seen anything so extravagant, elegant and colossal. The Taj Mahal seems mythically, spiritually, as well as architecturally, to have risen from nowhere, without equal or context. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + On a Camel With No Name +
    +

    On a Camel With No Name

    + + +

    + + Thar Desert, India + + 27.004078760567136 + 70.89065550770995 + + – + + The Thar Desert is a bewitching if stark place. It reminded me of areas of the Great Basin between Las Vegas and St. George, Utah. Twigging mesquite-like trees, bluish gray bushes resembling creosote, a very large bush that resembled a Palo Verde tree and grew in impenetrable clumps, and, strangely, only one species of cactus and not a whole lot of them. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Majestic Fort +
    +

    The Majestic Fort

    + + +

    + + Jodhpur, India + + 26.29741635354351 + 73.01766871389577 + + – + + The next day I hopped in a rickshaw and headed up to tour Meherangarh, or the Majestic Fort as it's known in English. As its English name indicates, it is indeed perched majestically atop the only hill around, and seems not so much built on a hill as to have naturally risen out the very rocks that form the mesa on which it rests. The outer wall encloses some of the sturdiest and most impressive ramparts I've seen in India or anywhere else. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Around Udaipur +
    +

    Around Udaipur

    + + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + 24.667610368715458 + 73.78486632273662 + + – + + Just out of Udaipur is a government sponsored "artist colony" for various cultures from the five nearby states, Rajasthan, Gujarat, Karnataka, Goa and Madhya Pradesh. On one hand Shilpogram is a wonderful idea on the part of the government, but on the other hand the "artists colony" is slightly creepy. Amidst displays of typical tribal life there were artists and craftsmen and women hawking their wares along with dancers and musicians performing traditional songs. The whole thing had the feel of a living museum, or, for the creepy angle — human zoo. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Monsoon Palace +
    +

    The Monsoon Palace

    + + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + 24.66199437588058 + 73.68804930614868 + + – + + We started out in the early evening quickly leaving behind Udaipur and its increasing urban sprawl. The road to the Monsoon Palace passes through the Sajjan Garh Nature Preserve and there was a sudden and dramatic drop in temperature, but then the road climbed out of the hollow and the temperature jumped back up to comfortable as we began to climb the mountain in a series of hairpin switchbacks. As the sun slowly slunk behind the mountain range to the west the balconies and balustrades of the Monsoon Palace took on an increasingly orange hue. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The City Palace +
    +

    The City Palace

    + + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + 24.591304879190837 + 73.69319914745653 + + – + + I spent some time sitting in the inner gardens of the City Place, listening to rustling trees and the various guides bringing small groups of western and Indian tourists through the garden. In the center of the hanging gardens was the kings, extremely oversized bath, which reminded me of children's book that I once gave to a friend's daughter; it was a massively oversized and lavishly illustrated book that told the story of a king who refused to get out of the bath and instead made his ministers, advisors, cooks and even his wife conduct business by getting in the bath with him. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Living in Airport Terminals +
    +

    Living in Airport Terminals

    + + +

    + + Ahmedabad, India + + 23.009675285624738 + 72.56237982693523 + + – + + Airport terminals are fast becoming my favorite part of traveling. When you stop and observe them closely as I have been forced to do on this trip, terminals are actually quite beautiful, weird places. Terminals inhabit a unique space in the architecture of humanity, perhaps the strangest of all spaces we have created; a space that is itself only a boundary that delineates the border between what was and what will be without leaving any space at all for what is. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Anjuna Market +
    +

    Anjuna Market

    + + +

    + + Anjuna Beach, India + + 15.58128947293701 + 73.73886107371965 + + – + + Earlier today I caught a bus up to the Anjuna Flea Market and can now tell you for certain that old hippies do not die, they simply move to Goa. The flea market was quite a spectacle; riots of color at every turn and more silver jewelry than you could shake a stick at. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Fish Story +
    +

    Fish Story

    + + +

    + + Colva Beach, India + + 15.277230227117771 + 73.91541479989145 + + – + + The Arabian Sea is warm and the sand sucks at your feet when you walk, schools of tiny fish dart and disappear into each receding wave. In the morning the water is nearly glassy and the beach slopes off so slowly one can walk out at least 200 meters and be only waist deep. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Backwaters of Kerala +
    +

    The Backwaters of Kerala

    + + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + 9.958029970964114 + 76.2533569229791 + + – + + The guide showed us Tamarind trees, coconut palms, lemon trees, vanilla vine, plantain trees and countless other shrubs and bushes whose names I have already forgotten. The most fascinating was a plant that produces a fruit something like a miniature mango that contains cyanide and which, as our guide informed us, is cultivated mainly to commit suicide with — as if it was no big deal and everyone is at least occasionally tempted to each the killer mango. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Vasco de Gama Exhumed +
    +

    Vasco de Gama Exhumed

    + + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + 9.964370231041409 + 76.24091147315164 + + – + + Fort Cochin is curious collision of cultures — Chinese, India and even Portuguese. Many of the obviously older buildings are of a distinctly Iberian-style — moss covered, adobe-colored arches abound. There is graveyard just down the road with a tombstone that bears the name Vasco de Gama, who died and was buried here for fourteen years before being moved to Lisbon (there we go again, more Europeans digging up and moving the dead). + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/central-asiindex.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/central-asiindex.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ff38b03 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/central-asiindex.html @@ -0,0 +1,402 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Central Asia -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Central Asia

    +
    +
    + Sunset Over the Himalayas +
    +

    Sunset Over the Himalayas

    + + +

    + + Pokhara, Nepal + + 28.210482777870325 + 83.95820616507119 + + – + + After about forty-five minutes of paddling I reached a point where the views of the Annapurna range were, in the words of an Englishman I met in Katmandu, "gob smacking gorgeous." I put down the paddle and moved to the center of the boat where the benches were wider and, using my bag a cushion, lay back against the gunwale and hung my feet over the opposite side so that they just skimmed the surface of the chilly water. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Pashupatinath +
    +

    Pashupatinath

    + + +

    + + Pashupatinath, Nepal + + 27.71057315568692 + 85.34853457216452 + + – + + Nestled on a hillside beside the Bagmati River, Pashupatinath is one of the holiest sites in the world for Hindus, second only to Varanasi in India. Pashupatinath consists of a large temple which is open only to Hindus, surrounded by a number of smaller shrines and then down on the banks of the Bagmati are the burning ghats where bodies are cremated. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Durbar Square Kathmandu +
    +

    Durbar Square Kathmandu

    + + +

    + + Kathmandu, Nepal + + 27.703363690641837 + 85.31737803225191 + + – + + After saturating myself with the streets of Thamel I went on a longer excursion down to Durbar Square to see the various pagodas, temples and the old palace. The palace itself no longer houses the King, but is still used for coronations and ceremonies and Durbar Square is still very much the hub of Katmandu. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Goodbye India +
    +

    Goodbye India

    + + +

    + + Delhi, India + + 28.6418241967323 + 77.21092699883451 + + – + + I have taken almost 750 photos and traveled nearly 4000 km (2500 miles) in India, the vast majority of it by train. I have seen everything from depressing squalor to majestic palaces and yet I still feel as if I have hardly scratched the surface. I can't think of another and certainly have never been to a country with the kind of geographic and ethnic diversity of India. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Taj Express +
    +

    The Taj Express

    + + +

    + + Agra, India + + 27.17280401257652 + 78.04176806317186 + + – + + The Taj Mahal is one of the Seven Wonders of the World, and, given the level of hype I was fully prepared to be underwhelmed, but I was wrong. I have never in my life seen anything so extravagant, elegant and colossal. The Taj Mahal seems mythically, spiritually, as well as architecturally, to have risen from nowhere, without equal or context. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + On a Camel With No Name +
    +

    On a Camel With No Name

    + + +

    + + Thar Desert, India + + 27.004078760567136 + 70.89065550770995 + + – + + The Thar Desert is a bewitching if stark place. It reminded me of areas of the Great Basin between Las Vegas and St. George, Utah. Twigging mesquite-like trees, bluish gray bushes resembling creosote, a very large bush that resembled a Palo Verde tree and grew in impenetrable clumps, and, strangely, only one species of cactus and not a whole lot of them. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Majestic Fort +
    +

    The Majestic Fort

    + + +

    + + Jodhpur, India + + 26.29741635354351 + 73.01766871389577 + + – + + The next day I hopped in a rickshaw and headed up to tour Meherangarh, or the Majestic Fort as it's known in English. As its English name indicates, it is indeed perched majestically atop the only hill around, and seems not so much built on a hill as to have naturally risen out the very rocks that form the mesa on which it rests. The outer wall encloses some of the sturdiest and most impressive ramparts I've seen in India or anywhere else. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Around Udaipur +
    +

    Around Udaipur

    + + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + 24.667610368715458 + 73.78486632273662 + + – + + Just out of Udaipur is a government sponsored "artist colony" for various cultures from the five nearby states, Rajasthan, Gujarat, Karnataka, Goa and Madhya Pradesh. On one hand Shilpogram is a wonderful idea on the part of the government, but on the other hand the "artists colony" is slightly creepy. Amidst displays of typical tribal life there were artists and craftsmen and women hawking their wares along with dancers and musicians performing traditional songs. The whole thing had the feel of a living museum, or, for the creepy angle — human zoo. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Monsoon Palace +
    +

    The Monsoon Palace

    + + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + 24.66199437588058 + 73.68804930614868 + + – + + We started out in the early evening quickly leaving behind Udaipur and its increasing urban sprawl. The road to the Monsoon Palace passes through the Sajjan Garh Nature Preserve and there was a sudden and dramatic drop in temperature, but then the road climbed out of the hollow and the temperature jumped back up to comfortable as we began to climb the mountain in a series of hairpin switchbacks. As the sun slowly slunk behind the mountain range to the west the balconies and balustrades of the Monsoon Palace took on an increasingly orange hue. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The City Palace +
    +

    The City Palace

    + + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + 24.591304879190837 + 73.69319914745653 + + – + + I spent some time sitting in the inner gardens of the City Place, listening to rustling trees and the various guides bringing small groups of western and Indian tourists through the garden. In the center of the hanging gardens was the kings, extremely oversized bath, which reminded me of children's book that I once gave to a friend's daughter; it was a massively oversized and lavishly illustrated book that told the story of a king who refused to get out of the bath and instead made his ministers, advisors, cooks and even his wife conduct business by getting in the bath with him. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Living in Airport Terminals +
    +

    Living in Airport Terminals

    + + +

    + + Ahmedabad, India + + 23.009675285624738 + 72.56237982693523 + + – + + Airport terminals are fast becoming my favorite part of traveling. When you stop and observe them closely as I have been forced to do on this trip, terminals are actually quite beautiful, weird places. Terminals inhabit a unique space in the architecture of humanity, perhaps the strangest of all spaces we have created; a space that is itself only a boundary that delineates the border between what was and what will be without leaving any space at all for what is. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Anjuna Market +
    +

    Anjuna Market

    + + +

    + + Anjuna Beach, India + + 15.58128947293701 + 73.73886107371965 + + – + + Earlier today I caught a bus up to the Anjuna Flea Market and can now tell you for certain that old hippies do not die, they simply move to Goa. The flea market was quite a spectacle; riots of color at every turn and more silver jewelry than you could shake a stick at. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Fish Story +
    +

    Fish Story

    + + +

    + + Colva Beach, India + + 15.277230227117771 + 73.91541479989145 + + – + + The Arabian Sea is warm and the sand sucks at your feet when you walk, schools of tiny fish dart and disappear into each receding wave. In the morning the water is nearly glassy and the beach slopes off so slowly one can walk out at least 200 meters and be only waist deep. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Backwaters of Kerala +
    +

    The Backwaters of Kerala

    + + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + 9.958029970964114 + 76.2533569229791 + + – + + The guide showed us Tamarind trees, coconut palms, lemon trees, vanilla vine, plantain trees and countless other shrubs and bushes whose names I have already forgotten. The most fascinating was a plant that produces a fruit something like a miniature mango that contains cyanide and which, as our guide informed us, is cultivated mainly to commit suicide with — as if it was no big deal and everyone is at least occasionally tempted to each the killer mango. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Vasco de Gama Exhumed +
    +

    Vasco de Gama Exhumed

    + + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + 9.964370231041409 + 76.24091147315164 + + – + + Fort Cochin is curious collision of cultures — Chinese, India and even Portuguese. Many of the obviously older buildings are of a distinctly Iberian-style — moss covered, adobe-colored arches abound. There is graveyard just down the road with a tombstone that bears the name Vasco de Gama, who died and was buried here for fourteen years before being moved to Lisbon (there we go again, more Europeans digging up and moving the dead). + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/croatia/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/croatia/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1646c60 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/croatia/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,136 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Croatia + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Croatia

    +
    +
    + Feel Good Lost +
    +

    Feel Good Lost

    + + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + 42.64133838429178 + 18.10905217872305 + + – + + Dubrovnik, Croatia was heavily shelled during the Bosnian conflict and roughly 65 percent of its buildings were hit, built for the most part you'd never know it. Most of the buildings date from about 1468, though some were destroyed in the great earthquake of 1667, still, by and large, the city looks as it did in the fifteenth century. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Blue Milk +
    +

    Blue Milk

    + + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + 42.64133838429178 + 18.10905217872305 + + – + + It's hard to understand, standing on the banks of such crystalline, cerulean lakes, whose dazzling colors come from the mineral rich silt runoff of glaciers, that the largest European conflict since world war two began here, at Like Plitvice Croatia. But indeed this is where the first shots were fired on Easter Sunday in 1991 and the first casualty was a park policeman. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/croatia/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/croatia/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9816d0b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/croatia/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,142 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Croatia -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Croatia

    +
    +
    + Feel Good Lost +
    +

    Feel Good Lost

    + + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + 42.64133838429178 + 18.10905217872305 + + – + + Dubrovnik, Croatia was heavily shelled during the Bosnian conflict and roughly 65 percent of its buildings were hit, built for the most part you'd never know it. Most of the buildings date from about 1468, though some were destroyed in the great earthquake of 1667, still, by and large, the city looks as it did in the fifteenth century. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Blue Milk +
    +

    Blue Milk

    + + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + 42.64133838429178 + 18.10905217872305 + + – + + It's hard to understand, standing on the banks of such crystalline, cerulean lakes, whose dazzling colors come from the mineral rich silt runoff of glaciers, that the largest European conflict since world war two began here, at Like Plitvice Croatia. But indeed this is where the first shots were fired on Easter Sunday in 1991 and the first casualty was a park policeman. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/croatiindex.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/croatiindex.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..898f9b8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/croatiindex.html @@ -0,0 +1,142 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Croatia -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Croatia

    +
    +
    + Feel Good Lost +
    +

    Feel Good Lost

    + + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + 42.64133838429178 + 18.10905217872305 + + – + + Dubrovnik, Croatia was heavily shelled during the Bosnian conflict and roughly 65 percent of its buildings were hit, built for the most part you'd never know it. Most of the buildings date from about 1468, though some were destroyed in the great earthquake of 1667, still, by and large, the city looks as it did in the fifteenth century. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Blue Milk +
    +

    Blue Milk

    + + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + 42.64133838429178 + 18.10905217872305 + + – + + It's hard to understand, standing on the banks of such crystalline, cerulean lakes, whose dazzling colors come from the mineral rich silt runoff of glaciers, that the largest European conflict since world war two began here, at Like Plitvice Croatia. But indeed this is where the first shots were fired on Easter Sunday in 1991 and the first casualty was a park policeman. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/czech-republic/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/czech-republic/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..43772e1 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/czech-republic/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,137 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Czech Republic + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Czech Republic

    +
    +
    + Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds +
    +

    Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds

    + + +

    + + Prague, Czech Republic + + 50.089846390847725 + 14.418117998023494 + + – + + Just north of Prague's old town square and east of the River Vltava is Josefov, the old Jewish quarter of Prague. The Pinkas Synagogue in Josefov is an unassuming pale, sand-colored building with a slightly sunken entrance. Inside is a small alter and little else. The floor is bare; there are no places for worshipers to sit. The synagogue is little more than walls. And on the walls inscribed in extremely small print are the names of the 77,297 Jewish citizens of Bohemia and Moravia who died in the Holocaust. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Inside and Out +
    +

    Inside and Out

    + + +

    + + Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic + + 48.81053057801549 + 14.317352769766009 + + – + + Chasing Egon Schiele: The attention to detail that makes the difference between a building and work of art was everywhere in Cesky Krumlov, from the delicate pink and red complements of a fine dovetailed corner, to the white plaster and oak beams of the Egon Schiele museum, which, despite geometric differences, looked not unlike the Globe Theatre in London. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/czech-republic/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/czech-republic/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f4c3f15 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/czech-republic/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,143 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Czech Republic -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Czech Republic

    +
    +
    + Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds +
    +

    Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds

    + + +

    + + Prague, Czech Republic + + 50.089846390847725 + 14.418117998023494 + + – + + Just north of Prague's old town square and east of the River Vltava is Josefov, the old Jewish quarter of Prague. The Pinkas Synagogue in Josefov is an unassuming pale, sand-colored building with a slightly sunken entrance. Inside is a small alter and little else. The floor is bare; there are no places for worshipers to sit. The synagogue is little more than walls. And on the walls inscribed in extremely small print are the names of the 77,297 Jewish citizens of Bohemia and Moravia who died in the Holocaust. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Inside and Out +
    +

    Inside and Out

    + + +

    + + Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic + + 48.81053057801549 + 14.317352769766009 + + – + + Chasing Egon Schiele: The attention to detail that makes the difference between a building and work of art was everywhere in Cesky Krumlov, from the delicate pink and red complements of a fine dovetailed corner, to the white plaster and oak beams of the Egon Schiele museum, which, despite geometric differences, looked not unlike the Globe Theatre in London. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/czech-republiindex.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/czech-republiindex.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..966a8e5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/czech-republiindex.html @@ -0,0 +1,143 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Czech Republic -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Czech Republic

    +
    +
    + Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds +
    +

    Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds

    + + +

    + + Prague, Czech Republic + + 50.089846390847725 + 14.418117998023494 + + – + + Just north of Prague's old town square and east of the River Vltava is Josefov, the old Jewish quarter of Prague. The Pinkas Synagogue in Josefov is an unassuming pale, sand-colored building with a slightly sunken entrance. Inside is a small alter and little else. The floor is bare; there are no places for worshipers to sit. The synagogue is little more than walls. And on the walls inscribed in extremely small print are the names of the 77,297 Jewish citizens of Bohemia and Moravia who died in the Holocaust. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Inside and Out +
    +

    Inside and Out

    + + +

    + + Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic + + 48.81053057801549 + 14.317352769766009 + + – + + Chasing Egon Schiele: The attention to detail that makes the difference between a building and work of art was everywhere in Cesky Krumlov, from the delicate pink and red complements of a fine dovetailed corner, to the white plaster and oak beams of the Egon Schiele museum, which, despite geometric differences, looked not unlike the Globe Theatre in London. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/europe/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/europe/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0fc454d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/europe/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,457 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Europe + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Europe

    +
    +
    + The Language of Cities +
    +

    The Language of Cities

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.85846248575372 + 2.3375712584730377 + + – + + Paris is angry. Cities can get angry. This isn't the first time it's happened to me. New York threw me out once. Los Angeles and I left on mutually hostile terms, though we've since made up. Cities have personalities just like people, and to really be part of a city your personalities have to mesh, you have to find each other on your own terms everyday. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + From Here We Go Sublime +
    +

    From Here We Go Sublime

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.861291192122714 + 2.3879055928465687 + + – + + Just arrived Dulles-Reykjavik-Paris, 26-hour trip, no sleep. I see things. I see a grizzly looking Spaniard selling old railway lanterns at the flea market, I see muslim men playing basketball in skull caps, I see a Michael Faraday experiment with bulbs and wires enclosed in glass that turns out to be just an elevator. I see a stout Frenchwoman closing the gates of Pere Lachaise, no more dead, we've had enough of you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Cadenza +
    +

    Cadenza

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.86345844378468 + 2.3610842224649087 + + – + + Paris - Outside it's raining. Beads of water form on the window in front of me. The glow of the unseen sun is fading behind midnight blue clouds and darkening sky. An old man in a butcher apron selling oysters under an awning smokes a cigarette and watches the mothers and children walking home with bags of groceries. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + I Don't Sleep I Dream +
    +

    I Don’t Sleep I Dream

    + + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + 48.209967769727996 + 16.370648143396814 + + – + + How can Freud's former residence in Vienna lack a couch? The closest thing is up against the wall, behind a small writing desk in what was then the waiting room — a small divan where one might stare at the patternless ceiling until the patterns emerge as it were. “Tell me about it,” he began. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Unreflected +
    +

    Unreflected

    + + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + 48.209967769727996 + 16.370648143396814 + + – + + The Kunsthistorisches Museum contains probably the best collection of art outside of France — Rubens, Rembrandt, Vermeer, Raphael, Velazquez, Bruegel and a certain Italian for whom I have a festering personal obsession, which shall be addressed shortly — and what's remarkable about this magnificent assemblage is that the vast majority of it was once the Hapsburg's private collection. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds +
    +

    Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds

    + + +

    + + Prague, Czech Republic + + 50.089846390847725 + 14.418117998023494 + + – + + Just north of Prague's old town square and east of the River Vltava is Josefov, the old Jewish quarter of Prague. The Pinkas Synagogue in Josefov is an unassuming pale, sand-colored building with a slightly sunken entrance. Inside is a small alter and little else. The floor is bare; there are no places for worshipers to sit. The synagogue is little more than walls. And on the walls inscribed in extremely small print are the names of the 77,297 Jewish citizens of Bohemia and Moravia who died in the Holocaust. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Inside and Out +
    +

    Inside and Out

    + + +

    + + Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic + + 48.81053057801549 + 14.317352769766009 + + – + + Chasing Egon Schiele: The attention to detail that makes the difference between a building and work of art was everywhere in Cesky Krumlov, from the delicate pink and red complements of a fine dovetailed corner, to the white plaster and oak beams of the Egon Schiele museum, which, despite geometric differences, looked not unlike the Globe Theatre in London. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two

    + + +

    + + Bled, Slovenia + + 46.365209982615575 + 14.109942911091283 + + – + + There is a roughly 200km loop of road that leads northwest out of Bled, through a pass in the Julian Alps and then down the other side, twisting and winding back toward Bled by way of craggy canyons, small hamlets and crystalline rivers. We set out sometime after breakfast. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ghost +
    +

    Ghost

    + + +

    + + Ljubljana, Slovenia + + 46.05085985632457 + 14.50674891269926 + + – + + Like Dubrovnik, Trogir is a walled city of roughly Venetian vintage, but Trogir's wall has largely crumbled away or been removed. Still, it has the gorgeous narrow cobblestone streets, arched doorways and towering forts that give all Dalmatian towns their Rapunzel-like fairly tale quality. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Feel Good Lost +
    +

    Feel Good Lost

    + + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + 42.64133838429178 + 18.10905217872305 + + – + + Dubrovnik, Croatia was heavily shelled during the Bosnian conflict and roughly 65 percent of its buildings were hit, built for the most part you'd never know it. Most of the buildings date from about 1468, though some were destroyed in the great earthquake of 1667, still, by and large, the city looks as it did in the fifteenth century. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Blue Milk +
    +

    Blue Milk

    + + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + 42.64133838429178 + 18.10905217872305 + + – + + It's hard to understand, standing on the banks of such crystalline, cerulean lakes, whose dazzling colors come from the mineral rich silt runoff of glaciers, that the largest European conflict since world war two began here, at Like Plitvice Croatia. But indeed this is where the first shots were fired on Easter Sunday in 1991 and the first casualty was a park policeman. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Refracted Light and Grace +
    +

    Refracted Light and Grace

    + + +

    + + Budapest, Hungary + + 47.483800862289485 + 19.062137601106286 + + – + + Evening, after dinner, outside on the balcony, smoking cigarettes and contemplating the nightscape of Buda's Castle Hill rising up out of its own golden reflection in the shimmering Danube waters. The drone of car horns in the distance and the electric tram squealing as it pulls out of the station below on the river a boat slowly churns upstream... + +

    +
    +
    +
    + London Calling +
    +

    London Calling

    + + +

    + + London, United Kingdom + + 51.55119204682159 + -0.1495599746495864 + + – + + London: The British don't want me -- no money, no proof I'm leaving and no real reason for coming, good lord, I must be a vagabond, up to no good, surely. Eventually the customs agent relents and lets me in, a favor I repay by nearly burning down one of London's bigger parks. Seriously. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine +
    +

    Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.863514907961644 + 2.3610734936288558 + + – + + Well it's my last night here in Paris and I've chosen to return to the best restaurant we've been to so far, an Iraqi restaurant in a Marais. I am using all my willpower right now to avoid having a political outburst re the quality of Iraqi food versus the intelligence of George Bush etc etc. I'm traveling; I don't want to get into politics except to say that my dislike for the current El Presidente was no small factor in my decision to go abroad. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bury Your Dead +
    +

    Bury Your Dead

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.88623656623962 + 2.343757152231122 + + – + + I would like to say that the catacombs of Paris had some spectacular effect on me seeing that I strolled through human remains, skulls and femurs mainly, "decoratively arranged," but the truth is, after you get over the initial shock of seeing a skull, well, it turns out you can get adjusted to just about anything. Maybe that in and off itself is the scary part. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Houses We Live In +
    +

    The Houses We Live In

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.86409366210158 + 2.3615670200875383 + + – + + I've been thinking the last couple of days about something Bill's dad said to me before I left. I'm paraphrasing here since I don't remember the exact phrasing he used, but something to the effect of "people are essentially the same everywhere, they just build their houses differently." Indeed, Parisian architecture is completely unlike anything in America. Perhaps more than any other single element, architecture reflects culture and the ideas of the people that make up culture. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sainte Chapelle +
    +

    Sainte Chapelle

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.85556694853056 + 2.3452591892792514 + + – + + Sainte Chapelle was interesting to see after the modern, conceptual art stuff at the Pompidou, rather than simple stained glass, Sainte Chapelle felt quite conceptual. In a sense the entire Bible (i.e. all history from that perspective) is unfolding simultaneously, quite a so-called post-modern idea if you think about it. And yet it was conceived and executed over 800 years ago. Kind of kicks a lot pretentious modern art in its collective ass. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Living in a Railway Car +
    +

    Living in a Railway Car

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.86416424141684 + 2.3617815968086964 + + – + + This French apartment is more like a railway sleeper car than apartment proper. Maybe fifteen feet long and only three feet wide at the ceiling. More like five feet wide at the floor, but, because it's an attic, the outer wall slopes in and you lose two feet by the time you get to the ceiling. It's narrow enough that you can't pass another body when you walk to length of it. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/europe/2/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/europe/2/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..24a8904 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/europe/2/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,96 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Europe -- Page 2 + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Europe

    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/europe/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/europe/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..860b400 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/europe/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,463 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Europe -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Europe

    +
    +
    + The Language of Cities +
    +

    The Language of Cities

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.85846248575372 + 2.3375712584730377 + + – + + Paris is angry. Cities can get angry. This isn't the first time it's happened to me. New York threw me out once. Los Angeles and I left on mutually hostile terms, though we've since made up. Cities have personalities just like people, and to really be part of a city your personalities have to mesh, you have to find each other on your own terms everyday. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + From Here We Go Sublime +
    +

    From Here We Go Sublime

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.861291192122714 + 2.3879055928465776 + + – + + Just arrived Dulles-Reykjavik-Paris, 26-hour trip, no sleep. I see things. I see a grizzly looking Spaniard selling old railway lanterns at the flea market, I see muslim men playing basketball in skull caps, I see a Michael Faraday experiment with bulbs and wires enclosed in glass that turns out to be just an elevator. I see a stout Frenchwoman closing the gates of Pere Lachaise, no more dead, we've had enough of you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Cadenza +
    +

    Cadenza

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.86345844378468 + 2.3610842224649087 + + – + + Paris - Outside it's raining. Beads of water form on the window in front of me. The glow of the unseen sun is fading behind midnight blue clouds and darkening sky. An old man in a butcher apron selling oysters under an awning smokes a cigarette and watches the mothers and children walking home with bags of groceries. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + I Don't Sleep I Dream +
    +

    I Don’t Sleep I Dream

    + + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + 48.209967769727996 + 16.370648143396814 + + – + + How can Freud's former residence in Vienna lack a couch? The closest thing is up against the wall, behind a small writing desk in what was then the waiting room — a small divan where one might stare at the patternless ceiling until the patterns emerge as it were. “Tell me about it,” he began. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Unreflected +
    +

    Unreflected

    + + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + 48.209967769727996 + 16.370648143396814 + + – + + The Kunsthistorisches Museum contains probably the best collection of art outside of France — Rubens, Rembrandt, Vermeer, Raphael, Velazquez, Bruegel and a certain Italian for whom I have a festering personal obsession, which shall be addressed shortly — and what's remarkable about this magnificent assemblage is that the vast majority of it was once the Hapsburg's private collection. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds +
    +

    Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds

    + + +

    + + Prague, Czech Republic + + 50.089846390847725 + 14.418117998023494 + + – + + Just north of Prague's old town square and east of the River Vltava is Josefov, the old Jewish quarter of Prague. The Pinkas Synagogue in Josefov is an unassuming pale, sand-colored building with a slightly sunken entrance. Inside is a small alter and little else. The floor is bare; there are no places for worshipers to sit. The synagogue is little more than walls. And on the walls inscribed in extremely small print are the names of the 77,297 Jewish citizens of Bohemia and Moravia who died in the Holocaust. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Inside and Out +
    +

    Inside and Out

    + + +

    + + Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic + + 48.81053057801549 + 14.317352769766009 + + – + + Chasing Egon Schiele: The attention to detail that makes the difference between a building and work of art was everywhere in Cesky Krumlov, from the delicate pink and red complements of a fine dovetailed corner, to the white plaster and oak beams of the Egon Schiele museum, which, despite geometric differences, looked not unlike the Globe Theatre in London. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two

    + + +

    + + Bled, Slovenia + + 46.365209982615575 + 14.109942911091283 + + – + + There is a roughly 200km loop of road that leads northwest out of Bled, through a pass in the Julian Alps and then down the other side, twisting and winding back toward Bled by way of craggy canyons, small hamlets and crystalline rivers. We set out sometime after breakfast. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ghost +
    +

    Ghost

    + + +

    + + Ljubljana, Slovenia + + 46.05085985632457 + 14.50674891269926 + + – + + Like Dubrovnik, Trogir is a walled city of roughly Venetian vintage, but Trogir's wall has largely crumbled away or been removed. Still, it has the gorgeous narrow cobblestone streets, arched doorways and towering forts that give all Dalmatian towns their Rapunzel-like fairly tale quality. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Feel Good Lost +
    +

    Feel Good Lost

    + + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + 42.64133838429178 + 18.10905217872305 + + – + + Dubrovnik, Croatia was heavily shelled during the Bosnian conflict and roughly 65 percent of its buildings were hit, built for the most part you'd never know it. Most of the buildings date from about 1468, though some were destroyed in the great earthquake of 1667, still, by and large, the city looks as it did in the fifteenth century. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Blue Milk +
    +

    Blue Milk

    + + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + 42.64133838429178 + 18.10905217872305 + + – + + It's hard to understand, standing on the banks of such crystalline, cerulean lakes, whose dazzling colors come from the mineral rich silt runoff of glaciers, that the largest European conflict since world war two began here, at Like Plitvice Croatia. But indeed this is where the first shots were fired on Easter Sunday in 1991 and the first casualty was a park policeman. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Refracted Light and Grace +
    +

    Refracted Light and Grace

    + + +

    + + Budapest, Hungary + + 47.483800862289485 + 19.062137601106286 + + – + + Evening, after dinner, outside on the balcony, smoking cigarettes and contemplating the nightscape of Buda's Castle Hill rising up out of its own golden reflection in the shimmering Danube waters. The drone of car horns in the distance and the electric tram squealing as it pulls out of the station below on the river a boat slowly churns upstream... + +

    +
    +
    +
    + London Calling +
    +

    London Calling

    + + +

    + + London, United Kingdom + + 51.55119204682159 + -0.1495599746495864 + + – + + London: The British don't want me -- no money, no proof I'm leaving and no real reason for coming, good lord, I must be a vagabond, up to no good, surely. Eventually the customs agent relents and lets me in, a favor I repay by nearly burning down one of London's bigger parks. Seriously. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine +
    +

    Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.863514907961644 + 2.3610734936288558 + + – + + Well it's my last night here in Paris and I've chosen to return to the best restaurant we've been to so far, an Iraqi restaurant in a Marais. I am using all my willpower right now to avoid having a political outburst re the quality of Iraqi food versus the intelligence of George Bush etc etc. I'm traveling; I don't want to get into politics except to say that my dislike for the current El Presidente was no small factor in my decision to go abroad. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bury Your Dead +
    +

    Bury Your Dead

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.88623656623962 + 2.343757152231122 + + – + + I would like to say that the catacombs of Paris had some spectacular effect on me seeing that I strolled through human remains, skulls and femurs mainly, "decoratively arranged," but the truth is, after you get over the initial shock of seeing a skull, well, it turns out you can get adjusted to just about anything. Maybe that in and off itself is the scary part. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Houses We Live In +
    +

    The Houses We Live In

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.86409366210158 + 2.3615670200875383 + + – + + I've been thinking the last couple of days about something Bill's dad said to me before I left. I'm paraphrasing here since I don't remember the exact phrasing he used, but something to the effect of "people are essentially the same everywhere, they just build their houses differently." Indeed, Parisian architecture is completely unlike anything in America. Perhaps more than any other single element, architecture reflects culture and the ideas of the people that make up culture. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sainte Chapelle +
    +

    Sainte Chapelle

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.85556694853056 + 2.3452591892792514 + + – + + Sainte Chapelle was interesting to see after the modern, conceptual art stuff at the Pompidou, rather than simple stained glass, Sainte Chapelle felt quite conceptual. In a sense the entire Bible (i.e. all history from that perspective) is unfolding simultaneously, quite a so-called post-modern idea if you think about it. And yet it was conceived and executed over 800 years ago. Kind of kicks a lot pretentious modern art in its collective ass. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Living in a Railway Car +
    +

    Living in a Railway Car

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.86416424141684 + 2.3617815968086964 + + – + + This French apartment is more like a railway sleeper car than apartment proper. Maybe fifteen feet long and only three feet wide at the ceiling. More like five feet wide at the floor, but, because it's an attic, the outer wall slopes in and you lose two feet by the time you get to the ceiling. It's narrow enough that you can't pass another body when you walk to length of it. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/europindex.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/europindex.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ed7e0c1 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/europindex.html @@ -0,0 +1,463 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Europe -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Europe

    +
    +
    + The Language of Cities +
    +

    The Language of Cities

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.85846248575372 + 2.3375712584730377 + + – + + Paris is angry. Cities can get angry. This isn't the first time it's happened to me. New York threw me out once. Los Angeles and I left on mutually hostile terms, though we've since made up. Cities have personalities just like people, and to really be part of a city your personalities have to mesh, you have to find each other on your own terms everyday. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + From Here We Go Sublime +
    +

    From Here We Go Sublime

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.861291192122714 + 2.3879055928465776 + + – + + Just arrived Dulles-Reykjavik-Paris, 26-hour trip, no sleep. I see things. I see a grizzly looking Spaniard selling old railway lanterns at the flea market, I see muslim men playing basketball in skull caps, I see a Michael Faraday experiment with bulbs and wires enclosed in glass that turns out to be just an elevator. I see a stout Frenchwoman closing the gates of Pere Lachaise, no more dead, we've had enough of you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Cadenza +
    +

    Cadenza

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.86345844378468 + 2.3610842224649087 + + – + + Paris - Outside it's raining. Beads of water form on the window in front of me. The glow of the unseen sun is fading behind midnight blue clouds and darkening sky. An old man in a butcher apron selling oysters under an awning smokes a cigarette and watches the mothers and children walking home with bags of groceries. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + I Don't Sleep I Dream +
    +

    I Don’t Sleep I Dream

    + + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + 48.209967769727996 + 16.370648143396814 + + – + + How can Freud's former residence in Vienna lack a couch? The closest thing is up against the wall, behind a small writing desk in what was then the waiting room — a small divan where one might stare at the patternless ceiling until the patterns emerge as it were. “Tell me about it,” he began. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Unreflected +
    +

    Unreflected

    + + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + 48.209967769727996 + 16.370648143396814 + + – + + The Kunsthistorisches Museum contains probably the best collection of art outside of France — Rubens, Rembrandt, Vermeer, Raphael, Velazquez, Bruegel and a certain Italian for whom I have a festering personal obsession, which shall be addressed shortly — and what's remarkable about this magnificent assemblage is that the vast majority of it was once the Hapsburg's private collection. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds +
    +

    Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds

    + + +

    + + Prague, Czech Republic + + 50.089846390847725 + 14.418117998023494 + + – + + Just north of Prague's old town square and east of the River Vltava is Josefov, the old Jewish quarter of Prague. The Pinkas Synagogue in Josefov is an unassuming pale, sand-colored building with a slightly sunken entrance. Inside is a small alter and little else. The floor is bare; there are no places for worshipers to sit. The synagogue is little more than walls. And on the walls inscribed in extremely small print are the names of the 77,297 Jewish citizens of Bohemia and Moravia who died in the Holocaust. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Inside and Out +
    +

    Inside and Out

    + + +

    + + Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic + + 48.81053057801549 + 14.317352769766009 + + – + + Chasing Egon Schiele: The attention to detail that makes the difference between a building and work of art was everywhere in Cesky Krumlov, from the delicate pink and red complements of a fine dovetailed corner, to the white plaster and oak beams of the Egon Schiele museum, which, despite geometric differences, looked not unlike the Globe Theatre in London. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two

    + + +

    + + Bled, Slovenia + + 46.365209982615575 + 14.109942911091283 + + – + + There is a roughly 200km loop of road that leads northwest out of Bled, through a pass in the Julian Alps and then down the other side, twisting and winding back toward Bled by way of craggy canyons, small hamlets and crystalline rivers. We set out sometime after breakfast. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ghost +
    +

    Ghost

    + + +

    + + Ljubljana, Slovenia + + 46.05085985632457 + 14.50674891269926 + + – + + Like Dubrovnik, Trogir is a walled city of roughly Venetian vintage, but Trogir's wall has largely crumbled away or been removed. Still, it has the gorgeous narrow cobblestone streets, arched doorways and towering forts that give all Dalmatian towns their Rapunzel-like fairly tale quality. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Feel Good Lost +
    +

    Feel Good Lost

    + + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + 42.64133838429178 + 18.10905217872305 + + – + + Dubrovnik, Croatia was heavily shelled during the Bosnian conflict and roughly 65 percent of its buildings were hit, built for the most part you'd never know it. Most of the buildings date from about 1468, though some were destroyed in the great earthquake of 1667, still, by and large, the city looks as it did in the fifteenth century. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Blue Milk +
    +

    Blue Milk

    + + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + 42.64133838429178 + 18.10905217872305 + + – + + It's hard to understand, standing on the banks of such crystalline, cerulean lakes, whose dazzling colors come from the mineral rich silt runoff of glaciers, that the largest European conflict since world war two began here, at Like Plitvice Croatia. But indeed this is where the first shots were fired on Easter Sunday in 1991 and the first casualty was a park policeman. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Refracted Light and Grace +
    +

    Refracted Light and Grace

    + + +

    + + Budapest, Hungary + + 47.483800862289485 + 19.062137601106286 + + – + + Evening, after dinner, outside on the balcony, smoking cigarettes and contemplating the nightscape of Buda's Castle Hill rising up out of its own golden reflection in the shimmering Danube waters. The drone of car horns in the distance and the electric tram squealing as it pulls out of the station below on the river a boat slowly churns upstream... + +

    +
    +
    +
    + London Calling +
    +

    London Calling

    + + +

    + + London, United Kingdom + + 51.55119204682159 + -0.1495599746495864 + + – + + London: The British don't want me -- no money, no proof I'm leaving and no real reason for coming, good lord, I must be a vagabond, up to no good, surely. Eventually the customs agent relents and lets me in, a favor I repay by nearly burning down one of London's bigger parks. Seriously. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine +
    +

    Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.863514907961644 + 2.3610734936288558 + + – + + Well it's my last night here in Paris and I've chosen to return to the best restaurant we've been to so far, an Iraqi restaurant in a Marais. I am using all my willpower right now to avoid having a political outburst re the quality of Iraqi food versus the intelligence of George Bush etc etc. I'm traveling; I don't want to get into politics except to say that my dislike for the current El Presidente was no small factor in my decision to go abroad. + +

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    + Bury Your Dead +
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    Bury Your Dead

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    + + Paris, France + + 48.88623656623962 + 2.343757152231122 + + – + + I would like to say that the catacombs of Paris had some spectacular effect on me seeing that I strolled through human remains, skulls and femurs mainly, "decoratively arranged," but the truth is, after you get over the initial shock of seeing a skull, well, it turns out you can get adjusted to just about anything. Maybe that in and off itself is the scary part. + +

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    + The Houses We Live In +
    +

    The Houses We Live In

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    + + Paris, France + + 48.86409366210158 + 2.3615670200875383 + + – + + I've been thinking the last couple of days about something Bill's dad said to me before I left. I'm paraphrasing here since I don't remember the exact phrasing he used, but something to the effect of "people are essentially the same everywhere, they just build their houses differently." Indeed, Parisian architecture is completely unlike anything in America. Perhaps more than any other single element, architecture reflects culture and the ideas of the people that make up culture. + +

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    + Sainte Chapelle +
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    Sainte Chapelle

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    + + Paris, France + + 48.85556694853056 + 2.3452591892792514 + + – + + Sainte Chapelle was interesting to see after the modern, conceptual art stuff at the Pompidou, rather than simple stained glass, Sainte Chapelle felt quite conceptual. In a sense the entire Bible (i.e. all history from that perspective) is unfolding simultaneously, quite a so-called post-modern idea if you think about it. And yet it was conceived and executed over 800 years ago. Kind of kicks a lot pretentious modern art in its collective ass. + +

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    + Living in a Railway Car +
    +

    Living in a Railway Car

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    + + Paris, France + + 48.86416424141684 + 2.3617815968086964 + + – + + This French apartment is more like a railway sleeper car than apartment proper. Maybe fifteen feet long and only three feet wide at the ceiling. More like five feet wide at the floor, but, because it's an attic, the outer wall slopes in and you lose two feet by the time you get to the ceiling. It's narrow enough that you can't pass another body when you walk to length of it. + +

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    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/feed.xml b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/feed.xml new file mode 100644 index 0000000..60443a1 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/feed.xml @@ -0,0 +1,352 @@ + +Luxagraf: Topographical Writingshttp://luxagraf.net/jrnl/Latest postings to luxagraf.neten-usSat, 19 Nov 2016 20:27:26 -0000Nothing is Finished, Nothing is Perfecthttp://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2016/11/nothing-finished-nothing-perfect<p>If you zoom out far enough pretty much everything looks absurd. It's a handy way to reduce stress. Worried about the future? Think about how you would explain your worries to an alien visitor. You'd have to start the very beginning, explain the entire structure of life on earth and how you fit into it. By the end I'd be willing to bet you'll feel a little better. That maybe it isn't a big of a deal as you think.</p> +<p>Perspective can be the salve to thy sores, to paraphrase Milton.</p> +<p>I've been thinking about perspective and about what the Japanese call Wabi-Sabi a lot lately. Wabi-Sabi has a many different aspects to it, many of which are deeply entwined in Japanese culture in ways that an outsider like me is unlikely to ever fully appreciate, but the description I encountered, which has stuck with me is the idea that Wabi-Sabi means "nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect."<sup id="fnref-1"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn-1">1</a></sup></p> +<p><a href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/110531_May_31_paris_124.jpg " title="view larger image"><img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1280px) 100vw, (min-width: 1281px) 1280px" srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/110531_May_31_paris_124_picwide.jpg 2560w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/110531_May_31_paris_124_picwide-med.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/110531_May_31_paris_124_picwide-sm.jpg 720w" src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/110531_May_31_paris_124_picwide-med.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/110531_May_31_paris_124.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" ></a></p> +<p>A dozen years ago this week I was at an Iraqi restaurant in Paris. It was a tiny place near the cross roads of two very forgettable avenues, an unassuming door, a small menu board of the kind you see dozens of on nearly every block. I have no recollection of what drew us in, maybe just hunger. There were only four tables, a low ceiling, rock walls and heavy wooden chair and tables. The only people in it were the owner and his wife. To this day I would call it as the best meal of my life. The next morning I was due to get on a plain at Charles De Gaulle and disappear into the Indian subcontinent. I recorded nothing of the day in my journal, nothing of the meal even, though I remember every detail. There is an entry on this site that mentions it, but I haven't reread it because I have realized it doesn't matter what I thought. </p> +<p>Whatever I might have thought about that night at the time -- and I did have the sense that it was an important moment in my life even at the time -- I lacked the perspective to understand it then.</p> +<p>That was the beginning of the journey, that meal is where, for me anyway, a trajectory began that is still taking shape, there was something in that meal, something about eating such amazing food from a country that the country I came from was about to invade and attempt to destroy, something about stumbling through my terrible French, my even worse Arabic and somehow still managing to convey that the food was amazing, that the wine was the best I've ever had. </p> +<p>That meal that night was not an awakening so much as a realization that it is possible to duck the politics of the world, to side step the divisions created by the power brokers, the would-be malignant overlords and connect as human beings do, as they always have, by eating together, by talking, by drinking, by walking together down the street, by being human, because life is joy and wonder and love and food and drink and walking. Everything else is just the static background noise of existence. </p> +<p>All the beliefs, all that religions, all the politics, all the attempts to divide are doomed to fail because they fly in the face of the fundamental truth that everyone knows, no matter how hard we sometimes seek to avoid it -- that the universe is incalculably immense, goes on forever and we are so small in it as to hardly be of it at all and yet here we are, able to look around, to appreciate the lap of the sea on the shore, the clatter of palm fronds, the whistle of wind in pines, the soft rain, the driving storm, the inhospitable mountains that welcome us home anyway. I don't know why we're here and neither do you, let's have a meal, maybe a drink if you like and we'll be friends. </p> +<div class="footnote"> +<hr> +<ol> +<li id="fn-1"> +<p>from Richard R. Powell's book <cite>Wabi Sabi Simple</cite>.&#160;<a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref-1" title="Jump back to footnote 1 in the text">&#8617;</a></p> +</li> +</ol> +</div>http://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2016/11/nothing-finished-nothing-perfectHalloweenhttp://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2016/11/halloween<p>Every Halloween I complain about how hot it is. I don't actually recall this, but my wife does and reviewing some pictures from the last four years reveal that jackets have not been worn on Halloween in recent times. Photos from 2002, however, show plenty of jackets in evidence. Something to think about. This is why the kids carved pumpkins in their underwear.</p> +<div class="cluster"> + + <a href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/2016-10-27_152131_halloween.jpg" title="view larger image"><img class="picwide " src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-27_152131_halloween_picwide.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/2016-10-27_152131_halloween.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" ></a> + + +<span class="stack-2 right"> + + + <a href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/2016-10-27_153405_halloween.jpg" title="view larger image"><img class="pic33 " src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-27_153405_halloween_pic33.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/2016-10-27_153405_halloween.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" ></a> + + + + +<figure class="pic33"> + <a href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/2016-10-27_153154_halloween.jpg" title="view larger image"><img class=" " src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-27_153154_halloween_pic33.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/2016-10-27_153154_halloween.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" data-jslghtbx-caption="&quot;They&#39;re just so pretty I want to hug them&quot;"></a> +<figcaption>"They're just so pretty I want to hug them"</figcaption> +</figure> + + +</span> + + + <a href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/2016-10-27_153423_halloween.jpg" title="view larger image"><img class="pic66 " src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-27_153423_halloween_pic66.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/2016-10-27_153423_halloween.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" ></a> + + +</div> + +<p>I suspect this mis-memory of cold Halloweens is because I grew up in the Los Angeles area and always desperately wanted it to be cold for Halloween, but of course it never was. I finally get somewhere that it does actually get cold sometimes and I project Halloween into that world. </p> +<p>Unsurprisingly, for my wife anyway, it was hot on Halloween again this year. </p> +<p>That did not stop our peacock, mouse and shirtless-peacock-owl-creature from taking the streets by storm.</p> +<p><a href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/2016-10-31_182338_halloween.jpg " title="view larger image"><img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1280px) 100vw, (min-width: 1281px) 1280px" srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-31_182338_halloween_picwide.jpg 2560w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-31_182338_halloween_picwide-med.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-31_182338_halloween_picwide-sm.jpg 720w" src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-31_182338_halloween_picwide-med.jpg" alt="None photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/2016-10-31_182338_halloween.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" ></a></p> +<p><a href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/2016-10-31_184343_halloween.jpg " title="view larger image"><img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1280px) 100vw, (min-width: 1281px) 1280px" srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-31_184343_halloween_picwide.jpg 2560w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-31_184343_halloween_picwide-med.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-31_184343_halloween_picwide-sm.jpg 720w" src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-31_184343_halloween_picwide-med.jpg" alt="None photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/2016-10-31_184343_halloween.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" ></a></p> +<p><a href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/2016-10-31_184351_halloween.jpg " title="view larger image"><img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1280px) 100vw, (min-width: 1281px) 1280px" srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-31_184351_halloween_picwide.jpg 2560w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-31_184351_halloween_picwide-med.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-31_184351_halloween_picwide-sm.jpg 720w" src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-31_184351_halloween_picwide-med.jpg" alt="None photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/2016-10-31_184351_halloween.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" ></a></p> +<p><a href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/2016-10-31_191203_halloween.jpg " title="view larger image"><img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1280px) 100vw, (min-width: 1281px) 1280px" srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-31_191203_halloween_picwide.jpg 2560w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-31_191203_halloween_picwide-med.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-31_191203_halloween_picwide-sm.jpg 720w" src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-31_191203_halloween_picwide-med.jpg" alt="None photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/2016-10-31_191203_halloween.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" ></a></p> +<p>Two weeks later though it's dipping down to the mid 30s at night and I still haven't turned on the heat<sup id="fnref-1"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn-1">1</a></sup>. Our house is so well insulated that as long as it hits 70 during the day we're fine without heat. We do some baking, make all day soups and roasts that heat the house while they cook. The way your grandmother used to.</p> +<p>We won't have heat in the bus so we may as well toughen up a bit while we can. And we do, until the first cloudy day that doesn't crest the 60 degree mark. I give in and call the gas company, but it's five days before they can come out. We warm up using a borrowed space heater.</p> +<p>Then a couple days later it's back to hot. The Salvation Army bell ringer is dripping sweating standing five feet from the air conditioned interior of Bells Grocery and I seriously consider calling the gas company to say, "forget it". Cold feels more like a novelty around here with every passing year. Sometimes I think we should revel in it, make sure we have strong memories of it. But of course we have <a href="https://412holman.com/">a house to sell</a> and not everyone thinks the way I do -- so on it goes.</p> +<div class="footnote"> +<hr> +<ol> +<li id="fn-1"> +<p>Since the only gas in our house is the heater it's cheaper to shut it down for the 9 months we don't need it then it is to pay the "base" charge and taxes for 9 months.&#160;<a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref-1" title="Jump back to footnote 1 in the text">&#8617;</a></p> +</li> +</ol> +</div>http://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2016/11/halloweenUseless Stuffhttp://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2016/10/useless-stuff<p>Work on the bus progresses. The cab area (helm? cockpit?) has walls now, which means there's no more steel ribs, fiberglass or bare wires showing.</p> +<figure class="picwide"> +<a href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/2016-10-16_102602_bus_7rpGQRE.jpg " title="view larger image"><img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1280px) 100vw, (min-width: 1281px) 1280px" srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-16_102602_bus_7rpGQRE_picwide.jpg 2560w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-16_102602_bus_7rpGQRE_picwide-med.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-16_102602_bus_7rpGQRE_picwide-sm.jpg 720w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-16_102602_bus_7rpGQRE_picfull-sm.jpg 680w" src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-16_102602_bus_7rpGQRE_picwide-med.jpg" src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-16_102602_bus_7rpGQRE_picwide-sm.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/2016-10-16_102602_bus_7rpGQRE.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" data-jslghtbx-caption="Look Ma, no bare walls."></a> +<figcaption>Look Ma, no bare walls.</figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>In fact, the only thing left to do is hook up the systems (water, propane), rebuild the bathroom door and lay the floor. Well, and recover the seats, but I won't be doing that so it doesn't really count from my point of view.</p> +<figure class="picwide"> +<a href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/2016-09-28_092624_bus_s4TtK2Q.jpg " title="view larger image"><img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1280px) 100vw, (min-width: 1281px) 1280px" srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-09-28_092624_bus_s4TtK2Q_picwide.jpg 2560w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-09-28_092624_bus_s4TtK2Q_picwide-med.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-09-28_092624_bus_s4TtK2Q_picwide-sm.jpg 720w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-09-28_092624_bus_s4TtK2Q_picfull-sm.jpg 680w" src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-09-28_092624_bus_s4TtK2Q_picwide-med.jpg" src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-09-28_092624_bus_s4TtK2Q_picwide-sm.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/2016-09-28_092624_bus_s4TtK2Q.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" data-jslghtbx-caption="Ready to go."></a> +<figcaption>Ready to go.</figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>Parallel to restoring the bus we've also been clearing out our house and getting it ready to sell. Thankfully we've taken good care of the house itself, all it really needed was some touch up paint and yard work. Clearing out our stuff though, that's been very, very challenging. </p> +<p>Normally when you move you just shove all that stuff you don't really acknowledge that you've been dragging around for years without using into a box and truck it on to the next place you'll live where you can happily shove it in the back of a new closet. </p> +<p>When you're moving into a 1969 Dodge Travco with four other people and less than 100 square feet of usable space that's not an option. </p> +<figure class="picfull"> +<a href="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/2016-10-16_102814_bus_hROgXXF.jpg " title="view larger image"><img class="picfull" sizes="(max-width: 680px) 100vw, (min-width: 681) 680px" srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-16_102814_bus_hROgXXF_picfull-sm.jpg w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-16_102814_bus_hROgXXF_picfull.jpg w" + src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-10-16_102814_bus_hROgXXF_picfull-sm.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf" data-jslghtbx="https://images.luxagraf.net/original/2016/2016-10-16_102814_bus_hROgXXF.jpg" data-jslghtbx-group="group" data-jslghtbx-caption="Still need to recover the seats, but it&#39;s coming together."></a> + <figcaption>Still need to recover the seats, but it's coming together.</figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>In that case you have to actually dig in and deal with all that stuff that's always been easier not to deal with. You have to do something with it. You have to take a good hard look at it and you have to face the facts on the ground of your life so to speak, rather than the life you wish you had, which, for me anyway, is the source of most of my stuff. </p> +<p><em>"Well, I might learn to play the banjo one day."</em></p> +<p><em>"You've had eight years and you haven't yet."</em></p> +<p><em>"I did learn how to tune it though. Plus I'll have more time soon."</em></p> +<p><em>"Probably not. Plus, you don't even really like banjo music."</em></p> +<p><em>"That's not true. There's that Grant Lee Buffalo song with the banjo intro. And Don Chambers, he plays banjo a lot. Plus I loved waking up to Adam Musick playing the banjo downstairs back when we lived above Southern Bitch."</em></p> +<p><em>"So... you have not one, but two banjos and a broken mandolin because they remind you of a few notes of music you like and some experiences you enjoyed seventeen years ago?"</em></p> +<p><em>"Hmm. When you put it like that..."</em></p> +<p><em>"Probably you can hang on to your love of the music and the experiences even without the banjos. You could even write it all down somewhere so that you have a copy of your memories. That way you can keep what you love, get the cruft out of your life and make room for something new."</em></p> +<p>And so it goes for hundreds of objects, almost none of which actually turned out have any real value to me.</p> +<p>As George Carlin used to say in a bit about stuff, "have you ever noticed that other people's stuff is shit; and your shit is stuff?" When you strip away the "well I might need/use it someday" logic of accumulating useless stuff, you realize that your life is filled up with shit.</p> +<iframe width="660" height="371" src="https://www.youtube-nocookie.com/embed/MvgN5gCuLac?rel=0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe> + +<p>Don't get me wrong. We do have a storage unit, but we deliberately got the smallest unit available. We have a few family heirlooms to store, some books that might be useful one day and a handful of other stuff (I may not have learned the banjo, but you'll have a hell of a time prying my guitars from my cold dead fingers), but for the most part the stuff has been shed.</p> +<p>We have resold and donated 20 years worth of accumulated stuff over the last year or so. We've donated so much stuff that I know everyone at the local thrift shop by name, including the former mayor of Athens who started volunteering there the first day I made a major stuff drop off. Even now, months later she gets excited every time I show up with more stuff, which, now that we're getting near the end, happens at least once a week. Sometimes two or three times a day.</p> +<p>It's not like we were hoarders or anything. Neither Corrinne nor I had ever, prior to buying our house, lived in any one location for much more than a year. That kind of constant movement tends to make you stay relatively light on stuff. We did spend seven years at this address though, and we do have three kids, but believe it or not, the kids' stuff isn't the bulk of what we've gotten rid of. It's our stuff. And for the life of me I can't figure out how it all got in my life.</p> +<p>What I do know is that it has started to feel really good not to have it. Things are really clean. I almost never have to look for anything anymore because there's a) much less to lose b) much less stuff to hide the thing I'm looking for. </p> +<p>I know there are whole books written about this subject, one in particular that's very popular right now, but until you actually start doing it, you really have no idea how transformative it can really be to free yourself of stuff. It can change the entire way you look at the world, but that's a topic for another day.</p> +<p>One thing I dislike about all these books and websites about shedding stuff though is that that they treat the process as if you'll achieve some state of zen when you're done, which, uh, yeah, not so much. It's not that dramatic. I guess the zen angle is the best alternative is to admitting you made some mistakes since that's not a popular idea these days. Saying "no regrets" is so common it's a cliche. Our culture seems to think history, both personal and cultural, is a process of endless progress -- from cave to stuffless zen present -- which means regrets and mistakes need to swept under the proverbial rug. </p> +<p>But looking at your past and saying you have no regrets is crazy. It means you're either, a) perfect or b) incapable of recognizing (and therefore learning) from your mistakes. Neither of which are good things. </p> +<p>Admitting mistakes is admitting that not all forward movement in time is in fact progress, some of it might consist of dead ends and blind alleys full of unused banjos and broken mandolins. Some of it might even be regress. Some of our stuff might be shit. Still, getting rid of stuff is nothing so much as not just admitting, but directly confronting, your mistakes. And then dumping it all at the thrift store. </p> +<p>Which is of course bullshit. All of it, the progress, the lack of mistakes, the stuff. The shit. All of it, bullshit.</p> +<p>I got regrets; lordy do I have some regrets. Particularly when it comes to stuff I have purchased. I didn't buy the aforementioned banjos, but I did buy some dumb shit over the years. Books I could have checked out for free, electronic gadgets I never needed and barely used, kitchen crap no one needs. I really should have known better. I <em>do</em> know better. And still I succumbed.</p> +<p>I make mistakes. I got regrets. I got too much stuff that turned out to be shit. But now it's all gone. Now I have catharsis and perhaps even a tad of personal insight, though that could just be more bullshit, hard to say for sure.</p> +<p>At first it didn't bother me that much to get rid of my mistakes because hey, we have eBay and you can make some decent cash for the strangest stuff. Like <a href="/jrnl/2015/10/8-track-gorilla">old 8 track players</a>. Or sleeping bags you never used. But at some point I stopped being amazed by how much money I was able to get on eBay and started thinking more about how much I had spent on shit in the first place. How much money I had spent on stuff which at the time seemed like a good idea, but turned out to mean next to nothing to me and was probably (deep down) motivated by some weird subconscious set of culturally handed down ideals I'm not about to try and parse out. </p> +<p>What I do know if that all of it was a waste. It was all a bunch of shit. And I regret it. Not because I want the money back, but because I can never get the life energy that went into getting the money back. I'd like to have that back, or to have at least channeled it into something that would have paid more dividends in the future, which is to say now.</p> +<p>Which is not to say that I'm not grateful that I can at least get something for it. Thanks eBay. Plenty of stuff though -- typically the most expensive, most digital stuff -- is pretty much worthless. The $1200 TV from 2009? Sold for $40. IPod I bought for almost $400 just before I went traveling in 2006? Selling for less than the price of shipping it it to the buyer. So yeah, I have regrets. I also have a new appreciation for buying last year's model used.</p> +<p>I ended up keeping the iPod. It's my new talisman to protect me from myself. It also does a fine job of playing music. Oddly enough for an Apple product, it still works after all these years. Even the battery is still good, though I put an extra 12V plug in the cab area of the bus just in case.</p> +<p>It seems fitting to launch a new trip, just over ten years after the last one, with an artifact or two shared between them. And it sounds just as good as it ever did. Better even since I have some nicer headphones now. And yeah, I've played that Grant Lee Buffalo song with the banjo intro a time or two to reminisce. Every time I catch myself thinking, <em>I should really learn to play the banjo....</em></p>http://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2016/10/useless-stuffEquinoxhttp://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2016/09/equinox<p><img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1140px) 100vw, (min-width: 1141px) 1140px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/equinox-01b_2280.jpg 2280w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/equinox-01b_1170.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/equinox-01b_720.jpg 720w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/equinox-01b_1170.jpg" alt="sunlight filtered through trees photographed by luxagraf"></p> +<p>One of our motivations for living in the bus is to spend more time outside -- outside in general, but even moreso, outside in nature. To become more aware of the rhythms and patterns of life that haven't had human will imposed on them. To be aware of the cycles around us.</p> +<p><img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1140px) 100vw, (min-width: 1141px) 1140px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/equinox-02_2280.jpg 2280w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/equinox-02_1170.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/equinox-02_720.jpg 720w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/equinox-02_1170.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf"></p> +<p>Paleontologist Stephen Jay Gould writes about time having two components, time's arrow and time's cycle. </p> +<p>Time's arrow is linear time, what we would call history, a way of looking at the past as a series of non-repeating events. Time's cycle on the other hand is circular time, "fundamental states... immanent in time, always present and never changing", as he puts it in <cite>Time's Arrow, Time's Cycle</cite></p> +<p>Time's arrow is all around us every day, it is the proverbial water to a fish, we exist so immersed in a world that views time as an arrow that we don't even realize that's something we think, however, subconsciously.</p> +<p><img class="picfull" sizes="(max-width: 680px) 100vw, (min-width: 681) 680px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/equinox-03_800.jpg 800w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/equinox-03_1600.jpg 1600w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/equinox-03_800.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf"></p> +<p>Time's cycle though, that doesn't get much press in our world. If you want the space to exist in time's cycle for a while you'll have to carve it yourself. I'm convinced this is why our forefathers recognized and celebrated time's cycle where they saw it. It's easy to live in time's arrow, but it's only at certain points on the arrow can you see the cycle happening as well. This why there have always been harvest festivals, planting festivals, hunting festivals, lunar festivals, seasonal festivals and so on. Nearly every culture prior to ours had them, and in more of the world than not, they're still celebrated today.</p> +<p>I have a thing for solar cycles I guess. I was born a few hours before the winter solstice. My wife and I were married on the summer solstice. My son was born a few hours before the winter solstice. None of that was planned. It's all synchronicity. Coincidence some would say. That's the word for the the curious cycle-denying component of our culture. Not only do we ignore the cycle, we seem to want to deny it entirely.</p> +<p>Alternately, you could contemplate the possibility that synchronicities like that are not coincidence. That they have pattern to them, that the pattern might mean something or have something to say to you, even if it only turns out to be, "hey I exist too".</p> +<p><img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1140px) 100vw, (min-width: 1141px) 1140px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/equinox-04_2280.jpg 2280w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/equinox-04_1170.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/equinox-04_720.jpg 720w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/equinox-04_1170.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf"></p> +<p>Another pattern I've noticed in my existence so far is that whenever there's a proposed dualism there's also a third possibility half-hidden in the combination of the two. Time's looping arrow that repeats though cycles but is a bit different each time. </p> +<p>There's an equinox every autumn, but it looks a bit different each time.</p>http://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2016/09/equinoxCloudland Canyonhttp://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2016/09/cloudland-canyon<div class="col"><p>I have a terrible habit of never going to obvious places that are right around me. For example I lived within 100 miles or so of Death Valley for 26 years and never once went. Then I moved thousands of miles across the country and finally arranged <a href="/jrnl/2010/04/death-valley">a trip to Death Valley</a>. Same with Catalina Island, which was always a mere 26 miles away. Until it wasn't. And then <a href="/jrnl/2007/07/other-ocean">I&nbsp;went</a>.</p> +<p>I've been joking for some time that Savannah GA is going to be my new Death Valley, which I suppose would make Cloudland Canyon my new Catalina Island. Except that it appears I'm getting better about these things. Maybe. I wouldn't say <em>I</em> got myself to Cloudland Canyon, but events did conspire such that I ended up in Cloudland Canyon <em>before</em> we left Georgia.&nbsp;Progress.</p></div> + +<p><img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1140px) 100vw, (min-width: 1141px) 1140px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-09-17_070613_cloudland-canyon-2_2280.jpg 2280w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-09-17_070613_cloudland-canyon-2_1170.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-09-17_070613_cloudland-canyon-2_720.jpg 720w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-09-17_070613_cloudland-canyon-2_1170.jpg" alt="Sunrise, Bear creek overlook, Cloudland Canyon GA photographed by luxagraf"></p> +<p>No, we didn't take the bus. It was a family reunion for some of Corrinne's family so cabins were rented and we were offered a room in one of them, which is just as well because the campground was a bit dismal -- little more than a gravel parking lot really. The canyon, however, is well worth going for, particularly if you get up before dawn and head down to the Bear Creek overlook to watch the sunrise.</p> +<p><img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1140px) 100vw, (min-width: 1141px) 1140px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/cloudland1_2280.jpg 2280w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/cloudland1_1170.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/cloudland1_720.jpg 720w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/cloudland1_1170.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf"></p> +<p>As is our usual pace we took the back roads, not hurrying, winding through the mountains, stopping for a picnic lunch at another state park that was mostly a shrine to the Army Corp of Engineers. I have mixed feelings about The Corp. They're largely responsible for the mess that is the Mississippi River Valley today and their hubris is possibly unmatched even today. Still. At least they didn't waste their time building gadgets. </p> +<p>Could they have stopped for a minute to study the ecology of a place before they attempted to "improve" it? Sure, but at least they tried to make the world a better place (even if their vision differs from mine). At least they left behind a place my kids can eat turkey sandwiches and chocolate cookies.</p> +<p><img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1140px) 100vw, (min-width: 1141px) 1140px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9160011_5x0G4sl_2280.jpg 2280w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9160011_5x0G4sl_1170.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9160011_5x0G4sl_720.jpg 720w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9160011_5x0G4sl_1170.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf"></p> +<p>Oh, and a reservoir. The Corp did love them some dams. But not for lakes mind you. Lakes are frivolous. Reservoirs are eminently practical and serious. Like the Army Corp of Engineers.</p> +<p><img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1140px) 100vw, (min-width: 1141px) 1140px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9160016_2280.jpg 2280w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9160016_1170.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9160016_720.jpg 720w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9160016_1170.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf"></p> +<p>Eventually we made it to Cloudland Canyon. Not without things getting interesting though. To add modicum of adventure the air conditioning broke just after lunch. I turned on the WD50 air con, but because it's never-winter here in Georgia, we were all quite warm by the time we got there. Fortunately the solution was already there waiting for us -- hammocks.</p> +<p><img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1140px) 100vw, (min-width: 1141px) 1140px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9170063_2280.jpg 2280w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9170063_1170.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9170063_720.jpg 720w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9170063_1170.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf"></p> +<p><img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1140px) 100vw, (min-width: 1141px) 1140px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9170100_2280.jpg 2280w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9170100_1170.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9170100_720.jpg 720w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9170100_1170.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf"></p> +<p>We didn't hike all the way down into the canyon, but we did manage to go a little ways. Apparently it just wasn't enough for Elliott who decided hiking up out of a canyon wasn't hard enough so he picked up a large rock and carried it all the way up.</p> +<p><img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1140px) 100vw, (min-width: 1141px) 1140px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9160033_2280.jpg 2280w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9160033_1170.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9160033_720.jpg 720w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9160033_1170.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf"></p> +<p>We've taken the girls camping before, but they were too young to remember. And I don't think we ever did the important stuff, like making campfires and roasting marshmellows for s'mores. That oversight has since been corrected.</p> +<p><img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1140px) 100vw, (min-width: 1141px) 1140px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9170120_2280.jpg 2280w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9170120_1170.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9170120_720.jpg 720w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9170120_1170.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf"></p> +<p><img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1140px) 100vw, (min-width: 1141px) 1140px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9170124_2280.jpg 2280w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9170124_1170.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9170124_720.jpg 720w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9170124_1170.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf"></p> +<p><img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1140px) 100vw, (min-width: 1141px) 1140px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9170127_2280.jpg 2280w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9170127_1170.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9170127_720.jpg 720w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/P9170127_1170.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf"></p> +<p>Now the question is, will I make it to Savannah before we leave or will I have to wait for a return visit to make it to the coast?</p>http://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2016/09/cloudland-canyonAutumn Bus Updatehttp://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2016/09/autumn-bus-update<p>Autumn comes in a series of hints and whispers. Darkness comes steadily earlier. The available time between putting the kids to bed and too-dark-to-work grows ever shorter. The loss of light would be worth it were the heat and humidity dropping a bit, but they haven't yet. For now I get by on the words of friends in more northerly climes, who have already started mentioning a crispness to the air. </p> +<p>Here the heat remains constant, the humidity never leaves. The bus feels like an oven by mid afternoon.</p> +<figure class="picwide"> +<img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1140px) 100vw, (min-width: 1141px) 1140px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/bus-banner_2280.jpg 2280w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/bus-banner_1170.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/bus-banner_720.jpg 720w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/bus-banner_1170.jpg" alt="1969 Dodge Travco photographed by luxagraf"> +<figcaption>Fresh coat of wax. Compare to <a href="/jrnl/2015/06/big-blue-bus">when we got it</a>.</figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>The good news is that the bus also gets closer to done in a series of hints and whispers. Bare walls disappear behind two layers of insulation, then finished birch panels. The ceiling is in and, to judge from bus visitors so far, it's the high water mark of what I've done. </p> +<figure class="picwide"> +<img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1140px) 100vw, (min-width: 1141px) 1140px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-08-26_120302_bus-progress_LbYhTMJ_2280.jpg 2280w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-08-26_120302_bus-progress_LbYhTMJ_1170.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-08-26_120302_bus-progress_LbYhTMJ_720.jpg 720w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-08-26_120302_bus-progress_LbYhTMJ_1170.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf"> +<figcaption>The bead board ceiling.</figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>There are new cabinets as well, partly because additional storage is nice when you're cramming five people into less than 100 square feet of livable space, and partly because neither the ceiling panels nor the wood on the walls is capable of bending to the degree necessary to follow the original curve of the Travco. </p> +<figure class="picwide"> +<img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1140px) 100vw, (min-width: 1141px) 1140px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-08-26_120359_bus-progress_pFby6Tq_2280.jpg 2280w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-08-26_120359_bus-progress_pFby6Tq_1170.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-08-26_120359_bus-progress_pFby6Tq_720.jpg 720w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/2016-08-26_120359_bus-progress_pFby6Tq_1170.jpg" alt="New cabinets in 1969 dodge travco motorhome photographed by luxagraf"> +<figcaption>The new cabinets I built.</figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>I'm not the only one to hide that curve behind a cabinet. Travcos up until 1968 had a plastic channel to hide it (which did double duty hiding some air conditioning ducting as well) and then in 1969 Travco started adding cabinets as well<sup id="fnref:1"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:1" rel="footnote">1</a></sup>. I mimicked the latter as best I could.</p> +<p>There is still much to do, even if we do plan to <a href="/jrnl/2016/07/change-ideas-the-worst">leave before it's completely finished</a>. We need a floor and couch at the bare minimum, though I'd like to have the propane and sewage system working as well. Oh and then there's a cab area, which I really haven't touched.</p> +<p>Did I mention the brakes stopped working a couple weeks back? The Travco's brake fluid reservoir is incredibly inconvenient and difficult to access. There's a hole a few inches back from the accelerator pedal that's just wide enough for a four-year-old's hand. It's way to small for mine. Too small for my channel lock pliers too. I was lazy and posted something in the Travco Facebook group asking if anyone had any tricks for getting the reservoir open and someone responded that I wasn't trying hard enough. I mulled that over for a while. Then the day before I need to move it I felt like I wanted it pretty bad so I got a new pair of needle nose channel locks and sure enough, I hadn't been trying hard enough.</p> +<p>Sometimes it's good to have internet strangers call you on your bullshit. The reservoir was, predictably, empty. So now we get to bleed the brakes, which is good. I like to know that things like brakes are properly done.</p> +<p>The far more difficult project that I'd likewise been avoiding for some time was getting the generator out of the back compartment. Unlike the brake fluid reservoir, getting the generator out turned out to be much harder than I anticipated. </p> +<p>Everyone wants to know why I want to get rid of a perfectly functional Onan<sup id="fnref:2"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:2" rel="footnote">2</a></sup> generator. Here's a link to fellow nomad Randy Vining <a href="https://vimeo.com/154906462">reading a poem</a> that nicely summarizes why I don't like generators. Suffice to say that most of my worst camping memories involve someone else's generator ruining the otherwise wonderful sounds of nature. In my view the advent of reasonably cheap solar completely eliminates any need for a generator.</p> +<p>Still, the generator in the bus was perfectly good and I didn't want to just throw it away. There are plenty of people who want one. A few weeks ago I saw someone post in the aforementioned Travco Facebook group looking for a generator for a 1972 Travco. I noticed he was only about five or six hours away in North Carolina so I messaged him and told him he could have the generator if he helped me get it out.</p> +<p>He agreed and a week later he drove down from NC with a neighbor to help out. After a quick run to get some tools I needed to finally get the last bolt off of the thing, the three of use tried lifting it out and quickly realized that there was no way that way happening. I called around to see if any local mechanics had an engine lift we could use, but no one did. This was somewhat complicated by the fact that the brakes had gone out earlier in the day and I didn't really want to drive further than I absolutely had to. Then I remembered that a local equipment rental place around the corner probably had some kind of lift. It was only three blocks a way and didn't involve any major hills. So I hopped in, fired her up and we took off just as a torrential rainstorm hit.</p> +<p>Around block two the bus sputtered and died. Out of gas. Blocking a fairly major intersection. I rolled it back as far it would go. The rain was coming down in sheets. I had no choice but to leave it there at the side of the road. I hopped in Nathan's car and he gave me and the meager two gallon gas can a ride to the gas station and back. I stood in the pouring rain with a makeshift funnel fashioned from a plastic water bottle, pouring gasoline in the tank. I was soaked through with water and gasoline long before I finally got it running again. Like my 1969 Ford, 2 gallons of gas is not enough to get the Travco started. Note to self, get two real steel 5 gallon gas cans and mount them on the bumper.</p> +<p>I finally made it to Barron's rentals and we somehow convinced the otherwise unoccupied warehouse employees to help us lift the generator out with a forklift. I took six of us in all, gently lifting, nudging and balancing the massive generator on a single forklift tine and slowly easing it out. In the end though it worked. We got it out of the bus and into the back of Nathan's Land Cruiser where it disappeared off to a new life in a 1972 Travco somewhere back in North Carolina.</p> +<p>I cleaned out the 50 odd years worth of motor oil and fluids and cut some leftover marine grade plywood the fit the bottom of the generator compartment so it would be a little less exposed to the elements (the wood covers a few holes and with a coat of sealant should last several decades). With the generator gone and the compartment cleared up there's finally room to start moving some of the kids' toys out of the house, which helps get the house cleaned up and more presentable for sale.</p> +<p>One things leads to another and it's all accelerating. It takes a long time to line up dominoes, but so far it's working and the few that we've managed to tip over have all fallen in place.</p> +<p>In the mean time there is much work to be done and miles to go before we sleep.</p> +<div class="footnote"> +<hr /> +<ol> +<li id="fn:1"> +<p>Why didn't our have said cabinets originally? No idea. In fact ours is the only Travco that I've seen built this particular way.&#160;<a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:1" rev="footnote" title="Jump back to footnote 1 in the text">&#8617;</a></p> +</li> +<li id="fn:2"> +<p>The makers of the Onan generator is a company called Cummings. So far as I can tell the name has nothing to do with the minor, but intriguing, biblical character and practitioner of the withdrawal method of birth control (or masturbator depending of which interpretation your favor).&#160;<a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:2" rev="footnote" title="Jump back to footnote 2 in the text">&#8617;</a></p> +</li> +</ol> +</div>http://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2016/09/autumn-bus-updateChange of Ideas (The Worst)http://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2016/07/change-ideas-the-worst<p>We've postponed our departure three times now. Our original plan was to leave town in March. Then when March sailed right by and the bus wasn't done yet, and the house was in no condition to sell. So we moved things back to June. Then June came and went. It's about to be September, which puts us probably into October. I'm tempted to say that this time I'm reasonably confident we'll do it, but I've said that before. + b</p> +<figure class="picwide"> +<img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1140px) 100vw, (min-width: 1141px) 1140px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/death_valley_Apr0810_172_2280.jpg 2280w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/death_valley_Apr0810_172_1170.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/death_valley_Apr0810_172_720.jpg 720w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/death_valley_Apr0810_172_1170.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf"> +<figcaption>The open road is calling...</figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>Some of the delays are a result of things beyond my control, notably clients that didn't pay on time (a perpetual problem for anyone who works for themselves), which meant I couldn't buy things I needed to restore the bus. But there were plenty of things that were in my control.</p> +<p>I have a very particular vision of how the bus is going to look. I want it to be perfect. I want it to be The Best. But that old saying that "perfect is the enemy of good enough" turns out to be very true. I started out needing to have everything perfect, but that's cost us at least a month of time on the road. </p> +<p>I'm about done with perfect. I just want to go.</p> +<p>I've been thinking about an old post on Moxie Marlinspike's blog about something he calls "<a href="https://moxie.org/blog/the-worst/">The Worst</a>." To understand the rest of what I'm going to say you need to follow that link and read it, but here's a brief quote to illustrate the difference between The Best and The Worst:</p> +<blockquote> +<p>The basic premise of the worst is that both ideas and material possessions should be tools that serve us, rather than things we live in service to. When that relationship with material possessions is inverted, such that we end up living in service to them, the result is consumerism. When that relationship with ideas is inverted, the result is ideology or religion.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I'm not cutting corners on the bus. I still plan to adhere to my original vision. To me The Worst doesn't mean half-ass, it means being okay with incomplete, it means figuring it out as you go, perfecting things based on actual experience. I've started to incorporate that idea of having the bus be in service to us rather than me in service to it more. We're ready to go and the bus isn't done. And that's okay. We'll figure out the rest as we go. That's part of the adventure.</p> +<p>Currently there's no floor, no water tank, no propane, no solar power, and all the seats still need to be recovered. Of those though only two will likely get done before we leave. We'll recover the seats and we'll put in a floor. Everything else can be done as we go. </p> +<p>Everything has costs. In this case it's money and time. If you have to have a water tank before you leave it's going to cost you money, which in turn is going to cost you time. Or you could grab a huge water jug for $5 from Home Depot and make do until you can get a proper water tank. In some cases not only does embracing "good enough for now" get you on the road faster, it can also save you money.</p> +<p>A lot of the expense of a water tank is the shipping. The tank we want is only about $400, but it costs another $250 to ship it to us. If you're willing to hit the road without a water tank you can drive to the water tank production facility and pick it up yourself. This is also true of awnings, windows and paint jobs, all of which we long ago decided we'd do as we go.</p> +<p>Because if you have to have everything perfect you're never going to go. </p> +<p>And deep down I suspect that my need for perfect is a kind of excuse to not go. A way of avoiding all the fear that comes with leaving. Fear that if it's not perfect it won't work. Fear that something will go wrong. Whatever. Something will go wrong anyway. And you know what? A lot of times it's the things that go wrong that turn out to be the most fun. Maybe not at the time, but later.</p> +<p>It's impossible to overcome that fear of discomfort. It's natural. You can't "get past it"; you have to learn to live with it. </p> +<p>It helps that, at this point in the evolution of our culture, I think those of us in the privileged position of being able to do this in the first place could all use a bit of discomfort. Countless people all over the world are living in situations that make our worst moments seem like the petty, insignificant discomforts they are. It helps to put things in perspective, and no matter how you frame it, we're incredibly lucky to be in the position we're in. We didn't even earn most of the privilege we enjoy in this country. Our comfort and possibilities are largely accidents of birth. </p> +<p>Even in comparison to our very recent ancestors we have it easy. My great grandmother raised eight children alone in a one bedroom 800 square foot house with no air conditioning in Tucson AZ. My wife's mother picked cotton from the time she was a little girl. </p> +<p>We are soft. We don't even know what discomfort is, let alone the host of horrors visited upon innocent people all over the world every day. </p> +<p>We are incredibly thankful to be able to embrace whatever discomfort we might encounter. To chose to be uncomfortable is a luxury, perhaps the greatest luxury. I'm pretty sure my great grandmother would have taken a 4000 ft home with central air if someone had given it to her, and I suspect my mother-in-law would just as soon have not spent her childhood picking cotton. They weren't choosing discomfort, it was just life. I'm less sure that either would have exchanged the experience though.</p> +<p>There's a line in that piece I linked to earlier, "the best moments of my life, I never want to live again." I have feeling my great grandmother would agree. It goes on say:</p> +<blockquote> +<p>The best means waiting, planning, researching, and saving until one can acquire the perfect equipment for a given task. Partisans of the best will probably never end up accidentally riding a freight train 1000 miles in the wrong direction, or making a new life-long friend while panhandling after losing everything in Transnistria, or surreptitiously living under a desk in an office long after their internship has run out — simply because optimizing for the best probably does not leave enough room for those mistakes. Even if the most stalwart advocates of the worst would never actually recommend choosing to put oneself in those situations intentionally, they probably wouldn't give them up either.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>If you have the luxury of being able to embrace discomfort, take it. Forget perfect and just go, even if "go" is purely metaphorical. You'll figure it out along the way.</p>http://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2016/07/change-ideas-the-worstWhat Are You Going to Do?http://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2016/07/what-are-you-going-to-do<p>We've started telling people about our plans to live full time in the blue bus. </p> +<figure class="picwide"> + +<img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1140px) 100vw, (min-width: 1141px) 1140px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/bus-joes_2016-06-03_093840_2280.jpg 2280w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/bus-joes_2016-06-03_093840_1170.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/bus-joes_2016-06-03_093840_720.jpg 720w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/bus-joes_2016-06-03_093840_1170.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf"> + + +<figcaption>Home sweet home.</figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>After the eyebrows come down and the puzzled frowns flatten out, the questions come. Most of them revolve around some form of, but, but but... <em>what will you do without a house? What will you do when that thing breaks down? What will you do when...</em></p> +<p>Rather than answer everyone individually I thought I'd answer all those questions here, as best I can: <strong><em>I don't know</em></strong>.</p> +<p>And I'm not particularly worried about it. I don't know what we'll do without a house, because we have a house. It's just somewhat smaller than the average American dwelling and comes with an engine.</p> +<p>And when it breaks I suspect we'll stop by the side of the road and spend some time sweating, swearing, scratching our heads, failing, asking more experienced people questions, failing some more, sweating some more, and maybe even end up taking a near bath in gasoline. And then we might even have to walk somewhere and find someone smarter and more experienced to help us. Then, eventually, we'll probably get it running again. </p> +<p>Then again it could totally break down into an unfixable hunk of fiberglass and metal that has to towed to the nearest scrapyard. It could burst into flames at a stoplight. It could drop a transmission trying to downshift its way up a hill. A million things could go wrong. </p> +<p>But a million things can always go wrong, the only thing you get worrying about them is an anxiety attack. I find it more useful to carry a reasonable amount of tools and deal with things as they come. In my experience so far the future is seldom as grim as our fears<sup id="fnref:1"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:1" rel="footnote">1</a></sup>.</p> +<p>What if though? That's the action-killing nag at the back of all our minds. I have it too. You don't think I worry about these things? I do. I know of a Travco that really did burst into flames at a stoplight. It is what it is though. It's not going to stop me from going on this trip. Because you know what? I know of hundreds of Travcos that haven't burst into flames. That one is scary, but it's only one. </p> +<p>A whole lot of houses burst into flames too, yet most of us don't sit around worrying about that. Instead we do what practical things we can, unplug appliances when we're not using them, install new breakers, keep an eye on the candles and so on, and get on with our lives. In the end we manage to ignore the fact that <a href="http://www.nfpa.org/news-and-research/news-and-media/press-room/news-releases/2013/seven-people-die-each-day-in-reported-us-home-fires">seven people a day die in house fires</a> and just live.</p> +<p>It all comes back to comfort, the ultimate comfort, the little lie we tell ourselves: if I just stay where I am, physically, metaphysically, metaphorically, then I will be safe. It's a nice fiction that helps get all that potential anxiety out of the way, but it's still a fiction.</p> +<p>My problem with that logic is that clinging to a life of "security" at the expense of living the way you want will fail you twice. Not only are you missing out on the life you want to have, but even the security you think you're getting in exchange for foregoing that life turns out to be an illusion. The extra irony is that there's never been a safer time to be alive, yet we're all worried about the lion that might be lurking in the grass. Old habits die hard.</p> +<p>Jon Krakauer's <cite>Into the Wild</cite> <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/511021-nothing-is-more-damaging-to-the-adventurous-spirit-within-a">quotes</a> a letter <a href="http://www.christophermccandless.info/">Christopher McCandless</a> wrote to a friend in which he says: </p> +<blockquote> +<p>nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a man's living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Travel is certainly not the only way to have an endlessly changing horizon, at least metaphorically speaking. I'm not suggesting that everyone should sell their house and travel. But I am suggesting that it might be a good time to stop and take a close look at your life and make sure that fear isn't holding you back from what you want. For me deciding to travel is easy, but I still have plenty of useless fear about other stuff. I was terrified to have kids. I probably never would have had them if it weren't for my wife assuring me that we could do it. And we did. And it was the best thing I've ever done. Not a single one of my fears turned out to be accurate.</p> +<p>Traveling isn't the only way to live, but it is one way. And for us it's one that's the most immediate and exciting right now. We may not have a house, we may not have much stuff, we may break down, we may get stuck, we may be uncomfortable. That's okay. I believe we'll make it. Somewhere anyway.</p> +<div class="footnote"> +<hr /> +<ol> +<li id="fn:1"> +<p>There are exceptions. Global warming looks to be every bit as grim as we imagine. War, violence in general, also very grim.&#160;<a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:1" rev="footnote" title="Jump back to footnote 1 in the text">&#8617;</a></p> +</li> +</ol> +</div>http://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2016/07/what-are-you-going-to-doEnginehttp://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2016/06/engine<p>Everywhere I go I see it.</p> +<p><img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1140px) 100vw, (min-width: 1141px) 1140px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/bus-engine_2016-06-05_154209_2280.jpg 2280w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/bus-engine_2016-06-05_154209_1170.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/bus-engine_2016-06-05_154209_720.jpg 720w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/bus-engine_2016-06-05_154209_1170.jpg" alt="1969 Dodge Travco engine, 318LA photographed by luxagraf"></p> +<p>I'd like to make a movie of it. Start with a cutaway diagram of the Travco that slowly rotates in my head as it zooms into the gas tank in the rear and then follows the gas down the line toward the front to the right of the engine, drawn up into the fuel pump, pushed out and up, under the alternator to the top of the engine, through the fuel filter and into the carburetor where it mixes with air and dives down until it ignites with a spark. </p> +<p>This little movie runs on a loop in my head. It invades everything I do. I see it sitting at stoplights, a similar path of electricity out of the breaker, up the light pole and to the switch which sends it to the top lens, which happens to be red. </p> +<p>I see it doing the dishes. The water leaving the tower, flowing down increasingly narrower pipes, off the main street line and into my hot water tank where it sits until a flick of the faucet calls it up through more pipes and out onto my hands.</p> +<p>Everything flows like this. Every system around us, when it works, does something similar.</p> +<p>Right now the Travco does not work. I can see it in my head and yet I cannot make it work. It has to be the fuel pump. I have spark, I have compression, the missing ingredient in the basic trifecta of the internal combustion engines is fuel. </p> +<p>But seeing it and understanding it are different than actually solving the problem, making it work. This is basic difference between architects and builders. Builders have to solve problems in the real world that architects will never encounter.</p> +<figure class="picfull"> +<img class="picfull" sizes="(max-width: 680px) 100vw, (min-width: 681) 680px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/bus-engine_2016-06-05_154347_1320.jpg 1320w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/bus-engine_2016-06-05_154347_680.jpg 680w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/bus-engine_2016-06-05_154347_1320.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf"> + <figcaption>I&#39;m never short of help.</figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>Days pass. I continue to fail with the bus. The real world of by time constraints, pay checks that don't arrive, other commitments, weather. I work on other things. Hang wall panels, sand and apply finish. I do things I know I know how to do. More days pass. Still the bus doesn't start. I get sullen. My wife thinks I'm mad all the time. I'm not. I'm thinking about the engine, I can't get it out of my head. It reminds me of the first time I tried to write some code. It was fun, but it also was not. </p> +<p>Problem solving seems fun after the problem is solved. During the actual solving it's less fun. Food, sleep, these things seem unimportant when I have a problem that needs solving stuck in my head. I tend to get obsessed about things. Even when I don't want to. It's one of the reasons I don't do much programming anymore. I never let things go until I solve the problem to my satisfaction. Of course breaking a web server doesn't cost much relative to damaging an engine, so with the bus the stakes are much higher, the sullen thinking phase I pass through is correspondingly more sullen and requires more concentration. </p> +<p>I consult my friend Jimmy, double check with him that my plan is sane. He says it is and assures me that there's little chance I'll screw anything up. So I crawl back under the bus for another soaking of gasoline and, after much swearing and muscle cramping, somehow manage to get the new fuel pump properly seated under the eccentric on the camshaft and anchored into place. Then I replace all the fuel lines and filter for good measure. Everything from the fuel pump to the carburetor is now my doing. </p> +<p>I step back and get the gasoline soaked clothes off and take a shower. I want these ten minutes of thinking I fixed it to last, which turn out to be a good thing because when I get back in the bus and fire it up and... it still won't start. Damnit.</p> +<p>The is the most demoralizing thing I know of for anyone trying to DIY something. That moment when it should work, but it doesn't. Damnit. I go back to the internet and do some more searching. I message Jimmy again. On a whim I decided maybe I didn't crank it enough to get all the air out of the new lines. So I go back and instead of starter fluid in the carb I go straight gasoline, which, predictably, starts the engine. And then it dies when that gas is consumed. Goddammit.</p> +<p>I decide try one last time, with enough gasoline to possibly set the whole engine on fire. But that doesn't happen. Instead it starts and then it keeps running. This is when it would nice if life had a sound effects choir to ring out something triumphant. But there's nothing. Just me, sitting in the driver's seat enjoying the smell of gasoline and the roar of an engine that has neither exhaust manifolds nor muffler. And it's a damn fine roar. For now.</p>http://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2016/06/engineBack From Somewherehttp://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2016/05/back-from-somewhere<p>My kids love to do new things. At least they think they do. They're really good at getting excited about things. Like most kids (I imagine), they get excited about things even when I know they have only a dim inkling of what those things might actually entail. The idea, the anticipation, is often more exciting in fact than the actual thing.</p> +<p><img class="picwide" sizes="(max-width: 1140px) 100vw, (min-width: 1141px) 1140px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/skate-show_2016-05-21_132528_2280.jpg 2280w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/skate-show_2016-05-21_132528_1170.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/skate-show_2016-05-21_132528_720.jpg 720w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/skate-show_2016-05-21_132528_1170.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf"></p> +<p>I went to get some coffee the other morning and noticed that the Jittery Joe's roaster was hosting a <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/1126780367373997/">skate contest</a> the following Saturday. Skating and surfing more or less defined my existence (along with punk rock) from junior high through, well, now.</p> +<p>I try not to steer my kids in any particular direction. I try to expose them to as many different things as possible and see where they're drawn. But secretly I really hope they end up liking a few of the things I did when I was a kid, like skate boarding. So I mentioned the skate contest the night before and showed them a bit of the old Bones Brigade video. They were entertained for a few minutes and then they wanted to move on to something else. </p> +<p>I figured the actual skate contest would be the same way: take it in for an hour or so and then slowly interest would wane and we'd all head home. That's about how it generally goes when we take them to any sort of organized event. </p> +<p>This time, however, I was wrong. They could not get enough of the skating. Neither the intense afternoon sun beating down on the concrete slab of parking lot nor the humidity left over from morning rains deterred them. We were there all afternoon, over four hours of skating, pulled pork and the occasional train rolling by. They never stopped loving it. </p> +<figure class="picfull"> +<img class="picfull" sizes="(max-width: 680px) 100vw, (min-width: 681) 680px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/skate-show_2016-05-21_132922_2280.jpg 2280w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/skate-show_2016-05-21_132922_1170.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/skate-show_2016-05-21_132922_720.jpg 720w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/skate-show_2016-05-21_132922_2280.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf"> + <figcaption>Pulled pork sandwiches never hurt.</figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>And neither did I. I haven't skated in years. Over a decade. And even before that most I did was use my old board to go get cigarettes from the gas station down the street. But skating culture, along with surfing culture and punk culture are things that were a huge part of me and that has never never gone away, even if I mostly watch from afar these days. </p> +<p>I still feel more at home among skaters, surfers and punks than anywhere else. </p> +<p><img class="picfull" sizes="(max-width: 680px) 100vw, (min-width: 681) 680px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/skate-show_2016-05-21_131807_2280.jpg 2280w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/skate-show_2016-05-21_131807_1170.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/skate-show_2016-05-21_131807_720.jpg 720w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/skate-show_2016-05-21_131807_2280.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf"></p> +<p>Since having kids though I've accidentally drifted away from that culture. There are practical considerations. It's hard to get out to shows, the beach is a really long way away and I no longer have a skateboard. Instead I find myself at the sort of "kid friendly" affairs I swore I would never go to. And you know what, I was right, those things suck. And they aren't very kid friendly either. But we're remarkably adaptable creatures. Do something enough and it starts to feel normal, no matter how uncomfortable it might be. </p> +<p>I spent so much time not fitting in at kids birthday parties and "kid friendly" events around town I forgot that there was actually people with whom I did fit in. I'd forgotten that I had a people. </p> +<p>The Shredder Joes contest was a nice reminder that there are still sane, friendly, open people out there in the world among whom I feel at home.</p> +<p>On the drive home Corrinne turned to me and said "I know it's been 18 years, but I felt more at home there than I do at any of these hipster family bullshit events we go to." I'd been thinking a similar thing, but I'd been wondering why. </p> +<p>Why did the kids want to spend four hours watching skaters and can't be bothered with a petting zoo for more than five minutes?</p> +<p>I have a few theories, but the one that's most appealing is pretty simple: because the world of skating doesn't have rules. There are the basics rules of taking turns and accommodating the people around you, but for the most part you are expected to do whatever you want to do. The petting zoos and the kid friendly events are full of waiting in line and doing as you're told.</p> +<p>Another part of it is the welcoming nature of people in skate/surf/punk scene. That's not to say there aren't assholes in any group of people. There absolutely are, especially surfers who can be real territorial, but <a href="http://www.latimes.com/local/california/la-me-surfer-gang-enforcement-20160211-story.html">exceptions aside</a>, generally, if you have the humility to start at the bottom, you'll be accepted eventually. It's even easier if you're a kid, I've seen some of the scariest looking heavily tattooed Hawaiian surfers move aside with a smile for some kid just learning<sup id="fnref:1"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:1" rel="footnote">1</a></sup>. The thing about learning a skill like surfing or skating is that you never forget that it is <em>learned</em>, and that tends to create sympathy for those who are just starting out.</p> +<p><img class="picfull" sizes="(max-width: 680px) 100vw, (min-width: 681) 680px" +srcset="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/skate-show_2016-05-21_132009_2280.jpg 2280w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/skate-show_2016-05-21_132009_1170.jpg 1170w, https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/skate-show_2016-05-21_132009_720.jpg 720w" +src="https://images.luxagraf.net/2016/skate-show_2016-05-21_132009_2280.jpg" alt=" photographed by luxagraf"></p> +<p>Another thing that I think makes the skate/surf/punk scene different is that it's built around practice and failure. Watching skating is watching failure after failure until that time when you stick it and suddenly all that failure is gone. People comfortable with failure typically have less to prove. It was always my experience that skaters, surfers and punks were really only trying to prove something when they're skating, surfing or playing. Hipster parent events are one big gathering of uptight people with something to prove and nowhere to prove it. The difference between the two is palpable. </p> +<p>It could also be that those scenes are full of people who, by necessity, have mastered their fears. To a degree anyway. You can only get so far in skating if you're afraid of getting hurt. I know this because I was always too afraid of getting hurt to be any good<sup id="fnref:2"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:2" rel="footnote">2</a></sup>. Anyone willing to drop in on a backyard ramp or empty pool has necessarily mastered at least some of their fear. Fear closes you up, it feeds on itself. </p> +<p>Whatever it is that makes these things different my kids seem to pick up on it. </p> +<p>The skate show was also the single most diverse event I've ever been to in Athens. With one exception, there was not a single woman skating. That was disappointing, but when we got home I pulled up some videos of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aMocKem3N4c">Vanessa Torres</a>, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=91IgE_JXiBs">Elissa Steamer</a> and <a href="http://www.peggyoki.com/about-me/peggy-oki-dogtown-and-z-boys">Peggy Oki</a>, along with some great home videos of girls skating on YouTube to balance things out. </p> +<p>The best part of the day for me though was on the way home when Olivia asked if she could have a skateboard for her birthday. Absolutely.</p> +<div class="footnote"> +<hr /> +<ol> +<li id="fn:1"> +<p>Whereas, while still friendly, they did not hesitate to cut me or my friend Andy out of any wave they wanted.&#160;<a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:1" rev="footnote" title="Jump back to footnote 1 in the text">&#8617;</a></p> +</li> +<li id="fn:2"> +<p>Put me in the water and my fear disappears, but concrete? That shit hurts. And I could never get past that enough to get any better.&#160;<a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:2" rev="footnote" title="Jump back to footnote 2 in the text">&#8617;</a></p> +</li> +</ol> +</div>http://luxagraf.net/jrnl/2016/05/back-from-somewhere \ No newline at end of file diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/france/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/france/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..63a5039 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/france/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,256 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from France + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Journal entries from France

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    + The Language of Cities +
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    The Language of Cities

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    + + Paris, France + + 48.85846248575372 + 2.3375712584730377 + + – + + Paris is angry. Cities can get angry. This isn't the first time it's happened to me. New York threw me out once. Los Angeles and I left on mutually hostile terms, though we've since made up. Cities have personalities just like people, and to really be part of a city your personalities have to mesh, you have to find each other on your own terms everyday. + +

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    + From Here We Go Sublime +
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    From Here We Go Sublime

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    + + Paris, France + + 48.861291192122714 + 2.3879055928465687 + + – + + Just arrived Dulles-Reykjavik-Paris, 26-hour trip, no sleep. I see things. I see a grizzly looking Spaniard selling old railway lanterns at the flea market, I see muslim men playing basketball in skull caps, I see a Michael Faraday experiment with bulbs and wires enclosed in glass that turns out to be just an elevator. I see a stout Frenchwoman closing the gates of Pere Lachaise, no more dead, we've had enough of you. + +

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    + Cadenza +
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    Cadenza

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    + + Paris, France + + 48.86345844378468 + 2.3610842224649087 + + – + + Paris - Outside it's raining. Beads of water form on the window in front of me. The glow of the unseen sun is fading behind midnight blue clouds and darkening sky. An old man in a butcher apron selling oysters under an awning smokes a cigarette and watches the mothers and children walking home with bags of groceries. + +

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    + Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine +
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    Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine

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    + + Paris, France + + 48.863514907961644 + 2.3610734936288558 + + – + + Well it's my last night here in Paris and I've chosen to return to the best restaurant we've been to so far, an Iraqi restaurant in a Marais. I am using all my willpower right now to avoid having a political outburst re the quality of Iraqi food versus the intelligence of George Bush etc etc. I'm traveling; I don't want to get into politics except to say that my dislike for the current El Presidente was no small factor in my decision to go abroad. + +

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    + Bury Your Dead +
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    Bury Your Dead

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    + + Paris, France + + 48.88623656623962 + 2.343757152231122 + + – + + I would like to say that the catacombs of Paris had some spectacular effect on me seeing that I strolled through human remains, skulls and femurs mainly, "decoratively arranged," but the truth is, after you get over the initial shock of seeing a skull, well, it turns out you can get adjusted to just about anything. Maybe that in and off itself is the scary part. + +

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    + The Houses We Live In +
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    The Houses We Live In

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.86409366210158 + 2.3615670200875383 + + – + + I've been thinking the last couple of days about something Bill's dad said to me before I left. I'm paraphrasing here since I don't remember the exact phrasing he used, but something to the effect of "people are essentially the same everywhere, they just build their houses differently." Indeed, Parisian architecture is completely unlike anything in America. Perhaps more than any other single element, architecture reflects culture and the ideas of the people that make up culture. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sainte Chapelle +
    +

    Sainte Chapelle

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.85556694853056 + 2.3452591892792514 + + – + + Sainte Chapelle was interesting to see after the modern, conceptual art stuff at the Pompidou, rather than simple stained glass, Sainte Chapelle felt quite conceptual. In a sense the entire Bible (i.e. all history from that perspective) is unfolding simultaneously, quite a so-called post-modern idea if you think about it. And yet it was conceived and executed over 800 years ago. Kind of kicks a lot pretentious modern art in its collective ass. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Living in a Railway Car +
    +

    Living in a Railway Car

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.86416424141684 + 2.3617815968086964 + + – + + This French apartment is more like a railway sleeper car than apartment proper. Maybe fifteen feet long and only three feet wide at the ceiling. More like five feet wide at the floor, but, because it's an attic, the outer wall slopes in and you lose two feet by the time you get to the ceiling. It's narrow enough that you can't pass another body when you walk to length of it. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/france/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/france/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..689aa17 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/france/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,262 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from France -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from France

    +
    +
    + The Language of Cities +
    +

    The Language of Cities

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.85846248575372 + 2.3375712584730377 + + – + + Paris is angry. Cities can get angry. This isn't the first time it's happened to me. New York threw me out once. Los Angeles and I left on mutually hostile terms, though we've since made up. Cities have personalities just like people, and to really be part of a city your personalities have to mesh, you have to find each other on your own terms everyday. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + From Here We Go Sublime +
    +

    From Here We Go Sublime

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.861291192122714 + 2.3879055928465776 + + – + + Just arrived Dulles-Reykjavik-Paris, 26-hour trip, no sleep. I see things. I see a grizzly looking Spaniard selling old railway lanterns at the flea market, I see muslim men playing basketball in skull caps, I see a Michael Faraday experiment with bulbs and wires enclosed in glass that turns out to be just an elevator. I see a stout Frenchwoman closing the gates of Pere Lachaise, no more dead, we've had enough of you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Cadenza +
    +

    Cadenza

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.86345844378468 + 2.3610842224649087 + + – + + Paris - Outside it's raining. Beads of water form on the window in front of me. The glow of the unseen sun is fading behind midnight blue clouds and darkening sky. An old man in a butcher apron selling oysters under an awning smokes a cigarette and watches the mothers and children walking home with bags of groceries. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine +
    +

    Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.863514907961644 + 2.3610734936288558 + + – + + Well it's my last night here in Paris and I've chosen to return to the best restaurant we've been to so far, an Iraqi restaurant in a Marais. I am using all my willpower right now to avoid having a political outburst re the quality of Iraqi food versus the intelligence of George Bush etc etc. I'm traveling; I don't want to get into politics except to say that my dislike for the current El Presidente was no small factor in my decision to go abroad. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bury Your Dead +
    +

    Bury Your Dead

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.88623656623962 + 2.343757152231122 + + – + + I would like to say that the catacombs of Paris had some spectacular effect on me seeing that I strolled through human remains, skulls and femurs mainly, "decoratively arranged," but the truth is, after you get over the initial shock of seeing a skull, well, it turns out you can get adjusted to just about anything. Maybe that in and off itself is the scary part. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Houses We Live In +
    +

    The Houses We Live In

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.86409366210158 + 2.3615670200875383 + + – + + I've been thinking the last couple of days about something Bill's dad said to me before I left. I'm paraphrasing here since I don't remember the exact phrasing he used, but something to the effect of "people are essentially the same everywhere, they just build their houses differently." Indeed, Parisian architecture is completely unlike anything in America. Perhaps more than any other single element, architecture reflects culture and the ideas of the people that make up culture. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sainte Chapelle +
    +

    Sainte Chapelle

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.85556694853056 + 2.3452591892792514 + + – + + Sainte Chapelle was interesting to see after the modern, conceptual art stuff at the Pompidou, rather than simple stained glass, Sainte Chapelle felt quite conceptual. In a sense the entire Bible (i.e. all history from that perspective) is unfolding simultaneously, quite a so-called post-modern idea if you think about it. And yet it was conceived and executed over 800 years ago. Kind of kicks a lot pretentious modern art in its collective ass. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Living in a Railway Car +
    +

    Living in a Railway Car

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.86416424141684 + 2.3617815968086964 + + – + + This French apartment is more like a railway sleeper car than apartment proper. Maybe fifteen feet long and only three feet wide at the ceiling. More like five feet wide at the floor, but, because it's an attic, the outer wall slopes in and you lose two feet by the time you get to the ceiling. It's narrow enough that you can't pass another body when you walk to length of it. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/francindex.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/francindex.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0cc9b47 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/francindex.html @@ -0,0 +1,262 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from France -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from France

    +
    +
    + The Language of Cities +
    +

    The Language of Cities

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.85846248575372 + 2.3375712584730377 + + – + + Paris is angry. Cities can get angry. This isn't the first time it's happened to me. New York threw me out once. Los Angeles and I left on mutually hostile terms, though we've since made up. Cities have personalities just like people, and to really be part of a city your personalities have to mesh, you have to find each other on your own terms everyday. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + From Here We Go Sublime +
    +

    From Here We Go Sublime

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.861291192122714 + 2.3879055928465776 + + – + + Just arrived Dulles-Reykjavik-Paris, 26-hour trip, no sleep. I see things. I see a grizzly looking Spaniard selling old railway lanterns at the flea market, I see muslim men playing basketball in skull caps, I see a Michael Faraday experiment with bulbs and wires enclosed in glass that turns out to be just an elevator. I see a stout Frenchwoman closing the gates of Pere Lachaise, no more dead, we've had enough of you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Cadenza +
    +

    Cadenza

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.86345844378468 + 2.3610842224649087 + + – + + Paris - Outside it's raining. Beads of water form on the window in front of me. The glow of the unseen sun is fading behind midnight blue clouds and darkening sky. An old man in a butcher apron selling oysters under an awning smokes a cigarette and watches the mothers and children walking home with bags of groceries. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine +
    +

    Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.863514907961644 + 2.3610734936288558 + + – + + Well it's my last night here in Paris and I've chosen to return to the best restaurant we've been to so far, an Iraqi restaurant in a Marais. I am using all my willpower right now to avoid having a political outburst re the quality of Iraqi food versus the intelligence of George Bush etc etc. I'm traveling; I don't want to get into politics except to say that my dislike for the current El Presidente was no small factor in my decision to go abroad. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bury Your Dead +
    +

    Bury Your Dead

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.88623656623962 + 2.343757152231122 + + – + + I would like to say that the catacombs of Paris had some spectacular effect on me seeing that I strolled through human remains, skulls and femurs mainly, "decoratively arranged," but the truth is, after you get over the initial shock of seeing a skull, well, it turns out you can get adjusted to just about anything. Maybe that in and off itself is the scary part. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Houses We Live In +
    +

    The Houses We Live In

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.86409366210158 + 2.3615670200875383 + + – + + I've been thinking the last couple of days about something Bill's dad said to me before I left. I'm paraphrasing here since I don't remember the exact phrasing he used, but something to the effect of "people are essentially the same everywhere, they just build their houses differently." Indeed, Parisian architecture is completely unlike anything in America. Perhaps more than any other single element, architecture reflects culture and the ideas of the people that make up culture. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sainte Chapelle +
    +

    Sainte Chapelle

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.85556694853056 + 2.3452591892792514 + + – + + Sainte Chapelle was interesting to see after the modern, conceptual art stuff at the Pompidou, rather than simple stained glass, Sainte Chapelle felt quite conceptual. In a sense the entire Bible (i.e. all history from that perspective) is unfolding simultaneously, quite a so-called post-modern idea if you think about it. And yet it was conceived and executed over 800 years ago. Kind of kicks a lot pretentious modern art in its collective ass. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Living in a Railway Car +
    +

    Living in a Railway Car

    + + +

    + + Paris, France + + 48.86416424141684 + 2.3617815968086964 + + – + + This French apartment is more like a railway sleeper car than apartment proper. Maybe fifteen feet long and only three feet wide at the ceiling. More like five feet wide at the floor, but, because it's an attic, the outer wall slopes in and you lose two feet by the time you get to the ceiling. It's narrow enough that you can't pass another body when you walk to length of it. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/hungarindex.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/hungarindex.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ac35406 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/hungarindex.html @@ -0,0 +1,122 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Hungary -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Hungary

    +
    +
    + Refracted Light and Grace +
    +

    Refracted Light and Grace

    + + +

    + + Budapest, Hungary + + 47.483800862289485 + 19.062137601106286 + + – + + Evening, after dinner, outside on the balcony, smoking cigarettes and contemplating the nightscape of Buda's Castle Hill rising up out of its own golden reflection in the shimmering Danube waters. The drone of car horns in the distance and the electric tram squealing as it pulls out of the station below on the river a boat slowly churns upstream... + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/hungary/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/hungary/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f610180 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/hungary/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,116 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Hungary + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Hungary

    +
    +
    + Refracted Light and Grace +
    +

    Refracted Light and Grace

    + + +

    + + Budapest, Hungary + + 47.483800862289485 + 19.062137601106286 + + – + + Evening, after dinner, outside on the balcony, smoking cigarettes and contemplating the nightscape of Buda's Castle Hill rising up out of its own golden reflection in the shimmering Danube waters. The drone of car horns in the distance and the electric tram squealing as it pulls out of the station below on the river a boat slowly churns upstream... + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/hungary/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/hungary/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7c77cdf --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/hungary/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,122 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Hungary -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Hungary

    +
    +
    + Refracted Light and Grace +
    +

    Refracted Light and Grace

    + + +

    + + Budapest, Hungary + + 47.483800862289485 + 19.062137601106286 + + – + + Evening, after dinner, outside on the balcony, smoking cigarettes and contemplating the nightscape of Buda's Castle Hill rising up out of its own golden reflection in the shimmering Danube waters. The drone of car horns in the distance and the electric tram squealing as it pulls out of the station below on the river a boat slowly churns upstream... + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..06e8a27 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,594 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Around the World -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal

    +
    +
    + Eastbound & Down +
    +

    Eastbound & Down

    + + +

    + + Kerrville, Texas, U.S. + + 30.003937578862942 + -99.12746185387483 + + – + + Next year we'll winter in Mexico, but for now we're headed back to one of our favorite places -- the Gulf Coast. Naturally we didn't just drive straight there, we detoured up to Carlsbad Caverns before making a mad dash across Texas to the coast. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Ghost of Cochise +
    +

    The Ghost of Cochise

    + + +

    + + Dragoon Mountains, Arizona, U.S. + + 31.84049609721996 + -109.92530578547527 + + – + + Every time I've been here odd things have happened. I have seen strange shapes in the shadows, heard whispers whipping through the wind, and found some downright hard to explain things. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + A Long Errand +
    +

    A Long Errand

    + + +

    + + Catalina State Park, Arizona, U.S. + + 32.42613099108599 + -110.9155344382878 + + – + + While we were in Tucson Corrinne and the kids stayed with the bus while I grabbed a flight up to Reno where I met my uncle and we drove back down to his house to pick up our new dinghy -- a 1983 Volvo 240 wagon. It's the best car we've ever owned. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You're All I Need to Get By +
    +

    You’re All I Need to Get By

    + + +

    + + Catalina State Park, Arizona, U.S. + + 32.427652391812835 + -110.91665023724731 + + – + + It was good to get back into the desert, into wide open wild spaces. It's worth remembering that Nature is everywhere, even downtown Manhattan, there is in fact nothing but Nature. That said, it's undeniably nicer for those of us who enjoy them, to be in less inhabited, vast tracts of wild, which is exactly what we had outside of Gila Bend, AZ. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Escaping California +
    +

    Escaping California

    + + +

    + + Painted Rocks Petroglyph Area, Arizona, U.S. + + 33.02151850199567 + -113.0501865757584 + + – + + There might have been a good bit of cheering in the bus as we crossed over the Colorado River, out of California and into Arizona. California wore us down. It's not a place we like. As my daughter put it, "everything is dead in California, there's no flowers or butterflies, I love flowers and butterflies." + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Funland at the Beach +
    +

    Funland at the Beach

    + + +

    + + Newport Beach, California, U.S. + + 33.631708923621495 + -117.9022383100234 + + – + + I suck at waiting. We all suck at waiting actually, which is why after four days waiting around in the desert left us feeling a little stir crazy. We thought, screw the calendar, let's do Christmas now. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week +
    +

    The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week

    + + +

    + + Palm Springs, California, U.S. + + 33.76420806670276 + -116.43985503996053 + + – + + Sometimes things do not go as planned. I came down with a sinus infection that gave me a fever of 104 and took three rounds of antibiotics to put down and forced us to spend a few days in Bakersfield. We we left I was pretty doped up on cold medicine, but we really wanted to get out of Bakerfield so we went for it. About half way up Tehachapi pass oil was spraying out the right side of the engine and that was that. I pulled over and called AAA. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Aquarium Kings +
    +

    Aquarium Kings

    + + +

    + + King City, California, U.S. + + 36.20658011394801 + -121.14895576255992 + + – + + After so much time away from the bus it was good to be on the road again. We headed down to Monterey to visit some friends and take the kids to aquarium. From there we continued south and inland, making an unscheduled, but thoroughly enjoyable stop in the lovely King City, CA. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The City +
    +

    The City

    + + +

    + + San Francisco, California, U.S. + + 37.80126393315256 + -122.42681378125286 + + – + + Visiting the city on our way to Thanksgiving. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Absence of Glass Beach +
    +

    The Absence of Glass Beach

    + + +

    + + Mendocino Coast, California, U.S. + + 39.48050112619824 + -123.80275481919242 + + – + + After Halloween we made our way south, ducking inland and around the Lost Coast, down to Fort Bragg where we finally, for a few days at least got some sunshine. Glass beach though? That's long gone thanks to good old American greed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Halloween and the Big Trees +
    +

    Halloween and the Big Trees

    + + +

    + + Patrick’s Point, California, U.S. + + 41.138628503323744 + -124.15792220805898 + + – + + Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. It's got all the good elements of ritual to it, costumes, masks, sounds, night, and obliquely somewhere in there, veneration of the dead. For one moment, one evening, everyone is something they're not and somehow more themselves for it. The masks of everyday life get replaced with masks of our choosing, if only for one night. Plus, candy. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Through +
    +

    Through

    + + +

    + + Patrick’s Point, California, U.S. + + 41.14114944646635 + -124.15835136151323 + + – + + Good or bad you have to go through, not around. This is easy when life is good. When there are problems it gets more difficult. But still. The only way out is through. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Pacific Sense +
    +

    Pacific Sense

    + + +

    + + Patrick’s Point, California, U.S. + + 41.140761615367445 + -124.15646308637378 + + – + + We made it all the way to the Pacific ocean, but when we arrived we couldn't see it. As is typical up this way, the ocean was wrapped in a blanket of thick fog. We hiked down into the gloom of fog and spent the evening on the beach. The one place that will always feel like home to me. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Shadow of Lassen +
    +

    The Shadow of Lassen

    + + +

    + + Shasta National Forest, California, U.S. + + 40.59515988130533 + -121.1237215401611 + + – + + From my uncle's house we headed northwest, up into the Shasta National Forest where there's more free camping than you can shake a stick at. We liked it so much we stayed an extra night. Why not? It's not like we have anywhere we have to be. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dialed In +
    +

    Dialed In

    + + +

    + + Carson City/Washoe Lake, Nevada, U.S. + + 39.149406639836954 + -119.76115936077889 + + – + + With my uncle's help the bus gets some much needed work done. It's now running about 1000X better than it was and more importantly I know a lot more. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Trains, Hot Springs and Broken Buses +
    +

    Trains, Hot Springs and Broken Buses

    + + +

    + + Bishop, California, U.S. + + 37.169660646001255 + -118.30864661988545 + + – + + After a night in the middle of Gold Point we hit the road, continuing our somewhat random plan. I came up with something I thought was pretty good: take highway 266 west from Gold Point, grab highway 168, go over the White Mountains, drop down into Big Pine and follow 395 up to my aunt and uncle's house up in Wellington. It seems simple when you type it out. I bet it made the gods chuckle anyway. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ghost Town +
    +

    Ghost Town

    + + +

    + + Gold Point, Nevada, U.S. + + 37.35014190110647 + -117.36613982986752 + + – + + Gold Point Nevada has been through several boom and bust cycles, today it's a very lightly inhabited, largely abandoned ghost town. What better place to spend a night or two? + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Valley of Fire +
    +

    Valley of Fire

    + + +

    + + Valley of Fire, Nevada, U.S. + + 36.4185620941458 + -114.55827468743294 + + – + + The forecast for Zion turned cold about half way through Corrinne's parents visit. Since our guest room is a tent, and since Zion wasn't to our taste anyway, we decamped for Valley of Fire, a strange collection of red rock piles an hour outside of Las Vegas. A few thousand feet lower Valley of Fire was warmer and, as it turned out, a whole lot more fun. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Zion +
    +

    Zion

    + + +

    + + Zion National Park, Utah, U.S. + + 37.1811499946847 + -113.00096267590985 + + – + + After moving pretty fast for a few days we were ready for a break. While it's not exactly secluded, quiet or anything of things we generally like, the logical place to stop in this area is Zion National Park. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + On The Road, Again +
    +

    On The Road, Again

    + + +

    + + Castle Rock, Utah, U.S. + + 38.56767070147155 + -112.33783477684241 + + – + + The Honda minivan dies and we move on with just the big blue bus. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Canyonlands +
    +

    Canyonlands

    + + +

    + + Needles District, Canyonlands National Park, Utah, U.S. + + 38.121769697123575 + -109.81166595396103 + + – + + Our camp in the Aspen trees was not far from one of my favorite national parks, Canyonlands. The portion near us is known as the Needles District is home to, among other things, Newspaper Rock, a huge collection of Petrogylphs. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Aspens +
    +

    Aspens

    + + +

    + + Abajo (Blue) Mountains, Utah, U.S. + + 37.87990829536428 + -109.44916004124589 + + – + + A stand of Aspen is considerably different than most trees in a forest. Aspens are rarely individual trees. Instead they grow like rhizomes, like giant white asparagus. Aspens are not really trees, the trunks we see are not the soul of the plant. The truth of Aspens is under the ground. They are massive root systems, some as large as twenty acres, that send up white trunks, which then sprout leaves. All of this means that some Aspen groves have been around a very long time, one is said to be 80,000 years old. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Breakdown +
    +

    Breakdown

    + + +

    + + Ridgway State Park, Colorado, U.S. + + 38.2176568851275 + -107.73812526670027 + + – + + The universe gives me a lesson in humility. And a fever of 103. And a burnt toe. Because nothing makes the gods laugh like a human making a plan. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ridgway State Park +
    +

    Ridgway State Park

    + + +

    + + Ridgway State Park, Colorado, U.S. + + 38.21678023423405 + -107.73833984340939 + + – + + After our adventures in the canyon country we headed north, through the hordes of Moab and back east toward Grand Junction, where we did a bit of resupplying before heading up the valley to the town of Ridgway. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/india/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/india/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e7b23e7 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/india/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,336 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from India + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from India

    +
    +
    + Goodbye India +
    +

    Goodbye India

    + + +

    + + Delhi, India + + 28.6418241967323 + 77.21092699883451 + + – + + I have taken almost 750 photos and traveled nearly 4000 km (2500 miles) in India, the vast majority of it by train. I have seen everything from depressing squalor to majestic palaces and yet I still feel as if I have hardly scratched the surface. I can't think of another and certainly have never been to a country with the kind of geographic and ethnic diversity of India. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Taj Express +
    +

    The Taj Express

    + + +

    + + Agra, India + + 27.17280401257652 + 78.04176806317186 + + – + + The Taj Mahal is one of the Seven Wonders of the World, and, given the level of hype I was fully prepared to be underwhelmed, but I was wrong. I have never in my life seen anything so extravagant, elegant and colossal. The Taj Mahal seems mythically, spiritually, as well as architecturally, to have risen from nowhere, without equal or context. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + On a Camel With No Name +
    +

    On a Camel With No Name

    + + +

    + + Thar Desert, India + + 27.004078760567136 + 70.89065550770995 + + – + + The Thar Desert is a bewitching if stark place. It reminded me of areas of the Great Basin between Las Vegas and St. George, Utah. Twigging mesquite-like trees, bluish gray bushes resembling creosote, a very large bush that resembled a Palo Verde tree and grew in impenetrable clumps, and, strangely, only one species of cactus and not a whole lot of them. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Majestic Fort +
    +

    The Majestic Fort

    + + +

    + + Jodhpur, India + + 26.29741635354351 + 73.01766871389577 + + – + + The next day I hopped in a rickshaw and headed up to tour Meherangarh, or the Majestic Fort as it's known in English. As its English name indicates, it is indeed perched majestically atop the only hill around, and seems not so much built on a hill as to have naturally risen out the very rocks that form the mesa on which it rests. The outer wall encloses some of the sturdiest and most impressive ramparts I've seen in India or anywhere else. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Around Udaipur +
    +

    Around Udaipur

    + + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + 24.667610368715458 + 73.78486632273662 + + – + + Just out of Udaipur is a government sponsored "artist colony" for various cultures from the five nearby states, Rajasthan, Gujarat, Karnataka, Goa and Madhya Pradesh. On one hand Shilpogram is a wonderful idea on the part of the government, but on the other hand the "artists colony" is slightly creepy. Amidst displays of typical tribal life there were artists and craftsmen and women hawking their wares along with dancers and musicians performing traditional songs. The whole thing had the feel of a living museum, or, for the creepy angle — human zoo. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Monsoon Palace +
    +

    The Monsoon Palace

    + + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + 24.66199437588058 + 73.68804930614868 + + – + + We started out in the early evening quickly leaving behind Udaipur and its increasing urban sprawl. The road to the Monsoon Palace passes through the Sajjan Garh Nature Preserve and there was a sudden and dramatic drop in temperature, but then the road climbed out of the hollow and the temperature jumped back up to comfortable as we began to climb the mountain in a series of hairpin switchbacks. As the sun slowly slunk behind the mountain range to the west the balconies and balustrades of the Monsoon Palace took on an increasingly orange hue. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The City Palace +
    +

    The City Palace

    + + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + 24.591304879190837 + 73.69319914745653 + + – + + I spent some time sitting in the inner gardens of the City Place, listening to rustling trees and the various guides bringing small groups of western and Indian tourists through the garden. In the center of the hanging gardens was the kings, extremely oversized bath, which reminded me of children's book that I once gave to a friend's daughter; it was a massively oversized and lavishly illustrated book that told the story of a king who refused to get out of the bath and instead made his ministers, advisors, cooks and even his wife conduct business by getting in the bath with him. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Living in Airport Terminals +
    +

    Living in Airport Terminals

    + + +

    + + Ahmedabad, India + + 23.009675285624738 + 72.56237982693523 + + – + + Airport terminals are fast becoming my favorite part of traveling. When you stop and observe them closely as I have been forced to do on this trip, terminals are actually quite beautiful, weird places. Terminals inhabit a unique space in the architecture of humanity, perhaps the strangest of all spaces we have created; a space that is itself only a boundary that delineates the border between what was and what will be without leaving any space at all for what is. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Anjuna Market +
    +

    Anjuna Market

    + + +

    + + Anjuna Beach, India + + 15.58128947293701 + 73.73886107371965 + + – + + Earlier today I caught a bus up to the Anjuna Flea Market and can now tell you for certain that old hippies do not die, they simply move to Goa. The flea market was quite a spectacle; riots of color at every turn and more silver jewelry than you could shake a stick at. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Fish Story +
    +

    Fish Story

    + + +

    + + Colva Beach, India + + 15.277230227117771 + 73.91541479989145 + + – + + The Arabian Sea is warm and the sand sucks at your feet when you walk, schools of tiny fish dart and disappear into each receding wave. In the morning the water is nearly glassy and the beach slopes off so slowly one can walk out at least 200 meters and be only waist deep. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Backwaters of Kerala +
    +

    The Backwaters of Kerala

    + + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + 9.958029970964114 + 76.2533569229791 + + – + + The guide showed us Tamarind trees, coconut palms, lemon trees, vanilla vine, plantain trees and countless other shrubs and bushes whose names I have already forgotten. The most fascinating was a plant that produces a fruit something like a miniature mango that contains cyanide and which, as our guide informed us, is cultivated mainly to commit suicide with — as if it was no big deal and everyone is at least occasionally tempted to each the killer mango. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Vasco de Gama Exhumed +
    +

    Vasco de Gama Exhumed

    + + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + 9.964370231041409 + 76.24091147315164 + + – + + Fort Cochin is curious collision of cultures — Chinese, India and even Portuguese. Many of the obviously older buildings are of a distinctly Iberian-style — moss covered, adobe-colored arches abound. There is graveyard just down the road with a tombstone that bears the name Vasco de Gama, who died and was buried here for fourteen years before being moved to Lisbon (there we go again, more Europeans digging up and moving the dead). + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/india/2/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/india/2/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c368735 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/india/2/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,96 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from India -- Page 2 + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from India

    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/india/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/india/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..91479e0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/india/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,342 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from India -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from India

    +
    +
    + Goodbye India +
    +

    Goodbye India

    + + +

    + + Delhi, India + + 28.6418241967323 + 77.21092699883451 + + – + + I have taken almost 750 photos and traveled nearly 4000 km (2500 miles) in India, the vast majority of it by train. I have seen everything from depressing squalor to majestic palaces and yet I still feel as if I have hardly scratched the surface. I can't think of another and certainly have never been to a country with the kind of geographic and ethnic diversity of India. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Taj Express +
    +

    The Taj Express

    + + +

    + + Agra, India + + 27.17280401257652 + 78.04176806317186 + + – + + The Taj Mahal is one of the Seven Wonders of the World, and, given the level of hype I was fully prepared to be underwhelmed, but I was wrong. I have never in my life seen anything so extravagant, elegant and colossal. The Taj Mahal seems mythically, spiritually, as well as architecturally, to have risen from nowhere, without equal or context. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + On a Camel With No Name +
    +

    On a Camel With No Name

    + + +

    + + Thar Desert, India + + 27.004078760567136 + 70.89065550770995 + + – + + The Thar Desert is a bewitching if stark place. It reminded me of areas of the Great Basin between Las Vegas and St. George, Utah. Twigging mesquite-like trees, bluish gray bushes resembling creosote, a very large bush that resembled a Palo Verde tree and grew in impenetrable clumps, and, strangely, only one species of cactus and not a whole lot of them. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Majestic Fort +
    +

    The Majestic Fort

    + + +

    + + Jodhpur, India + + 26.29741635354351 + 73.01766871389577 + + – + + The next day I hopped in a rickshaw and headed up to tour Meherangarh, or the Majestic Fort as it's known in English. As its English name indicates, it is indeed perched majestically atop the only hill around, and seems not so much built on a hill as to have naturally risen out the very rocks that form the mesa on which it rests. The outer wall encloses some of the sturdiest and most impressive ramparts I've seen in India or anywhere else. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Around Udaipur +
    +

    Around Udaipur

    + + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + 24.667610368715458 + 73.78486632273662 + + – + + Just out of Udaipur is a government sponsored "artist colony" for various cultures from the five nearby states, Rajasthan, Gujarat, Karnataka, Goa and Madhya Pradesh. On one hand Shilpogram is a wonderful idea on the part of the government, but on the other hand the "artists colony" is slightly creepy. Amidst displays of typical tribal life there were artists and craftsmen and women hawking their wares along with dancers and musicians performing traditional songs. The whole thing had the feel of a living museum, or, for the creepy angle — human zoo. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Monsoon Palace +
    +

    The Monsoon Palace

    + + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + 24.66199437588058 + 73.68804930614868 + + – + + We started out in the early evening quickly leaving behind Udaipur and its increasing urban sprawl. The road to the Monsoon Palace passes through the Sajjan Garh Nature Preserve and there was a sudden and dramatic drop in temperature, but then the road climbed out of the hollow and the temperature jumped back up to comfortable as we began to climb the mountain in a series of hairpin switchbacks. As the sun slowly slunk behind the mountain range to the west the balconies and balustrades of the Monsoon Palace took on an increasingly orange hue. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The City Palace +
    +

    The City Palace

    + + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + 24.591304879190837 + 73.69319914745653 + + – + + I spent some time sitting in the inner gardens of the City Place, listening to rustling trees and the various guides bringing small groups of western and Indian tourists through the garden. In the center of the hanging gardens was the kings, extremely oversized bath, which reminded me of children's book that I once gave to a friend's daughter; it was a massively oversized and lavishly illustrated book that told the story of a king who refused to get out of the bath and instead made his ministers, advisors, cooks and even his wife conduct business by getting in the bath with him. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Living in Airport Terminals +
    +

    Living in Airport Terminals

    + + +

    + + Ahmedabad, India + + 23.009675285624738 + 72.56237982693523 + + – + + Airport terminals are fast becoming my favorite part of traveling. When you stop and observe them closely as I have been forced to do on this trip, terminals are actually quite beautiful, weird places. Terminals inhabit a unique space in the architecture of humanity, perhaps the strangest of all spaces we have created; a space that is itself only a boundary that delineates the border between what was and what will be without leaving any space at all for what is. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Anjuna Market +
    +

    Anjuna Market

    + + +

    + + Anjuna Beach, India + + 15.58128947293701 + 73.73886107371965 + + – + + Earlier today I caught a bus up to the Anjuna Flea Market and can now tell you for certain that old hippies do not die, they simply move to Goa. The flea market was quite a spectacle; riots of color at every turn and more silver jewelry than you could shake a stick at. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Fish Story +
    +

    Fish Story

    + + +

    + + Colva Beach, India + + 15.277230227117771 + 73.91541479989145 + + – + + The Arabian Sea is warm and the sand sucks at your feet when you walk, schools of tiny fish dart and disappear into each receding wave. In the morning the water is nearly glassy and the beach slopes off so slowly one can walk out at least 200 meters and be only waist deep. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Backwaters of Kerala +
    +

    The Backwaters of Kerala

    + + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + 9.958029970964114 + 76.2533569229791 + + – + + The guide showed us Tamarind trees, coconut palms, lemon trees, vanilla vine, plantain trees and countless other shrubs and bushes whose names I have already forgotten. The most fascinating was a plant that produces a fruit something like a miniature mango that contains cyanide and which, as our guide informed us, is cultivated mainly to commit suicide with — as if it was no big deal and everyone is at least occasionally tempted to each the killer mango. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Vasco de Gama Exhumed +
    +

    Vasco de Gama Exhumed

    + + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + 9.964370231041409 + 76.24091147315164 + + – + + Fort Cochin is curious collision of cultures — Chinese, India and even Portuguese. Many of the obviously older buildings are of a distinctly Iberian-style — moss covered, adobe-colored arches abound. There is graveyard just down the road with a tombstone that bears the name Vasco de Gama, who died and was buried here for fourteen years before being moved to Lisbon (there we go again, more Europeans digging up and moving the dead). + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/indiindex.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/indiindex.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e1428d5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/indiindex.html @@ -0,0 +1,342 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from India -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from India

    +
    +
    + Goodbye India +
    +

    Goodbye India

    + + +

    + + Delhi, India + + 28.6418241967323 + 77.21092699883451 + + – + + I have taken almost 750 photos and traveled nearly 4000 km (2500 miles) in India, the vast majority of it by train. I have seen everything from depressing squalor to majestic palaces and yet I still feel as if I have hardly scratched the surface. I can't think of another and certainly have never been to a country with the kind of geographic and ethnic diversity of India. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Taj Express +
    +

    The Taj Express

    + + +

    + + Agra, India + + 27.17280401257652 + 78.04176806317186 + + – + + The Taj Mahal is one of the Seven Wonders of the World, and, given the level of hype I was fully prepared to be underwhelmed, but I was wrong. I have never in my life seen anything so extravagant, elegant and colossal. The Taj Mahal seems mythically, spiritually, as well as architecturally, to have risen from nowhere, without equal or context. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + On a Camel With No Name +
    +

    On a Camel With No Name

    + + +

    + + Thar Desert, India + + 27.004078760567136 + 70.89065550770995 + + – + + The Thar Desert is a bewitching if stark place. It reminded me of areas of the Great Basin between Las Vegas and St. George, Utah. Twigging mesquite-like trees, bluish gray bushes resembling creosote, a very large bush that resembled a Palo Verde tree and grew in impenetrable clumps, and, strangely, only one species of cactus and not a whole lot of them. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Majestic Fort +
    +

    The Majestic Fort

    + + +

    + + Jodhpur, India + + 26.29741635354351 + 73.01766871389577 + + – + + The next day I hopped in a rickshaw and headed up to tour Meherangarh, or the Majestic Fort as it's known in English. As its English name indicates, it is indeed perched majestically atop the only hill around, and seems not so much built on a hill as to have naturally risen out the very rocks that form the mesa on which it rests. The outer wall encloses some of the sturdiest and most impressive ramparts I've seen in India or anywhere else. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Around Udaipur +
    +

    Around Udaipur

    + + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + 24.667610368715458 + 73.78486632273662 + + – + + Just out of Udaipur is a government sponsored "artist colony" for various cultures from the five nearby states, Rajasthan, Gujarat, Karnataka, Goa and Madhya Pradesh. On one hand Shilpogram is a wonderful idea on the part of the government, but on the other hand the "artists colony" is slightly creepy. Amidst displays of typical tribal life there were artists and craftsmen and women hawking their wares along with dancers and musicians performing traditional songs. The whole thing had the feel of a living museum, or, for the creepy angle — human zoo. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Monsoon Palace +
    +

    The Monsoon Palace

    + + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + 24.66199437588058 + 73.68804930614868 + + – + + We started out in the early evening quickly leaving behind Udaipur and its increasing urban sprawl. The road to the Monsoon Palace passes through the Sajjan Garh Nature Preserve and there was a sudden and dramatic drop in temperature, but then the road climbed out of the hollow and the temperature jumped back up to comfortable as we began to climb the mountain in a series of hairpin switchbacks. As the sun slowly slunk behind the mountain range to the west the balconies and balustrades of the Monsoon Palace took on an increasingly orange hue. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The City Palace +
    +

    The City Palace

    + + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + 24.591304879190837 + 73.69319914745653 + + – + + I spent some time sitting in the inner gardens of the City Place, listening to rustling trees and the various guides bringing small groups of western and Indian tourists through the garden. In the center of the hanging gardens was the kings, extremely oversized bath, which reminded me of children's book that I once gave to a friend's daughter; it was a massively oversized and lavishly illustrated book that told the story of a king who refused to get out of the bath and instead made his ministers, advisors, cooks and even his wife conduct business by getting in the bath with him. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Living in Airport Terminals +
    +

    Living in Airport Terminals

    + + +

    + + Ahmedabad, India + + 23.009675285624738 + 72.56237982693523 + + – + + Airport terminals are fast becoming my favorite part of traveling. When you stop and observe them closely as I have been forced to do on this trip, terminals are actually quite beautiful, weird places. Terminals inhabit a unique space in the architecture of humanity, perhaps the strangest of all spaces we have created; a space that is itself only a boundary that delineates the border between what was and what will be without leaving any space at all for what is. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Anjuna Market +
    +

    Anjuna Market

    + + +

    + + Anjuna Beach, India + + 15.58128947293701 + 73.73886107371965 + + – + + Earlier today I caught a bus up to the Anjuna Flea Market and can now tell you for certain that old hippies do not die, they simply move to Goa. The flea market was quite a spectacle; riots of color at every turn and more silver jewelry than you could shake a stick at. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Fish Story +
    +

    Fish Story

    + + +

    + + Colva Beach, India + + 15.277230227117771 + 73.91541479989145 + + – + + The Arabian Sea is warm and the sand sucks at your feet when you walk, schools of tiny fish dart and disappear into each receding wave. In the morning the water is nearly glassy and the beach slopes off so slowly one can walk out at least 200 meters and be only waist deep. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Backwaters of Kerala +
    +

    The Backwaters of Kerala

    + + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + 9.958029970964114 + 76.2533569229791 + + – + + The guide showed us Tamarind trees, coconut palms, lemon trees, vanilla vine, plantain trees and countless other shrubs and bushes whose names I have already forgotten. The most fascinating was a plant that produces a fruit something like a miniature mango that contains cyanide and which, as our guide informed us, is cultivated mainly to commit suicide with — as if it was no big deal and everyone is at least occasionally tempted to each the killer mango. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Vasco de Gama Exhumed +
    +

    Vasco de Gama Exhumed

    + + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + 9.964370231041409 + 76.24091147315164 + + – + + Fort Cochin is curious collision of cultures — Chinese, India and even Portuguese. Many of the obviously older buildings are of a distinctly Iberian-style — moss covered, adobe-colored arches abound. There is graveyard just down the road with a tombstone that bears the name Vasco de Gama, who died and was buried here for fourteen years before being moved to Lisbon (there we go again, more Europeans digging up and moving the dead). + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/indonesia/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/indonesia/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6d64af5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/indonesia/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,176 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Indonesia + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Indonesia

    +
    +
    + The Worst Place on Earth +
    +

    The Worst Place on Earth

    + + +

    + + Gili Trawangan, Indonesia + + -8.348272379374615 + 116.0405144294601 + + – + + They aren't really the worst place on Earth (everyone knows that's Yuma, AZ), but the Gili Islands would top my list of places you should never go to. In the end they're not even a real place, just a collection of paradise fantasies culled from decades of hippie travelers, scuba divers, honeymooners, and the rich, lost children of the West. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Best Snorkeling in the World +
    +

    The Best Snorkeling in the World

    + + +

    + + Nusa Lembongan, Bali, Indonesia + + -8.667603048330887 + 115.448325594412 + + – + + Drift snorkeling is like watching fish float by the window of an underwater train. And Indonesia has more marine life than anywhere I've ever been. Fish I have previously seen perhaps two or three at a time are swimming in massive schools. The blue depths are filled with dozens of Moorish Idols, schools of deep purple tangs, so dark they look black until you get up close, parrotfish in clusters, munching on the coral, bright, powder blue tangs, yellow-masked angelfish, countless butterfly fish, wrasses, triggerfish, pufferfish and even bright blue starfish that crawl slowly over the reef. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Balinese Temple Ceremony +
    +

    The Balinese Temple Ceremony

    + + +

    + + Ubud, Bali, Indonesia + + -8.480557093648551 + 115.26582809308304 + + – + + While Balinese temples look partly like Hindu temples in India, there are other elements that come from older religions. Bali is what happens when Hindu beliefs collide with animism. The Balinese seem to embrace the basic tenants of traditional Hinduism, but then add plenty of their own animist flourishes to the mix -- like frequent and elaborate temple ceremonies. We were lucky enough to be invited to a temple ceremony in Tegallantang, Bali. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Motor City is Burning +
    +

    Motor City is Burning

    + + +

    + + Ubud, Bali, Indonesia + + -8.512942106321157 + 115.26119323594054 + + – + + Awesome as it was to be back on the Asian version of a motorbike, it wasn't quite the relaxing riding I did in Laos and elsewhere. You can never recapture the magic, and I wasn't trying.... Okay, maybe I was, but it didn't work. regrettably Honda seems to have phased out the Dream in the last five years, replacing it with something called the Nitro, which just doesn't have the same ring to it. But the bike is irrelevant, was always irrelevant. I missed my friends. It just wasn't the same by myself. Debi, Matt, where are you? There are roads to be ridden, locals with ten people on a bike to be humbled by. Six fingered men to be seen, by some. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/indonesia/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/indonesia/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..770c51e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/indonesia/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,182 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Indonesia -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Indonesia

    +
    +
    + The Worst Place on Earth +
    +

    The Worst Place on Earth

    + + +

    + + Gili Trawangan, Indonesia + + -8.348272379374615 + 116.0405144294601 + + – + + They aren't really the worst place on Earth (everyone knows that's Yuma, AZ), but the Gili Islands would top my list of places you should never go to. In the end they're not even a real place, just a collection of paradise fantasies culled from decades of hippie travelers, scuba divers, honeymooners, and the rich, lost children of the West. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Best Snorkeling in the World +
    +

    The Best Snorkeling in the World

    + + +

    + + Nusa Lembongan, Bali, Indonesia + + -8.667603048330887 + 115.448325594412 + + – + + Drift snorkeling is like watching fish float by the window of an underwater train. And Indonesia has more marine life than anywhere I've ever been. Fish I have previously seen perhaps two or three at a time are swimming in massive schools. The blue depths are filled with dozens of Moorish Idols, schools of deep purple tangs, so dark they look black until you get up close, parrotfish in clusters, munching on the coral, bright, powder blue tangs, yellow-masked angelfish, countless butterfly fish, wrasses, triggerfish, pufferfish and even bright blue starfish that crawl slowly over the reef. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Balinese Temple Ceremony +
    +

    The Balinese Temple Ceremony

    + + +

    + + Ubud, Bali, Indonesia + + -8.480557093648551 + 115.26582809308304 + + – + + While Balinese temples look partly like Hindu temples in India, there are other elements that come from older religions. Bali is what happens when Hindu beliefs collide with animism. The Balinese seem to embrace the basic tenants of traditional Hinduism, but then add plenty of their own animist flourishes to the mix -- like frequent and elaborate temple ceremonies. We were lucky enough to be invited to a temple ceremony in Tegallantang, Bali. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Motor City is Burning +
    +

    Motor City is Burning

    + + +

    + + Ubud, Bali, Indonesia + + -8.512942106321157 + 115.26119323594054 + + – + + Awesome as it was to be back on the Asian version of a motorbike, it wasn't quite the relaxing riding I did in Laos and elsewhere. You can never recapture the magic, and I wasn't trying.... Okay, maybe I was, but it didn't work. regrettably Honda seems to have phased out the Dream in the last five years, replacing it with something called the Nitro, which just doesn't have the same ring to it. But the bike is irrelevant, was always irrelevant. I missed my friends. It just wasn't the same by myself. Debi, Matt, where are you? There are roads to be ridden, locals with ten people on a bike to be humbled by. Six fingered men to be seen, by some. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/indonesiindex.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/indonesiindex.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..174e037 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/indonesiindex.html @@ -0,0 +1,182 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Indonesia -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Indonesia

    +
    +
    + The Worst Place on Earth +
    +

    The Worst Place on Earth

    + + +

    + + Gili Trawangan, Indonesia + + -8.348272379374627 + 116.0405144294601 + + – + + They aren't really the worst place on Earth (everyone knows that's Yuma, AZ), but the Gili Islands would top my list of places you should never go to. In the end they're not even a real place, just a collection of paradise fantasies culled from decades of hippie travelers, scuba divers, honeymooners, and the rich, lost children of the West. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Best Snorkeling in the World +
    +

    The Best Snorkeling in the World

    + + +

    + + Nusa Lembongan, Bali, Indonesia + + -8.667603048330887 + 115.448325594412 + + – + + Drift snorkeling is like watching fish float by the window of an underwater train. And Indonesia has more marine life than anywhere I've ever been. Fish I have previously seen perhaps two or three at a time are swimming in massive schools. The blue depths are filled with dozens of Moorish Idols, schools of deep purple tangs, so dark they look black until you get up close, parrotfish in clusters, munching on the coral, bright, powder blue tangs, yellow-masked angelfish, countless butterfly fish, wrasses, triggerfish, pufferfish and even bright blue starfish that crawl slowly over the reef. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Balinese Temple Ceremony +
    +

    The Balinese Temple Ceremony

    + + +

    + + Ubud, Bali, Indonesia + + -8.480557093648551 + 115.26582809308304 + + – + + While Balinese temples look partly like Hindu temples in India, there are other elements that come from older religions. Bali is what happens when Hindu beliefs collide with animism. The Balinese seem to embrace the basic tenants of traditional Hinduism, but then add plenty of their own animist flourishes to the mix -- like frequent and elaborate temple ceremonies. We were lucky enough to be invited to a temple ceremony in Tegallantang, Bali. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Motor City is Burning +
    +

    Motor City is Burning

    + + +

    + + Ubud, Bali, Indonesia + + -8.512942106321157 + 115.26119323594054 + + – + + Awesome as it was to be back on the Asian version of a motorbike, it wasn't quite the relaxing riding I did in Laos and elsewhere. You can never recapture the magic, and I wasn't trying.... Okay, maybe I was, but it didn't work. regrettably Honda seems to have phased out the Dream in the last five years, replacing it with something called the Nitro, which just doesn't have the same ring to it. But the bike is irrelevant, was always irrelevant. I missed my friends. It just wasn't the same by myself. Debi, Matt, where are you? There are roads to be ridden, locals with ten people on a bike to be humbled by. Six fingered men to be seen, by some. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/italindex.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/italindex.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..42a3b64 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/italindex.html @@ -0,0 +1,182 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Italy -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Italy

    +
    +
    + Cooking in Rome +
    +

    Cooking in Rome

    + + +

    + + Rome, Italy + + 41.865455693141165 + 12.461011283881284 + + – + + In the end Italy and I didn't really get along, but the food redeemed it for me. The restaurants are good, but if you really want to experience the glory of Italian food you need to head to the market, grab some utterly amazing raw ingredients and whip up something yourself. This is what food is supposed to be, simple, fresh and great. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Natural Science +
    +

    Natural Science

    + + +

    + + Firenze (Florence), Italy + + 43.76987122050593 + 11.254618042254865 + + – + + There's no way around it; Florence is crowded. It may well be that Naples is the only Italian city that isn't overrun with tourists in the summer, but after three days of hardly seeing another traveler, I wasn't prepared for the crowds. Luckily it isn't hard to avoid the tourist hordes, just get up early and then when everyone else is starting to stir, head for obscure museums like La Specola, part of the Museo di Storia Naturale di Firenze. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Forever Today +
    +

    Forever Today

    + + +

    + + Pompeii, Italy + + 40.75211491821789 + 14.480285518306573 + + – + + Pompeii feels both very old and not that different from the modern cities that surround it now. The gap between then and now feels small because when you wander around places like Pompeii you realize that human beings have changed very little over vast expanses of time. Pompeii had the same elements of cities today, a central square, markets, temples, government offices, even fast food. Not much has changed over the years, though togas aren’t much in vogue these days. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The New Pollution +
    +

    The New Pollution

    + + +

    + + Napoli (Naples), Italy + + 40.84484016249223 + 14.255757801685794 + + – + + Naples Italy is a big, crowded, graffiti-filled city. It's an intimidating place that is by turns a bit like Philadelphia, a bit Mumbai, a bit some post-apocalyptic video game and, in the end, something else entirely. Still, given the tourist epidemic that sweeps Italy every summer, Naples is a place worth appreciating for what it is not, even if what is isn't, perhaps, enough to ever bring you back. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/italy/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/italy/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e705397 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/italy/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,176 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Italy + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Italy

    +
    +
    + Cooking in Rome +
    +

    Cooking in Rome

    + + +

    + + Rome, Italy + + 41.865455693141165 + 12.461011283881284 + + – + + In the end Italy and I didn't really get along, but the food redeemed it for me. The restaurants are good, but if you really want to experience the glory of Italian food you need to head to the market, grab some utterly amazing raw ingredients and whip up something yourself. This is what food is supposed to be, simple, fresh and great. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Natural Science +
    +

    Natural Science

    + + +

    + + Firenze (Florence), Italy + + 43.76987122050593 + 11.254618042254865 + + – + + There's no way around it; Florence is crowded. It may well be that Naples is the only Italian city that isn't overrun with tourists in the summer, but after three days of hardly seeing another traveler, I wasn't prepared for the crowds. Luckily it isn't hard to avoid the tourist hordes, just get up early and then when everyone else is starting to stir, head for obscure museums like La Specola, part of the Museo di Storia Naturale di Firenze. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Forever Today +
    +

    Forever Today

    + + +

    + + Pompeii, Italy + + 40.75211491821789 + 14.480285518306573 + + – + + Pompeii feels both very old and not that different from the modern cities that surround it now. The gap between then and now feels small because when you wander around places like Pompeii you realize that human beings have changed very little over vast expanses of time. Pompeii had the same elements of cities today, a central square, markets, temples, government offices, even fast food. Not much has changed over the years, though togas aren’t much in vogue these days. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The New Pollution +
    +

    The New Pollution

    + + +

    + + Napoli (Naples), Italy + + 40.84484016249223 + 14.255757801685794 + + – + + Naples Italy is a big, crowded, graffiti-filled city. It's an intimidating place that is by turns a bit like Philadelphia, a bit Mumbai, a bit some post-apocalyptic video game and, in the end, something else entirely. Still, given the tourist epidemic that sweeps Italy every summer, Naples is a place worth appreciating for what it is not, even if what is isn't, perhaps, enough to ever bring you back. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/italy/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/italy/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..15b85b8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/italy/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,182 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Italy -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Italy

    +
    +
    + Cooking in Rome +
    +

    Cooking in Rome

    + + +

    + + Rome, Italy + + 41.865455693141165 + 12.461011283881284 + + – + + In the end Italy and I didn't really get along, but the food redeemed it for me. The restaurants are good, but if you really want to experience the glory of Italian food you need to head to the market, grab some utterly amazing raw ingredients and whip up something yourself. This is what food is supposed to be, simple, fresh and great. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Natural Science +
    +

    Natural Science

    + + +

    + + Firenze (Florence), Italy + + 43.76987122050593 + 11.254618042254865 + + – + + There's no way around it; Florence is crowded. It may well be that Naples is the only Italian city that isn't overrun with tourists in the summer, but after three days of hardly seeing another traveler, I wasn't prepared for the crowds. Luckily it isn't hard to avoid the tourist hordes, just get up early and then when everyone else is starting to stir, head for obscure museums like La Specola, part of the Museo di Storia Naturale di Firenze. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Forever Today +
    +

    Forever Today

    + + +

    + + Pompeii, Italy + + 40.75211491821789 + 14.480285518306573 + + – + + Pompeii feels both very old and not that different from the modern cities that surround it now. The gap between then and now feels small because when you wander around places like Pompeii you realize that human beings have changed very little over vast expanses of time. Pompeii had the same elements of cities today, a central square, markets, temples, government offices, even fast food. Not much has changed over the years, though togas aren’t much in vogue these days. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The New Pollution +
    +

    The New Pollution

    + + +

    + + Napoli (Naples), Italy + + 40.84484016249223 + 14.255757801685794 + + – + + Naples Italy is a big, crowded, graffiti-filled city. It's an intimidating place that is by turns a bit like Philadelphia, a bit Mumbai, a bit some post-apocalyptic video game and, in the end, something else entirely. Still, given the tourist epidemic that sweeps Italy every summer, Naples is a place worth appreciating for what it is not, even if what is isn't, perhaps, enough to ever bring you back. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/laoindex.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/laoindex.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..543a738 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/laoindex.html @@ -0,0 +1,282 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Lao (Pdr) -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Lao (Pdr)

    +
    +
    + Little Corner of the World +
    +

    Little Corner of the World

    + + +

    + + Four Thousand Islands, Lao (PDR) + + 14.130915842740961 + 105.83782194571636 + + – + + It's difficult to explain but the further south you go in Laos the more relaxed life becomes. Since life in the north is not exactly high stress, by the time we arrived in the four thousand Islands we had to check our pulse periodically to ensure that time was in fact still moving forward. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Can&#8217;t Get There From Here +
    +

    Can’t Get There From Here

    + + +

    + + Attapeu, Lao (PDR) + + 14.806085524831946 + 106.83689115944449 + + – + + The most magical light in Laos lives on the Bolevan Plateau. For some reason not many tourists seem to make it out to the Bolevan Plateau, in spite of the fact that the roads are quite good, transport runs regularly, the villages peaceful, even sleepy, little hamlets. In short, the Bolevan Plateau is wonderful, and not the least in part because no one else is there. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Safe as Milk +
    +

    Safe as Milk

    + + +

    + + Sekong, Lao (PDR) + + 14.623949505069236 + 106.5756225437582 + + – + + You would think, if you were the United States and you were illegally and unofficially bombing a foreign country you might not want to stamp "US Bomb" on the side of your bombs, and yet there it was all over Laos: "US Bomb." Clearly somebody didn't think things all the way through, especially given that roughly one third of said bombs failed to explode. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Everyday the Fourteenth +
    +

    Everyday the Fourteenth

    + + +

    + + Savannakhet, Lao (PDR) + + 16.560435757136183 + 104.75026129218114 + + – + + We piled four large bags, four daypacks and five people in a six meter dugout canoe. The boat was powered by the ever-present-in-southeast-Asia long tail motor which is essential a lawnmower engine with a three meter pole extending out of it to which a small propeller is attached — perfect for navigating shallow water. And by shallow I mean sometimes a mere inch between the hull and the riverbed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Water Slides and Spirit Guides +
    +

    Water Slides and Spirit Guides

    + + +

    + + Konglor Cave, Lao (PDR) + + 18.06285035750356 + 104.49783323740189 + + – + + The dramatic black karst limestone mountains ringing Ban Na Hin grew darker as the light faded. I was sitting alone on the back porch of our guesthouse watching the light slowly disappear from the bottoms of the clouds and wondering absently how many pages it would take to explain how I came to be in the tiny town of Ban Na Hin, or if such an explanation even really existed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Lovely Universe +
    +

    The Lovely Universe

    + + +

    + + Vang Vieng, Lao (PDR) + + 18.92544862065571 + 102.43755339150223 + + – + + I would like to say that I have something memorable to write about Vang Vieng, but the truth is we mostly sat around doing very little, making new friends, drinking a beer around the fire and waiting out the Chinese new year celebrations, which meant none of us could get Cambodian visas until the following Monday. We were forced to relax beside the river for several more days than we intended. Yes friends, traveling is hard, but I do it for you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan +
    +

    I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan

    + + +

    + + Luang Nam Tha, Lao (PDR) + + 20.853678554651314 + 101.19094847224211 + + – + + The next time someone asks you, “would you like to live in a tree house and travel five hundred feet above the ground attached to a zip wire?” I highly suggest you say, “yes, where do a I sign up?” If you happen to be in Laos, try the Gibbon Experience. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Hymn of the Big Wheel +
    +

    Hymn of the Big Wheel

    + + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + 19.827433510057354 + 102.42279051308633 + + – + + Jose Saramago writes in The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis that the gods "journey like us in the river of things, differing from us only because we call them gods and sometimes believe in them." Sitting in the middle of the river listening to the gurgle of water moving over stone and around trees I began to think that perhaps this is the sound of some lost language, a sound capable of creating mountains, valleys, estuaries, isthmuses and all the other forms around us, gurgling and sonorous but without clear meaning, shrouded in turquoise, a mystery through which we can move our sense of wonder intact. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Down the River +
    +

    Down the River

    + + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + 19.875064447947235 + 102.13199614056808 + + – + + Morning in Chiang Khong Thailand revealed itself as a foggy, and not a little mysterious, affair with the far shore of the Mekong, the Laos shore, almost completely hidden in a veil of mist. The first ferry crossed at eight and I was on it, looking to meet up with the slow boat to Luang Prabang. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/laos/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/laos/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..76717a1 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/laos/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,276 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Lao (Pdr) + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Lao (Pdr)

    +
    +
    + Little Corner of the World +
    +

    Little Corner of the World

    + + +

    + + Four Thousand Islands, Lao (PDR) + + 14.130915842740961 + 105.83782194571636 + + – + + It's difficult to explain but the further south you go in Laos the more relaxed life becomes. Since life in the north is not exactly high stress, by the time we arrived in the four thousand Islands we had to check our pulse periodically to ensure that time was in fact still moving forward. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Can&#8217;t Get There From Here +
    +

    Can’t Get There From Here

    + + +

    + + Attapeu, Lao (PDR) + + 14.806085524831946 + 106.83689115944449 + + – + + The most magical light in Laos lives on the Bolevan Plateau. For some reason not many tourists seem to make it out to the Bolevan Plateau, in spite of the fact that the roads are quite good, transport runs regularly, the villages peaceful, even sleepy, little hamlets. In short, the Bolevan Plateau is wonderful, and not the least in part because no one else is there. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Safe as Milk +
    +

    Safe as Milk

    + + +

    + + Sekong, Lao (PDR) + + 14.623949505069236 + 106.5756225437582 + + – + + You would think, if you were the United States and you were illegally and unofficially bombing a foreign country you might not want to stamp "US Bomb" on the side of your bombs, and yet there it was all over Laos: "US Bomb." Clearly somebody didn't think things all the way through, especially given that roughly one third of said bombs failed to explode. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Everyday the Fourteenth +
    +

    Everyday the Fourteenth

    + + +

    + + Savannakhet, Lao (PDR) + + 16.560435757136183 + 104.75026129218114 + + – + + We piled four large bags, four daypacks and five people in a six meter dugout canoe. The boat was powered by the ever-present-in-southeast-Asia long tail motor which is essential a lawnmower engine with a three meter pole extending out of it to which a small propeller is attached — perfect for navigating shallow water. And by shallow I mean sometimes a mere inch between the hull and the riverbed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Water Slides and Spirit Guides +
    +

    Water Slides and Spirit Guides

    + + +

    + + Konglor Cave, Lao (PDR) + + 18.06285035750356 + 104.49783323740189 + + – + + The dramatic black karst limestone mountains ringing Ban Na Hin grew darker as the light faded. I was sitting alone on the back porch of our guesthouse watching the light slowly disappear from the bottoms of the clouds and wondering absently how many pages it would take to explain how I came to be in the tiny town of Ban Na Hin, or if such an explanation even really existed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Lovely Universe +
    +

    The Lovely Universe

    + + +

    + + Vang Vieng, Lao (PDR) + + 18.92544862065571 + 102.43755339150223 + + – + + I would like to say that I have something memorable to write about Vang Vieng, but the truth is we mostly sat around doing very little, making new friends, drinking a beer around the fire and waiting out the Chinese new year celebrations, which meant none of us could get Cambodian visas until the following Monday. We were forced to relax beside the river for several more days than we intended. Yes friends, traveling is hard, but I do it for you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan +
    +

    I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan

    + + +

    + + Luang Nam Tha, Lao (PDR) + + 20.853678554651314 + 101.19094847224211 + + – + + The next time someone asks you, “would you like to live in a tree house and travel five hundred feet above the ground attached to a zip wire?” I highly suggest you say, “yes, where do a I sign up?” If you happen to be in Laos, try the Gibbon Experience. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Hymn of the Big Wheel +
    +

    Hymn of the Big Wheel

    + + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + 19.827433510057354 + 102.42279051308633 + + – + + Jose Saramago writes in The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis that the gods "journey like us in the river of things, differing from us only because we call them gods and sometimes believe in them." Sitting in the middle of the river listening to the gurgle of water moving over stone and around trees I began to think that perhaps this is the sound of some lost language, a sound capable of creating mountains, valleys, estuaries, isthmuses and all the other forms around us, gurgling and sonorous but without clear meaning, shrouded in turquoise, a mystery through which we can move our sense of wonder intact. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Down the River +
    +

    Down the River

    + + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + 19.875064447947235 + 102.13199614056808 + + – + + Morning in Chiang Khong Thailand revealed itself as a foggy, and not a little mysterious, affair with the far shore of the Mekong, the Laos shore, almost completely hidden in a veil of mist. The first ferry crossed at eight and I was on it, looking to meet up with the slow boat to Luang Prabang. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/laos/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/laos/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..154ceff --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/laos/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,282 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Lao (Pdr) -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Lao (Pdr)

    +
    +
    + Little Corner of the World +
    +

    Little Corner of the World

    + + +

    + + Four Thousand Islands, Lao (PDR) + + 14.130915842740961 + 105.83782194571636 + + – + + It's difficult to explain but the further south you go in Laos the more relaxed life becomes. Since life in the north is not exactly high stress, by the time we arrived in the four thousand Islands we had to check our pulse periodically to ensure that time was in fact still moving forward. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Can&#8217;t Get There From Here +
    +

    Can’t Get There From Here

    + + +

    + + Attapeu, Lao (PDR) + + 14.806085524831946 + 106.83689115944449 + + – + + The most magical light in Laos lives on the Bolevan Plateau. For some reason not many tourists seem to make it out to the Bolevan Plateau, in spite of the fact that the roads are quite good, transport runs regularly, the villages peaceful, even sleepy, little hamlets. In short, the Bolevan Plateau is wonderful, and not the least in part because no one else is there. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Safe as Milk +
    +

    Safe as Milk

    + + +

    + + Sekong, Lao (PDR) + + 14.623949505069236 + 106.5756225437582 + + – + + You would think, if you were the United States and you were illegally and unofficially bombing a foreign country you might not want to stamp "US Bomb" on the side of your bombs, and yet there it was all over Laos: "US Bomb." Clearly somebody didn't think things all the way through, especially given that roughly one third of said bombs failed to explode. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Everyday the Fourteenth +
    +

    Everyday the Fourteenth

    + + +

    + + Savannakhet, Lao (PDR) + + 16.560435757136183 + 104.75026129218114 + + – + + We piled four large bags, four daypacks and five people in a six meter dugout canoe. The boat was powered by the ever-present-in-southeast-Asia long tail motor which is essential a lawnmower engine with a three meter pole extending out of it to which a small propeller is attached — perfect for navigating shallow water. And by shallow I mean sometimes a mere inch between the hull and the riverbed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Water Slides and Spirit Guides +
    +

    Water Slides and Spirit Guides

    + + +

    + + Konglor Cave, Lao (PDR) + + 18.06285035750356 + 104.49783323740189 + + – + + The dramatic black karst limestone mountains ringing Ban Na Hin grew darker as the light faded. I was sitting alone on the back porch of our guesthouse watching the light slowly disappear from the bottoms of the clouds and wondering absently how many pages it would take to explain how I came to be in the tiny town of Ban Na Hin, or if such an explanation even really existed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Lovely Universe +
    +

    The Lovely Universe

    + + +

    + + Vang Vieng, Lao (PDR) + + 18.92544862065571 + 102.43755339150223 + + – + + I would like to say that I have something memorable to write about Vang Vieng, but the truth is we mostly sat around doing very little, making new friends, drinking a beer around the fire and waiting out the Chinese new year celebrations, which meant none of us could get Cambodian visas until the following Monday. We were forced to relax beside the river for several more days than we intended. Yes friends, traveling is hard, but I do it for you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan +
    +

    I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan

    + + +

    + + Luang Nam Tha, Lao (PDR) + + 20.853678554651314 + 101.19094847224211 + + – + + The next time someone asks you, “would you like to live in a tree house and travel five hundred feet above the ground attached to a zip wire?” I highly suggest you say, “yes, where do a I sign up?” If you happen to be in Laos, try the Gibbon Experience. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Hymn of the Big Wheel +
    +

    Hymn of the Big Wheel

    + + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + 19.827433510057354 + 102.42279051308633 + + – + + Jose Saramago writes in The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis that the gods "journey like us in the river of things, differing from us only because we call them gods and sometimes believe in them." Sitting in the middle of the river listening to the gurgle of water moving over stone and around trees I began to think that perhaps this is the sound of some lost language, a sound capable of creating mountains, valleys, estuaries, isthmuses and all the other forms around us, gurgling and sonorous but without clear meaning, shrouded in turquoise, a mystery through which we can move our sense of wonder intact. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Down the River +
    +

    Down the River

    + + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + 19.875064447947235 + 102.13199614056808 + + – + + Morning in Chiang Khong Thailand revealed itself as a foggy, and not a little mysterious, affair with the far shore of the Mekong, the Laos shore, almost completely hidden in a veil of mist. The first ferry crossed at eight and I was on it, looking to meet up with the slow boat to Luang Prabang. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/latest/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/latest/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0b2c67b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/latest/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,113 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/nepaindex.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/nepaindex.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..360890a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/nepaindex.html @@ -0,0 +1,162 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Nepal -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Nepal

    +
    +
    + Sunset Over the Himalayas +
    +

    Sunset Over the Himalayas

    + + +

    + + Pokhara, Nepal + + 28.210482777870325 + 83.95820616507119 + + – + + After about forty-five minutes of paddling I reached a point where the views of the Annapurna range were, in the words of an Englishman I met in Katmandu, "gob smacking gorgeous." I put down the paddle and moved to the center of the boat where the benches were wider and, using my bag a cushion, lay back against the gunwale and hung my feet over the opposite side so that they just skimmed the surface of the chilly water. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Pashupatinath +
    +

    Pashupatinath

    + + +

    + + Pashupatinath, Nepal + + 27.71057315568692 + 85.34853457216452 + + – + + Nestled on a hillside beside the Bagmati River, Pashupatinath is one of the holiest sites in the world for Hindus, second only to Varanasi in India. Pashupatinath consists of a large temple which is open only to Hindus, surrounded by a number of smaller shrines and then down on the banks of the Bagmati are the burning ghats where bodies are cremated. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Durbar Square Kathmandu +
    +

    Durbar Square Kathmandu

    + + +

    + + Kathmandu, Nepal + + 27.703363690641837 + 85.31737803225191 + + – + + After saturating myself with the streets of Thamel I went on a longer excursion down to Durbar Square to see the various pagodas, temples and the old palace. The palace itself no longer houses the King, but is still used for coronations and ceremonies and Durbar Square is still very much the hub of Katmandu. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/nepal/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/nepal/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..265d9c3 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/nepal/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,156 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Nepal + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Nepal

    +
    +
    + Sunset Over the Himalayas +
    +

    Sunset Over the Himalayas

    + + +

    + + Pokhara, Nepal + + 28.210482777870325 + 83.95820616507119 + + – + + After about forty-five minutes of paddling I reached a point where the views of the Annapurna range were, in the words of an Englishman I met in Katmandu, "gob smacking gorgeous." I put down the paddle and moved to the center of the boat where the benches were wider and, using my bag a cushion, lay back against the gunwale and hung my feet over the opposite side so that they just skimmed the surface of the chilly water. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Pashupatinath +
    +

    Pashupatinath

    + + +

    + + Pashupatinath, Nepal + + 27.71057315568692 + 85.34853457216452 + + – + + Nestled on a hillside beside the Bagmati River, Pashupatinath is one of the holiest sites in the world for Hindus, second only to Varanasi in India. Pashupatinath consists of a large temple which is open only to Hindus, surrounded by a number of smaller shrines and then down on the banks of the Bagmati are the burning ghats where bodies are cremated. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Durbar Square Kathmandu +
    +

    Durbar Square Kathmandu

    + + +

    + + Kathmandu, Nepal + + 27.703363690641837 + 85.31737803225191 + + – + + After saturating myself with the streets of Thamel I went on a longer excursion down to Durbar Square to see the various pagodas, temples and the old palace. The palace itself no longer houses the King, but is still used for coronations and ceremonies and Durbar Square is still very much the hub of Katmandu. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/nepal/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/nepal/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c8e4c0d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/nepal/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,162 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Nepal -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Nepal

    +
    +
    + Sunset Over the Himalayas +
    +

    Sunset Over the Himalayas

    + + +

    + + Pokhara, Nepal + + 28.210482777870325 + 83.95820616507119 + + – + + After about forty-five minutes of paddling I reached a point where the views of the Annapurna range were, in the words of an Englishman I met in Katmandu, "gob smacking gorgeous." I put down the paddle and moved to the center of the boat where the benches were wider and, using my bag a cushion, lay back against the gunwale and hung my feet over the opposite side so that they just skimmed the surface of the chilly water. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Pashupatinath +
    +

    Pashupatinath

    + + +

    + + Pashupatinath, Nepal + + 27.71057315568692 + 85.34853457216452 + + – + + Nestled on a hillside beside the Bagmati River, Pashupatinath is one of the holiest sites in the world for Hindus, second only to Varanasi in India. Pashupatinath consists of a large temple which is open only to Hindus, surrounded by a number of smaller shrines and then down on the banks of the Bagmati are the burning ghats where bodies are cremated. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Durbar Square Kathmandu +
    +

    Durbar Square Kathmandu

    + + +

    + + Kathmandu, Nepal + + 27.703363690641837 + 85.31737803225191 + + – + + After saturating myself with the streets of Thamel I went on a longer excursion down to Durbar Square to see the various pagodas, temples and the old palace. The palace itself no longer houses the King, but is still used for coronations and ceremonies and Durbar Square is still very much the hub of Katmandu. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/nicaragua/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/nicaragua/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c50fb93 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/nicaragua/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,236 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Nicaragua + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Nicaragua

    +
    +
    + Our Days Are Becoming Nights +
    +

    Our Days Are Becoming Nights

    + + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + 12.436482242903942 + -86.88458203059939 + + – + + A short thought on the eve of our departure from Nicaragua: Everywhere I go I think, I should live here... I should be able to not just visit places, but in habit them. Of course that isn't possible, which is too bad. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Tiny Cities Made of Ash +
    +

    Tiny Cities Made of Ash

    + + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + 12.435654551658532 + -86.88220022899453 + + – + + The church bells of León have become a constant cacophony, not the rhythmic ringing out of the hours or tolling from Mass that the human mind seems to find pleasant, but the atonal banging that only appeals to the young and dumb. But Francisco is entirely unperturbed; He's too fascinated with the tattoo on Corrinne's shoulder to bother with what slowly just becomes yet another sound echoing through León. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You Can't Go Home Again +
    +

    You Can’t Go Home Again

    + + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + 12.289688381766881 + -82.97098158635038 + + – + + The first time we came to Little Corn Island it was April, the tail end of the dry season. It rained once or twice, but never for more than five minutes and always followed by more sunshine. This time it's the end of June, just well into the wet season, and the island is an entirely different place. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Returning Again &mdash; Back on Little Corn Island +
    +

    Returning Again — Back on Little Corn Island

    + + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + 12.290694745245395 + -82.97132490910438 + + – + + Generally speaking, the world seems so huge and so full of amazing destinations that repeating one never struck me as a judicious use of my short allotment of time. But for Little Corn Island I'm willing to make an exception and of course, the universe being what it is, our second trip to Little Corn Island has been unpredictable and entirely new. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Little Island in the Sun +
    +

    Little Island in the Sun

    + + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + 12.297403736673346 + -82.97458647526604 + + – + + We arrived on Little Corn Island around sundown and met Ali, whom I at first took to be a tout, but he showed us the way to our guesthouse and, after settling in and getting a feel for the island, I realized that Ali, wasn't a tout, he was just a really nice guy who enjoyed doing favors for tourists, just beware the Yoni beverage he offers. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Return to the Sea +
    +

    Return to the Sea

    + + +

    + + San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua + + 11.254384499067603 + -85.8734750628141 + + – + + Southwestern Nicaragua is a very small strip of land with Lago Nicaragua to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west. The main town in the area, Juan Del Sur, is nestled around a well protected harbor with a mediocre strip of sand. For the nice beaches you have to head up or down the coast to one of the many small inlets. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ring The Bells +
    +

    Ring The Bells

    + + +

    + + Granada, Nicaragua + + 11.932062265861589 + -85.95813630814854 + + – + + The Church, which dates from the 1600s has the the narrowest, steepest, circular concrete staircase that I've ever encountered. It had a low railing and circled up four stories worth of precipitous dropoffs before you hit solid ground. From the top was a views of Granada's endless sea of mottled pink, orange and brown hues -- terra cotta roof tiles stretching from the shores of Lago Nicaragua all the way back toward the hills. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/nicaragua/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/nicaragua/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..eaf5dd0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/nicaragua/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,242 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Nicaragua -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Nicaragua

    +
    +
    + Our Days Are Becoming Nights +
    +

    Our Days Are Becoming Nights

    + + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + 12.436482242903942 + -86.88458203059939 + + – + + A short thought on the eve of our departure from Nicaragua: Everywhere I go I think, I should live here... I should be able to not just visit places, but in habit them. Of course that isn't possible, which is too bad. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Tiny Cities Made of Ash +
    +

    Tiny Cities Made of Ash

    + + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + 12.435654551658532 + -86.88220022899453 + + – + + The church bells of León have become a constant cacophony, not the rhythmic ringing out of the hours or tolling from Mass that the human mind seems to find pleasant, but the atonal banging that only appeals to the young and dumb. But Francisco is entirely unperturbed; He's too fascinated with the tattoo on Corrinne's shoulder to bother with what slowly just becomes yet another sound echoing through León. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You Can't Go Home Again +
    +

    You Can’t Go Home Again

    + + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + 12.289688381766881 + -82.97098158635038 + + – + + The first time we came to Little Corn Island it was April, the tail end of the dry season. It rained once or twice, but never for more than five minutes and always followed by more sunshine. This time it's the end of June, just well into the wet season, and the island is an entirely different place. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Returning Again &mdash; Back on Little Corn Island +
    +

    Returning Again — Back on Little Corn Island

    + + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + 12.290694745245395 + -82.97132490910438 + + – + + Generally speaking, the world seems so huge and so full of amazing destinations that repeating one never struck me as a judicious use of my short allotment of time. But for Little Corn Island I'm willing to make an exception and of course, the universe being what it is, our second trip to Little Corn Island has been unpredictable and entirely new. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Little Island in the Sun +
    +

    Little Island in the Sun

    + + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + 12.297403736673346 + -82.97458647526604 + + – + + We arrived on Little Corn Island around sundown and met Ali, whom I at first took to be a tout, but he showed us the way to our guesthouse and, after settling in and getting a feel for the island, I realized that Ali, wasn't a tout, he was just a really nice guy who enjoyed doing favors for tourists, just beware the Yoni beverage he offers. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Return to the Sea +
    +

    Return to the Sea

    + + +

    + + San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua + + 11.254384499067603 + -85.8734750628141 + + – + + Southwestern Nicaragua is a very small strip of land with Lago Nicaragua to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west. The main town in the area, Juan Del Sur, is nestled around a well protected harbor with a mediocre strip of sand. For the nice beaches you have to head up or down the coast to one of the many small inlets. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ring The Bells +
    +

    Ring The Bells

    + + +

    + + Granada, Nicaragua + + 11.932062265861589 + -85.95813630814854 + + – + + The Church, which dates from the 1600s has the the narrowest, steepest, circular concrete staircase that I've ever encountered. It had a low railing and circled up four stories worth of precipitous dropoffs before you hit solid ground. From the top was a views of Granada's endless sea of mottled pink, orange and brown hues -- terra cotta roof tiles stretching from the shores of Lago Nicaragua all the way back toward the hills. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/nicaraguindex.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/nicaraguindex.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ab93749 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/nicaraguindex.html @@ -0,0 +1,242 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Nicaragua -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Nicaragua

    +
    +
    + Our Days Are Becoming Nights +
    +

    Our Days Are Becoming Nights

    + + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + 12.436482242903942 + -86.88458203059939 + + – + + A short thought on the eve of our departure from Nicaragua: Everywhere I go I think, I should live here... I should be able to not just visit places, but in habit them. Of course that isn't possible, which is too bad. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Tiny Cities Made of Ash +
    +

    Tiny Cities Made of Ash

    + + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + 12.435654551658532 + -86.88220022899453 + + – + + The church bells of León have become a constant cacophony, not the rhythmic ringing out of the hours or tolling from Mass that the human mind seems to find pleasant, but the atonal banging that only appeals to the young and dumb. But Francisco is entirely unperturbed; He's too fascinated with the tattoo on Corrinne's shoulder to bother with what slowly just becomes yet another sound echoing through León. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You Can't Go Home Again +
    +

    You Can’t Go Home Again

    + + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + 12.289688381766881 + -82.97098158635038 + + – + + The first time we came to Little Corn Island it was April, the tail end of the dry season. It rained once or twice, but never for more than five minutes and always followed by more sunshine. This time it's the end of June, just well into the wet season, and the island is an entirely different place. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Returning Again &mdash; Back on Little Corn Island +
    +

    Returning Again — Back on Little Corn Island

    + + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + 12.290694745245395 + -82.97132490910438 + + – + + Generally speaking, the world seems so huge and so full of amazing destinations that repeating one never struck me as a judicious use of my short allotment of time. But for Little Corn Island I'm willing to make an exception and of course, the universe being what it is, our second trip to Little Corn Island has been unpredictable and entirely new. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Little Island in the Sun +
    +

    Little Island in the Sun

    + + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + 12.297403736673346 + -82.97458647526604 + + – + + We arrived on Little Corn Island around sundown and met Ali, whom I at first took to be a tout, but he showed us the way to our guesthouse and, after settling in and getting a feel for the island, I realized that Ali, wasn't a tout, he was just a really nice guy who enjoyed doing favors for tourists, just beware the Yoni beverage he offers. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Return to the Sea +
    +

    Return to the Sea

    + + +

    + + San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua + + 11.254384499067603 + -85.8734750628141 + + – + + Southwestern Nicaragua is a very small strip of land with Lago Nicaragua to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west. The main town in the area, Juan Del Sur, is nestled around a well protected harbor with a mediocre strip of sand. For the nice beaches you have to head up or down the coast to one of the many small inlets. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ring The Bells +
    +

    Ring The Bells

    + + +

    + + Granada, Nicaragua + + 11.932062265861589 + -85.95813630814854 + + – + + The Church, which dates from the 1600s has the the narrowest, steepest, circular concrete staircase that I've ever encountered. It had a low railing and circled up four stories worth of precipitous dropoffs before you hit solid ground. From the top was a views of Granada's endless sea of mottled pink, orange and brown hues -- terra cotta roof tiles stretching from the shores of Lago Nicaragua all the way back toward the hills. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-america/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-america/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7395b98 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-america/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,585 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from North America + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from North America

    +
    +
    + Progress +
    +

    Progress

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.957904369989365 + -83.4083437377863 + + – + + I'm not crazy anti-tech, I just think the good, sustainable technologies are rare. I'm not a delusional lunatic who thinks I'm living in the Victorian era or anything. I just don't really like air conditioning. Or heaters. Or generators. And I prefer a good fire to electric light. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Elvis Has Left the Building +
    +

    Elvis Has Left the Building

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.963774457452075 + -83.40132707900412 + + – + + It's not that I have anything against the king, it's that I don't have anything at all, no feelings one way or the other on Elvis, so he came out and won't be going back in. The walls, ceiling and floor of the Travco are also coming out. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Big Blue Bus +
    +

    The Big Blue Bus

    + + +

    + + Asheville Area, North Carolina, U.S. + + 35.82050050961864 + -82.54565948803042 + + – + + Change of plans, sold the trailer, bought a 1969 Dodge Travco, the coolest vehicle ever made. The first few corners were nerve-wracking, the kind of white knuckled terror-inducing driving I haven't done since the very first time I sat down behind a wheel. Or the time I claimed I could ride a motorcycle when I actually had no clue. It all works out in the end. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ode to the Outdoor Shower +
    +

    Ode to the Outdoor Shower

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.660804289800733 + -84.86735815332483 + + – + + The outdoor shower may be one of life's greatest joys. Certainly it makes for memorable showers. I have fond memories of sunshowers hung from the mast of a sailboat, the slick mossy wood of an outdoor shower in Laos, the cold marble of bucket showers in India, the sandy tile of the beach showers where I grew up. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + A Big Long Week +
    +

    A Big Long Week

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.660095736315927 + -84.86705774591675 + + – + + Whenever Lilah and Olivia want to convey long lengths of time they use the phrase "in a big long week". As in, "we have not had any cookies in a big long week." A big long week could be anywhere from two days to over a year. In this case we had two big long weeks on the island. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Tate's Hell +
    +

    Tate’s Hell

    + + +

    + + Tate’s Hell, Florida, U.S. + + 29.854238614588233 + -84.8141645841502 + + – + + Tate supposedly wandered out of his eponymous hell swamp and managed to say "my name is Cebe Tate, and I just came from Hell!" before promptly dropping dead. If you're like me you're not going to take this legend very seriously. You're going to think, pshaw, swamps are fun, how bad can this one be? As it happens, if you're not prepared, it can be pretty bad. Especially in Yellow Fly season. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + We're Here +
    +

    We’re Here

    + + +

    + + Thomasville, Georgia, U.S. + + 30.841040782644317 + -83.98170346556772 + + – + + Right now the girls call everywhere "here". This greatly simplifies the whole "are we there yet" dilemma of driving with children. That's not the question. On the drive down here to St. George Island they would ask "are we here yet?" To which Corrinne and I would answer, "yes, we are here." They're young enough that they let us get away with that. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Coming Home +
    +

    Coming Home

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95742966190523 + -83.40147728270863 + + – + + I am happy to report that, despite a sketchy tow hookup that doesn't lock to the ball, some last-minute wiring snafus, a considerable amount of dry rot on one tire and of course the fact that it still isn't registered, I did nevertheless succeed in getting our 1969 Yellowstone back to our house. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Poison You’ve Been Dreaming Of +
    +

    The Poison You’ve Been Dreaming Of

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95273082672748 + -83.40319389647894 + + – + + Everyday we go to the store and blithely buy things without ever thinking about how they got here or what the cost of these items might be. We trade our time (all we have) for money to buy things that are killing us and the people we love. And we consider this totally sane. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Down The River +
    +

    Down The River

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95799920005253 + -83.4382557327161 + + – + + Rivers make the familiar foreign in an instant. For the entirety of this trip I almost no idea where I was in Athens. I floated through an area that I have lived in and explored off and on for almost 20 years now and yet all it takes to make it utterly unknown is looking at it from a waterway rather than the land. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Pig Roast +
    +

    Pig Roast

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95240599235981 + -83.39672977275296 + + – + + I was headed downtown about a week ago when I noticed a sign that said, "free pig roast". There are two types of people in this world, those who go to free pig roasts and vegans fools. Sign me up. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Schoolhouse +
    +

    Schoolhouse

    + + +

    + + Oconee County, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.76306639858435 + -83.43694681471746 + + – + + Something called touch-a-truck that rolls through town, or just south of town at a place call Heritage Park, every year. It turns out to be pretty much what it sounds like: a place where kids can touch trucks — semi-trucks, fire engines, ambulances and more. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ice Storm +
    +

    Ice Storm

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.94511246686547 + -83.37615722961178 + + – + + I love storms, preferably summer storms with plenty of warm humid wind, lightning and the attendant thunder, but winter storms are nice too. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Walking in the Woods +
    +

    Walking in the Woods

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.984367309819 + -83.38138753719177 + + – + + It’s always struck me as strange that we have a separate word for walking in nature, hiking, as opposed to just walking. Is walking just too mundane? + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Purcell Wooden Toys +
    +

    Purcell Wooden Toys

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.950381311835336 + -83.37821716613469 + + – + + The evolution of toys in my opinion starts with what is still the greatest of all toys -- the stick. After that, I suggest my friend Chris's handcrafted wooden toys. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sunrise +
    +

    Sunrise

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.94724852440723 + -83.37856048888914 + + – + + Watching the sun rise, coffee on the stove, light in the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Hoppin' John +
    +

    Hoppin’ John

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.93927363608245 + -83.38577026672033 + + – + + New Year's cynics are boring. What they miss is that, sure, the only meaning in New Years is what you bring to the table, but that’s true of every day you exist on this planet. So bring something to the table damn it. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Our New 1969 Yellowstone Trailer +
    +

    Our New 1969 Yellowstone Trailer

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.955507442515085 + -83.39298004455148 + + – + + There are no real blank parts of the map anymore, to misquote Conrad, but there sure are a lot of empty spaces left. We intend to see some of them in our new (to us anyway) 1969 Yellowstone travel trailer. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Night Before +
    +

    The Night Before

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.947319725402615 + -83.40491051024922 + + – + + Every voyage has a night before. We tend to remember the excitement of the next morning, when our senses are on edge, hyper-aware and it's easy to be anchored in the now. But me, I like that night before. I like when you're still imagining what it might be like. Still trying to picture it all in your head, fit yourself into your own imagination. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bourbon Bacon Bark +
    +

    Bourbon Bacon Bark

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.94981172269912 + -83.37375397033351 + + – + + Searching for what the Danes call Hygge in the sugar deliciousness that is Bourbon Bacon Bark. Because you rarely go wrong with alliteration. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Creamed Corn +
    +

    Creamed Corn

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95322920033558 + -83.40053314513801 + + – + + Creamed corn doesn't lend itself to showy food photography, but then neither do most Thanksgiving dishes. Strange holiday that one. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Colors +
    +

    Colors

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.96668418436029 + -83.4123777801458 + + – + + Autumn in the South is never as spectacular as is in New England. The colors here are neither as intense nor as long lasting. But still, it is our autumn, our season, our reminder. And this is by far the most colorful year of leaves that we’ve seen in 15 years. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Muffins +
    +

    Muffins

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.96380115264605 + -83.40128416365957 + + – + + When you're two years old everything in the world is new every day. Even things you saw yesterday look different, feel different, *are*, inexplicably, different today. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Memorial Park +
    +

    Memorial Park

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.926604399603534 + -83.3854269439668 + + – + + Loons, Maine, Memorial Park. *What that sound is?* + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-america/2/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-america/2/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b364eae --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-america/2/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,593 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from North America -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from North America

    +
    +
    + Canyoneering +
    +

    Canyoneering

    + + +

    + + Nowhere, Utah, U.S. + + -55.95445649483696 + 108.54297879103399 + + – + + Unmarked, hard to find roads, cliff dwellings new and old, petroglyphs, and a kiva you can climb down into. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dolores River +
    +

    Dolores River

    + + +

    + + Dolores River, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.660899397864696 + -108.73788112592959 + + – + + How a happy series of of breakdowns and detours got us to the Dolores River. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Canyon of the Ancients +
    +

    Canyon of the Ancients

    + + +

    + + Canyon of the Ancients, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.35177941505963 + -108.66222137403007 + + – + + I like maps, especially blank spots on maps and in the United States there are very few places with as many blank spots as the four corners region of Utah, Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona. One of the relative blank spots I kept staring at was something called Canyon of the Ancients. After our disappoint experience with Mesa Verde we were anxious to get back to some ruins that were less crowded and this sounded good. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Mancos Days +
    +

    Mancos Days

    + + +

    + + Mancos Camp, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.34127141315386 + -108.18800682029091 + + – + + One day I drove down to the coffee shop in Mancos and instead of the quiet little town I'd been expecting, streets were shut down and there were cars and people everywhere. It turned out to be something called Mancos Days. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Time and Placement +
    +

    Time and Placement

    + + +

    + + Durango, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.33925834885527 + -107.91300529443193 + + – + + Every evening around 5 the thunder starts in. You could set your watch by it. Except that there's no need for a watch up here. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Mancos and Mesa Verde +
    +

    Mancos and Mesa Verde

    + + +

    + + Mancos Camp, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.3408278612485 + -108.18796390491319 + + – + + Stay anywhere to long and things start to settle in too much. The bus was made to move, its fluids pool, metal rusts, wood decays, the windows smear with dirt and rain, the tires lose air. And the chipmunks will come for the avocados. I'm from California, messing with my avocados is messing with my emotions, I don't care if you're cute and striped. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Happy 5th Birthday +
    +

    Happy 5th Birthday

    + + +

    + + Durango, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.339292469040316 + -107.91403526270777 + + – + + For their birthday we took the girls (and their brother) on the narrow gauge steam engine railway from Durango to Silverton. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Junction Creek +
    +

    Junction Creek

    + + +

    + + Durango, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.3450926749058 + -107.91497940028198 + + – + + While tourist-filled and mountain-kitschy to some degree, Durango nevertheless has some cool stuff to do -- a wonderful public library where the kids got to see the U.S. National Yoyo champion (yes, really), a really cool indoor water park masquerading as a rec center, complete with a three story water slide, a science museum, and a host of other fun stuff -- as one of the camp hosts we befriended put it, in Durango they really know how to do it. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Arc of Time +
    +

    Arc of Time

    + + +

    + + Chaco Canyon, New Mexico, U.S. + + 36.04736212964947 + -107.9295706172955 + + – + + I have only one note from Chaco Canyon: the wind gusts, a light whistling sound through the thin curled leaves of creosote; in the interludes the stillness is filled with raven calls reverberating across the canyon, a conversation bouncing around sandstone, echoing in arroyos until, like everything else here, they fade into the darkness of the past. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Solstice +
    +

    Solstice

    + + +

    + + Sangre de Christo Mountains, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.323790180379966 + -105.14230484011725 + + – + + We celebrated the Solstice by heading back up into the Sangre de Christo Mountains, to Bear Lake. We had to see it, even if we couldn't get the bus to it. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The High Country +
    +

    The High Country

    + + +

    + + Trinidad, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.13126787159957 + -104.55608123788944 + + – + + Inside my head there are tons of voices, but one dominates the rest most of the time, it's the voice that always says, sure, let's try it, what's the worst that could happen? Most of the time the answer to that question is very tame. Once you get past your prejudices and irrational fears, you'll find the worst is not that bad and it's pretty unlikely to happen in the first place. That said... + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Escaping Texas +
    +

    Escaping Texas

    + + +

    + + Trinidad, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.13424101584671 + -104.55605978022751 + + – + + That night was our first in the wide open big sky of the west. The sunset reflected on the clouds for hours. I let the fire burn down and watched the sky instead. Later on thunderheads rolled in over the peaks of the Sangre de Christo range. Arcing flashes of lightening bounced around the clouds like streaking silver pinballs. Just as the last light faded away coyotes began to bark and sing. Finally, the west. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dallas +
    +

    Dallas

    + + +

    + + Fort Parker State Park, Texas, U.S. + + 31.599022773408446 + -96.54395813109835 + + – + + From Austin we drifted north, toward Dallas, stopping in at Fort Parker State Park. Even now that it's summer, during the week we still have the campgrounds to ourselves. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sprawl (Austin, part deux) +
    +

    Sprawl (Austin, part deux)

    + + +

    + + Austin, Texas, U.S. + + 30.192040627071453 + -97.72052520857657 + + – + + We eventually managed to book a campsite at McKinney Falls State Park, which is just a few miles from downtown Austin. It's a short drive from the campground into Austin, but it's not exactly a pretty one, it winds through the massive sprawling suburbs that encircle Austin. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Austin, part one +
    +

    Austin, part one

    + + +

    + + Bastrop, Texas, U.S. + + 30.047031601879716 + -97.15953582878349 + + – + + I should probably post something about Austin, but all I've been able to think about lately is Alex Honnold free soloing El Capitan. While the sheer physicality of climbing for three hours and fifty-six minutes with no break is impressive, to me it's nothing next to the mental strength and absolute confidence it takes to even consider doing something like that, let alone doing it. If that doesn't blow your fucking mind then I have to say, I think you're probably not wired up quite right. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Keeps on A-Rainin' +
    +

    Keeps on A-Rainin’

    + + +

    + + Huntsville State Park, Texas, U.S. + + 30.637514423959555 + -95.52600616591704 + + – + + A while back someone asked what we do when it rains. At the time I didn't know because, despite having some big storms come through in various places, it still hadn't really rained during the day. In Huntsville it rained most of the day so now I know. When it rains, we put on raincoats and play in the rain. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Little Black Train +
    +

    Little Black Train

    + + +

    + + DeQuincy, Louisiana, U.S. + + 30.45214034312658 + -93.43474680590685 + + – + + We travel the back roads, the county roads, the bumpy, twisting, slow roads. Occasionally it's a nerve wracking pain the butt and you get lost sometimes, but then we're not in a hurry and we have nowhere to go so we're never really lost. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Palmetto Island State Park +
    +

    Palmetto Island State Park

    + + +

    + + Near Abbeville, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.858303099084598 + -92.14195961180936 + + – + + From New Orleans we headed west through the bayou country, crossing from the Mississippi basin to the Atchafalaya river delta area where the Atchafalaya River meets the Gulf of Mexico. It's a land of rice paddies, blue crab traps, great flocks of snowy egrets and duckweed-filled cypress swamps. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + New Orleans Instrumental Number 2 +
    +

    New Orleans Instrumental Number 2

    + + +

    + + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.962702189957493 + -90.064084474772 + + – + + We couldn't leave New Orleans without doing something that's become a pilgrimage of sorts for me -- visiting Marie Laveau's grave. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + New Orleans Instrumental Number 1 +
    +

    New Orleans Instrumental Number 1

    + + +

    + + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.957951590136158 + -90.06316179487764 + + – + + New Orleans is the last living city in the United States. Every time I return here I am amazed that it is allowed to continue existing, that something so contrary to the rest of America has not been destroyed, locked up and disneyfied. But it hasn’t. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Davis Bayou +
    +

    Davis Bayou

    + + +

    + + Davis Bayou, Mississippi, U.S. + + 30.391216890192254 + -88.7901424812386 + + – + + There is something very relaxing about marshes, or bayous as they call them down here. There's a rhythm to life. The tide goes out, the tide goes in. The periwinkles go up the cordgrass, they go back down. You almost get the feeling that life is predictable. And then you watch a heron wading in the mud, like herons always do, when suddenly it trips and falls face first in the water and you remember that nothing is totally predictable, just rhythmic, one foot in front of the other. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dauphin Island +
    +

    Dauphin Island

    + + +

    + + Dauphin Island, Alabama, U.S. + + 30.250936985476603 + -88.081551139365 + + – + + From Fort Pickens we headed inland, through Pensacola and up around Mobile Bay before heading back down to the coast and out to Dauphin Island. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Gulf Islands National Seashore +
    +

    Gulf Islands National Seashore

    + + +

    + + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.320886143534025 + -87.27098221076228 + + – + + Gulf Island National Seashore might be the prettiest beach I've been to in the U.S. It's downright stunning. If you plunked me here I might guess I was in Thailand, except for the dunes, the dunes are unmistakably Gulf coast barrier island dunes. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Coming Home +
    +

    Coming Home

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.66013302873015 + -84.86978287027401 + + – + + I haven't accurately tallied it, but my guess is that we've spent nearly two months on St. George Island over the years. Enough time anyway, to make it feel a little like coming home when we get here. + +

    +
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    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-america/3/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-america/3/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..733ede2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-america/3/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,593 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from North America -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from North America

    +
    +
    + Swamped +
    +

    Swamped

    + + +

    + + Okefenokee Swamp, Georgia, U.S. + + 30.730813688628597 + -82.53927583057352 + + – + + From Edisto we took a few back roads through the low country, headed south and west. We were headed for the middle of nowhere, but it was further than we wanted to go in a day. So we spent a night at the mouth of the Altamaha River before heading on to the middle of nowhere. Or the edge of the Okefenokee swamp. Same thing really. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Storming +
    +

    Storming

    + + +

    + + Edisto Island, South Carolina, U.S. + + 32.509299424657236 + -80.30565018047915 + + – + + We woke up on our third day to cloudy skies and predictions of a massive storm. Seemed like a good day to head up to Charleston, do some laundry, run errands and check out the city. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Edge of the Continent +
    +

    The Edge of the Continent

    + + +

    + + Edisto Island, South Carolina, U.S. + + 32.508647989854175 + -80.3035902439571 + + – + + We avoid interstates and even divided highways for the most part, sticking to the county roads, the thin gray lines on the map known only by local names, no number at all. We follow the river, more or less, down out of the red Georgia mud into the Carolina coastal plain. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + April Fools +
    +

    April Fools

    + + +

    + + Raysville, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.63195904692882 + -82.47742409070177 + + – + + Our original plan called for us to hit the road on the first day of spring. In reality we finally got going, fittingly enough, on April 1st. Not that we went far, but hey, the road is the road. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Watson Mill Bridge +
    +

    Watson Mill Bridge

    + + +

    + + Watson Mill State Park, Georgia, U.S. + + 34.03350040134611 + -83.07300323795661 + + – + + In which we get fancy RV stuff, like propane and running water. The new carburetor I ordered is nowhere to be found, but hey, new wheels and new tires. Plus, did I mention we can cook indoors now? Luxury living. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Mooring of Starting Out +
    +

    The Mooring of Starting Out

    + + +

    + + Watson Mill State Park, Georgia, U.S. + + 34.034211686271625 + -83.0760931427401 + + – + + starting out is like being in that weird moment where Wily E Coyote has merrily run past the edge of the cliff and managed to keep going out of sheer blissful ignorance -- until he looks down. Starting out is that moment when you look down and realize the edge of the cliff is well behind you now -- you're on your way down. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Wilds of Winder +
    +

    The Wilds of Winder

    + + +

    + + Fort Yargo State Park, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.96861504910654 + -83.7242972308598 + + – + + A couple weeks back we thought we had a buyer for the house but it fell through last minute. It was enough, however, to get everyone excited at the prospect of actually hitting the road. And then that hope was yanked away. To make up for that we decided it was time to do something of an exploratory trip, to test out life in the bus with a two night trip to Fort Yargo State Park + +

    +
    +
    +
    + 1969 Dodge Travco Before +
    +

    1969 Dodge Travco Before

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.958221674854826 + -83.40821499175449 + + – + + To close out the year I thought I'd post some images from all the work that I've done on the bus over the last 12 months. It's not finished yet, but here's some pictures of what she used to look like, along with some of the damage I uncovered and repaired. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Happy Birthday, Sun +
    +

    Happy Birthday, Sun

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.958711117373646 + -83.40825790709812 + + – + + I've always found it a little curious that so many people, myself included, who don’t otherwise practice the Christian faith, choose to celebrate Christmas. Winter solstice makes far more sense as a holiday to latch onto if you want an excuse to celebrate this time of year. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Waiting for the Sun +
    +

    Waiting for the Sun

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95917830987785 + -83.40837592429536 + + – + + November came and went. The ginko down the street buried the still green grass in a blanket of brilliant yellow. The maples at the park had a banner year of blood red leaves. Even the oaks seemed brighter than usual. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Nothing is Finished, Nothing is Perfect +
    +

    Nothing is Finished, Nothing is Perfect

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95815048298076 + -83.40810770339355 + + – + + A dozen years ago this week I was at an Iraqi restaurant in Paris. It was a tiny place near the cross roads of two very forgettable avenues, an unassuming door, a small menu board of the kind you see dozens of on nearly every block. I have no recollection of what drew us in, maybe just hunger. The only other people in it were the owner and his wife. To this day I would call it the best meal of my life. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Halloween +
    +

    Halloween

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95636176760647 + -83.40707773513215 + + – + + Every Halloween I complain about how hot it is. I'm not sure where I got the idea that it was cold in Georgia come Halloween, but reviewing some pictures from the last half decade or so very clearly shows me wrong. It's often quite hot on Halloween and probably always will be from here on out. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Useless Stuff +
    +

    Useless Stuff

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95799920005176 + -83.40821499175449 + + – + + Normally when you move you just shove all that stuff you don't really acknowledge that you've been dragging around for years without using into a box and truck it on to the next place you'll live where you can happily shove it in the back of a new closet. When you're moving into a 1969 Dodge Travco with four other people and less than 100 square feet of usable space that's not an option. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Equinox +
    +

    Equinox

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.9850879025932 + -83.38062578983113 + + – + + I have a thing for solar cycles. I was born a few hours before the winter solstice. My wife and I were married on the summer solstice. My son was born a few hours before the winter solstice. None of that was planned. It's all synchronicity. Coincidence some would say, though I don't believe that synchronicities like that are coincidence. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Cloudland Canyon +
    +

    Cloudland Canyon

    + + +

    + + Cloudland Canyon, Georgia, U.S. + + 34.8338921973676 + -85.4818844250578 + + – + + I have a terrible habit of never going to obvious places that are right around me. For example I lived within 100 miles or so of Death Valley for 26 years and never once went. Then I moved thousands of miles across the country and finally arranged a trip to Death Valley. Except that it appears I'm getting better about these things. Maybe. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Autumn Bus Update +
    +

    Autumn Bus Update

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95793690700317 + -83.40810770339355 + + – + + The bare walls are gone, the ceiling is in, but still there is still much to do -- even if we do plan to leave before it's completely finished. We need a floor and couch at the bare minimum, though I'd like to have the propane and sewage system working as well. Oh and then there's a cab area, which I really haven't touched. Miles to go before I sleep. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Change of Ideas (The Worst) +
    +

    Change of Ideas (The Worst)

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.90329999583211 + -83.33059998840027 + + – + + I want the bus to be The Best. But. as an article I'm fond of says, "the best means waiting, planning, researching, and saving until one can acquire the perfect equipment for a given task." On the other side of the coin there is The Worst. if you have to have everything perfect you're never going to go. The Worst just goes. Now. The Worst figures things out from experience rather than hopes and fears. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + What Are You Going to Do? +
    +

    What Are You Going to Do?

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95701140490208 + -83.40944880790045 + + – + + We've started telling people about our plans to live full time in the blue bus. After the eyebrows come down and the puzzled frowns flatten out, the questions come. Most of them revolve around some form of, but, but but... *what will you do without a house? What will you do when that thing breaks down? What will you do when...* Rather than answer everyone individually I thought I'd answer all those questions here, as best I can: ***I don't know***. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Engine +
    +

    Engine

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.958194977909265 + -83.4081398899018 + + – + + The Travco is not starting. I can see the problem in my head, but I cannot make it work. It has to be the fuel pump. I have spark. I have compression. The missing ingredient in the basic trifecta of the internal combustion engines is fuel. But seeing it and understanding it are different than actually making it work. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Back From Somewhere +
    +

    Back From Somewhere

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.96708459770432 + -83.38646227664735 + + – + + Neither the intense afternoon sun beating down on the concrete slab of parking lot, nor the humidity left over from morning rains convinced my kids to abandon the Jittery Joe's skate contest. We were there all afternoon, over four hours of skating, pulled pork and the occasional train rolling by. They never stopped loving it. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Root Down +
    +

    Root Down

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95784791685379 + -83.40821499175358 + + – + + The longer you've been in one location the more stuff that's accumulated. As far as I can tell there is no real way to combat the detritus of the world seeping into your space, save cutting off all contact with the outside world. I imagine monasteries are generally immaculate; the rest of us get out the pick axes and clear the rubble. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Another Spring +
    +

    Another Spring

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.88121959056056 + -83.31667656250653 + + – + + This becomes a day like any other that is somehow different. Then another and another. Little things. The air feels brighter. The river is lower. Less practical footwear appears on the feet around you. The mornings are crisp and the pollen hasn't started yet. The trees still bare though the smaller shrubs turn purple and white. Everything feels fragile but possible again. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Up in the Air +
    +

    Up in the Air

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95794580601253 + -83.40819353408179 + + – + + I tore the rear air conditioning unit off the back of the bus today. Afterward I stood back and looked at the Travco. All the clean lines and curves joined together again, no more air conditioning warts to interrupt the sliding smooth and unbroken swoop of white and blue. The big blue bus looked sleek and whole again. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bring on the Change +
    +

    Bring on the Change

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.958016998057886 + -83.4080862457218 + + – + + I've been thinking about this little mantra ever since I saw it six or seven years ago. I don't think I've ever seen what I consider the secret to happiness so succinctly and completely captured. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-america/4/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-america/4/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5b2ccfb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-america/4/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,593 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from North America -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from North America

    +
    +
    + Tools +
    +

    Tools

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95817717994103 + -83.40842956847534 + + – + + We are not things, Alan Watts was fond of saying, we are happenings. But we are happenings with things. Specifically with tools, many of which help us happen in one way or another. What to make of these tools then? + +

    +
    +
    +
    + 8-Track Gorilla +
    +

    8-Track Gorilla

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.9579814020434 + -83.40812916106634 + + – + + I just sold an antiquated music player that takes a format no one has manufactured in over three decades for $86. It was an old Oldsmobile 8-track cassette player I pulled out of the bus. I have no idea how it came to be in a 1969 Dodge Travco. What I do have an idea about is why I just sold it, as-is, could-be-working, could not be working, for $86 more than you would think it was worth. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Progress +
    +

    Progress

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.957904369989365 + -83.4083437377863 + + – + + I'm not crazy anti-tech, I just think the good, sustainable technologies are rare. I'm not a delusional lunatic who thinks I'm living in the Victorian era or anything. I just don't really like air conditioning. Or heaters. Or generators. And I prefer a good fire to electric light. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Elvis Has Left the Building +
    +

    Elvis Has Left the Building

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.963774457452075 + -83.40132707900412 + + – + + It's not that I have anything against the king, it's that I don't have anything at all, no feelings one way or the other on Elvis, so he came out and won't be going back in. The walls, ceiling and floor of the Travco are also coming out. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Big Blue Bus +
    +

    The Big Blue Bus

    + + +

    + + Asheville Area, North Carolina, U.S. + + 35.82050050961864 + -82.54565948803042 + + – + + Change of plans, sold the trailer, bought a 1969 Dodge Travco, the coolest vehicle ever made. The first few corners were nerve-wracking, the kind of white knuckled terror-inducing driving I haven't done since the very first time I sat down behind a wheel. Or the time I claimed I could ride a motorcycle when I actually had no clue. It all works out in the end. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ode to the Outdoor Shower +
    +

    Ode to the Outdoor Shower

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.660804289800733 + -84.86735815332483 + + – + + The outdoor shower may be one of life's greatest joys. Certainly it makes for memorable showers. I have fond memories of sunshowers hung from the mast of a sailboat, the slick mossy wood of an outdoor shower in Laos, the cold marble of bucket showers in India, the sandy tile of the beach showers where I grew up. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + A Big Long Week +
    +

    A Big Long Week

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.660095736315927 + -84.86705774591675 + + – + + Whenever Lilah and Olivia want to convey long lengths of time they use the phrase "in a big long week". As in, "we have not had any cookies in a big long week." A big long week could be anywhere from two days to over a year. In this case we had two big long weeks on the island. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Tate's Hell +
    +

    Tate’s Hell

    + + +

    + + Tate’s Hell, Florida, U.S. + + 29.854238614588233 + -84.8141645841502 + + – + + Tate supposedly wandered out of his eponymous hell swamp and managed to say "my name is Cebe Tate, and I just came from Hell!" before promptly dropping dead. If you're like me you're not going to take this legend very seriously. You're going to think, pshaw, swamps are fun, how bad can this one be? As it happens, if you're not prepared, it can be pretty bad. Especially in Yellow Fly season. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + We're Here +
    +

    We’re Here

    + + +

    + + Thomasville, Georgia, U.S. + + 30.841040782644317 + -83.98170346556772 + + – + + Right now the girls call everywhere "here". This greatly simplifies the whole "are we there yet" dilemma of driving with children. That's not the question. On the drive down here to St. George Island they would ask "are we here yet?" To which Corrinne and I would answer, "yes, we are here." They're young enough that they let us get away with that. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Coming Home +
    +

    Coming Home

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95742966190523 + -83.40147728270863 + + – + + I am happy to report that, despite a sketchy tow hookup that doesn't lock to the ball, some last-minute wiring snafus, a considerable amount of dry rot on one tire and of course the fact that it still isn't registered, I did nevertheless succeed in getting our 1969 Yellowstone back to our house. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Poison You’ve Been Dreaming Of +
    +

    The Poison You’ve Been Dreaming Of

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95273082672748 + -83.40319389647894 + + – + + Everyday we go to the store and blithely buy things without ever thinking about how they got here or what the cost of these items might be. We trade our time (all we have) for money to buy things that are killing us and the people we love. And we consider this totally sane. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Down The River +
    +

    Down The River

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95799920005253 + -83.4382557327161 + + – + + Rivers make the familiar foreign in an instant. For the entirety of this trip I almost no idea where I was in Athens. I floated through an area that I have lived in and explored off and on for almost 20 years now and yet all it takes to make it utterly unknown is looking at it from a waterway rather than the land. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Pig Roast +
    +

    Pig Roast

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95240599235981 + -83.39672977275296 + + – + + I was headed downtown about a week ago when I noticed a sign that said, "free pig roast". There are two types of people in this world, those who go to free pig roasts and vegans fools. Sign me up. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Schoolhouse +
    +

    Schoolhouse

    + + +

    + + Oconee County, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.76306639858435 + -83.43694681471746 + + – + + Something called touch-a-truck that rolls through town, or just south of town at a place call Heritage Park, every year. It turns out to be pretty much what it sounds like: a place where kids can touch trucks — semi-trucks, fire engines, ambulances and more. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ice Storm +
    +

    Ice Storm

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.94511246686547 + -83.37615722961178 + + – + + I love storms, preferably summer storms with plenty of warm humid wind, lightning and the attendant thunder, but winter storms are nice too. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Walking in the Woods +
    +

    Walking in the Woods

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.984367309819 + -83.38138753719177 + + – + + It’s always struck me as strange that we have a separate word for walking in nature, hiking, as opposed to just walking. Is walking just too mundane? + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Purcell Wooden Toys +
    +

    Purcell Wooden Toys

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.950381311835336 + -83.37821716613469 + + – + + The evolution of toys in my opinion starts with what is still the greatest of all toys -- the stick. After that, I suggest my friend Chris's handcrafted wooden toys. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sunrise +
    +

    Sunrise

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.94724852440723 + -83.37856048888914 + + – + + Watching the sun rise, coffee on the stove, light in the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Hoppin' John +
    +

    Hoppin’ John

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.93927363608245 + -83.38577026672033 + + – + + New Year's cynics are boring. What they miss is that, sure, the only meaning in New Years is what you bring to the table, but that’s true of every day you exist on this planet. So bring something to the table damn it. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Our New 1969 Yellowstone Trailer +
    +

    Our New 1969 Yellowstone Trailer

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.955507442515085 + -83.39298004455148 + + – + + There are no real blank parts of the map anymore, to misquote Conrad, but there sure are a lot of empty spaces left. We intend to see some of them in our new (to us anyway) 1969 Yellowstone travel trailer. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Night Before +
    +

    The Night Before

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.947319725402615 + -83.40491051024922 + + – + + Every voyage has a night before. We tend to remember the excitement of the next morning, when our senses are on edge, hyper-aware and it's easy to be anchored in the now. But me, I like that night before. I like when you're still imagining what it might be like. Still trying to picture it all in your head, fit yourself into your own imagination. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bourbon Bacon Bark +
    +

    Bourbon Bacon Bark

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.94981172269912 + -83.37375397033351 + + – + + Searching for what the Danes call Hygge in the sugar deliciousness that is Bourbon Bacon Bark. Because you rarely go wrong with alliteration. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Creamed Corn +
    +

    Creamed Corn

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95322920033558 + -83.40053314513801 + + – + + Creamed corn doesn't lend itself to showy food photography, but then neither do most Thanksgiving dishes. Strange holiday that one. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Colors +
    +

    Colors

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.96668418436029 + -83.4123777801458 + + – + + Autumn in the South is never as spectacular as is in New England. The colors here are neither as intense nor as long lasting. But still, it is our autumn, our season, our reminder. And this is by far the most colorful year of leaves that we’ve seen in 15 years. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-america/5/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-america/5/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..30453c4 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-america/5/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,593 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from North America -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from North America

    +
    +
    + Muffins +
    +

    Muffins

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.96380115264605 + -83.40128416365957 + + – + + When you're two years old everything in the world is new every day. Even things you saw yesterday look different, feel different, *are*, inexplicably, different today. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Memorial Park +
    +

    Memorial Park

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.926604399603534 + -83.3854269439668 + + – + + Loons, Maine, Memorial Park. *What that sound is?* + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Halloween +
    +

    Halloween

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95550744251432 + -83.37426895446605 + + – + + Halloween with three owls, a Theremin-wielding ghost band and a zoo full of ghouls. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + King of Birds +
    +

    King of Birds

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.65740132288772 + -84.87336630151736 + + – + + Watching birds teaches you to see the world a bit differently. You're always alert to flittering movements in your peripheral vision. After a while you start to scan the tree line, the edges of the marsh, the place where the buildings meet the sky, the borderlands where movement begins. You quite literally see the world differently. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Oysterman Wanted +
    +

    Oysterman Wanted

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.664094724906768 + -84.86566792845446 + + – + + The world of oystermen and local fishing industry is doomed. Even the people resisting the transition know they’re no longer fighting for their way of life. They’re just fighting to keep the thinnest resemblance of what they’ve always known around until they leave this world. They’re fighting to keep from having to watch the death of everything they know. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + All the Pretty Beaches +
    +

    All the Pretty Beaches

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.65981806259068 + -84.87047444700387 + + – + + St. George is just off the Gulf Coast of northwest Florida, only about 7 hours from where I live. There are better places if you're looking to dive or snorkel. Ditto if it's nightlife you're after. But if you're looking for a seemingly endless amount of gorgeous white sand beaches you'll share with only a few migratory birds, St. George is the place to be. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Consider the Apalachicola Oyster +
    +

    Consider the Apalachicola Oyster

    + + +

    + + Apalachicola, Florida, U.S. + + 29.728672056480878 + -84.9837897312466 + + – + + If you know the name Apalachicola at all it’s likely because of its eponymous oysters. Very few things, let alone culinary things, are as attached to place as oysters. In fact, once you get beyond the Rockefeller, ordering “oysters” is akin to walking in a bar and ordering “a beer.” But unlike beer, oysters don’t have brands, they have places — Pemaquid, Wellfleet, Blue Point, Apalachicola. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Things Behind the Sun +
    +

    Things Behind the Sun

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95674257719642 + -83.37592612645985 + + – + + My grandparents left the home they lived in for 60 years today. I don't know how much of my life was spent in that house, probably well over a year if you added up all the holidays and family gatherings. And now I'm thousands of miles away and someone is clearing out the house. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Street Food in Athens Georgia +
    +

    Street Food in Athens Georgia

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.959861666904274 + -83.37601195713451 + + – + + Cheap food, made fresh, in front of you. Served hot, wrapped in newspaper. Street food is the people's food, it removes the mystery of the kitchen, lays the process bare. It's also the staple diet of people around the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + We Used to Wait For It +
    +

    We Used to Wait For It

    + + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + 34.04477171337467 + -118.25204621066614 + + – + + When we first came here, there was nothing. Downtown Los Angeles was an empty husk of a place fifteen years ago. Now it's reborn, alive and kicking. Yet there is something in the older buildings, something in the old walls, something lost in the bricks, something in the concrete, the marble. Something you don’t find anymore. Something we need to find again. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The World Outside +
    +

    The World Outside

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.96016249314553 + -83.4028816107045 + + – + + The world outside the house is blanketed in snow, a monochrome of white interrupted only by the dark, wet trunks of trees, the red brick of chimneys, the occasional green of shrubs poking through. The roads are unbroken expanses of smooth white, no one is out yet, no footprints track their way through the snowy sidewalk. The world outside is the same as it was last night, before the snow began, and yet, it feels totally different. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Charleston A-Z +
    +

    Charleston A-Z

    + + +

    + + Charleston, South Carolina, U.S. + + 32.7859576527261 + -79.9366307147337 + + – + + Charleston alphabetically. For example, Q is for quiet, Charleston has a lot of it. Just head down to the Battery area, walk through the park and starting walking down the side streets. Take one of the many alleys and walkways that weave between the massive, stately houses. Get lost. It doesn't take much to find a quiet place of your own. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River

    + + +

    + + Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado, U.S. + + 40.457462390627 + -109.25843237269746 + + – + + This is the only real way to see Dinosaur National Monument — you must journey down the river. There are two major rivers running through Dinosaur, the Yampa, which carves through Yampa Canyon, and the Green, which cuts through Lodore. Adventure Bound Rafting runs some of the best whitewater rafting trips in Colorado and I was lucky enough to go down the Green River with them, through the majestic Lodore Canyon. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park

    + + +

    + + Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado, U.S. + + 40.52063402652926 + -108.99388073317648 + + – + + Dinosaur National Monument was poorly named. The best parts of it are not the fossils in the quarry (which is closed for 2010 anyway) but the canyon country — some of the best, most remote canyon country you'll find in this part of the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone +
    +

    The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone

    + + +

    + + Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming, U.S. + + 44.46180292448713 + -110.82196979172171 + + – + + There is wilderness in Yellowstone, even if it's just inches from the boardwalks that transport thousands around the geothermal pools. It may not be wilderness on a grand scale — the sweeping mountain peaks or wild rivers of other parks — but in some ways that makes it more enticing. As one Ranger told me, Yellowstone isn't about the big picture, the grand scenery, it's about the tiny details within each pool. To really see Yellowstone, he said, you have to take your time, move slowly and look closely. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Backpacking in the Grand Tetons +
    +

    Backpacking in the Grand Tetons

    + + +

    + + Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming, U.S. + + 43.79315431684632 + -110.79651831037907 + + – + + Hiking into the wilderness empties your mind. You fall into the silence of the mountains and you can relax in a way that's very difficult to do in the midst of civilization. The white noise that surrounds us in our everyday lives, that noise we don't even notice as it adds thin layers of stress that build up over days, weeks, years, does not seem capable of following us into the mountains. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Great Sand Dunes National Park +
    +

    Great Sand Dunes National Park

    + + +

    + + Great Sand Dunes National Park, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.72673718028319 + -105.55097578487117 + + – + + Something about the desert inspires me to get up early and watch the sunrise. The cool mornings seem worth getting up for out here in the high plains of Colorado, especially when there's the chance to watch the sunrise from the largest sand dunes in North America, here in Great Sand Dune National Park. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Comanche National Grasslands +
    +

    Comanche National Grasslands

    + + +

    + + Comanche National Grasslands, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.14748995999048 + -103.0095720147769 + + – + + To say the Comanche National Grasslands is off the grid would be an understatement. With the exception of Highway 50 in Nevada, I've never driven through such isolation and vast openness anywhere in the world. And it's easy to get lost. There are no signs, no road names even, just dirt paths crisscrossing a wide, perfectly flat expanses of grass. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks +
    +

    Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks

    + + +

    + + Amarillo, Texas, U.S. + + 35.18854030957816 + -101.9194793559329 + + – + + There are many reasons, but here's the one I currently consider most important: National Parks never close. Take Palo Dura State park outside of Amarillo, Texas. Were it a National Park, I would be there right now. But it's not, it's a state park and so I'm sitting in a hotel room in Amarillo because everyone knows nature closes at 10PM. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Legend of Billy the Kid +
    +

    The Legend of Billy the Kid

    + + +

    + + Hico, Texas, U.S. + + 31.981920692582488 + -98.03087709969479 + + – + + History rarely offers neat, tidy stories. But the messier, more confusing and more controversial the story becomes, the more it works its way into our imaginations. The legend of Billy the Kid is like that of Amelia Earhart or D.B. Cooper — the less we know for sure, the more compelling the story becomes. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Dixie Drug Store +
    +

    The Dixie Drug Store

    + + +

    + + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.955903613807074 + -90.06511865792525 + + – + + New Orleans is it's own world. So much so that's it's impossible to put your finger on what it is that makes it different. New Orleans is a place where the line between consensus reality and private dream seems to have never fully developed. And a wonderful world it is. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Begin the Begin +
    +

    Begin the Begin

    + + +

    + + Gulf Port, Mississippi, U.S. + + 30.380400296597216 + -89.03081058216594 + + – + + It's travel time again. This time I'm driving my 1969 Ford truck out west, to Texas, Colorado, Utah and more — a road trip around the western United States. The first stop is Gulf Port, Mississippi. It's hard to believe, sitting here on the deserted beaches of Gulf Shore, watching the sun break through the ominous clouds, but soon this beauty will be gone. The BP oil spill is somewhere out there, blown slowly ashore by the storm hovering over us, waiting to drown the beaches in crude. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Los Angeles, I'm Yours +
    +

    Los Angeles, I’m Yours

    + + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + 34.05582387432624 + -118.23588250455148 + + – + + Los Angeles is all about the car. Shiny, air-conditioned comfort, gliding you soundlessly from one place to another without the need to interact with anything in between. But I have discovered that if you abandon the car for the subway and your own two feet, the illusion that L.A. is just a model train set world — tiny, plastic and devoid of any ground beneath the ground — fades and you find yourself, for a time, in a real city. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + (There'll Be) Peace in the Valley +
    +

    (There’ll Be) Peace in the Valley

    + + +

    + + Death Valley, California, U.S. + + 36.42090257717807 + -116.80985925955854 + + – + + Sometimes you ignore the places close to home because, well, there's always next weekend. Which is why I never made it Death Valley in the twenty-five years I lived in California. It took being all the way across the country to get me out to Death Valley. Which might explain why I actually got up before dawn just to watch the sunrise at Zabriskie Point. + +

    +
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    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-america/6/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-america/6/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..43bd434 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-america/6/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,592 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from North America -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from North America

    +
    +
    + So Far, I Have Not Found The Science +
    +

    So Far, I Have Not Found The Science

    + + +

    + + Okefenokee Swamp, Georgia, U.S. + + 30.91341551845187 + -82.18322287959928 + + – + + A canoe trip through the Okefenokee Swamp down in the southern most corner of Georgia. Paddling the strange reddish and incredibly still waters. Begging alligators, aching muscles and the kindly folks of Stintson's Barbecue all getting their due. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + How to Get Off Your Butt and Travel the World +
    +

    How to Get Off Your Butt and Travel the World

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95763520280544 + -83.40871809752001 + + – + + How do you make the leap from cubicle daydreams to life on to the road? You want to travel the world, but, like me, you have a million excuses stopping you. How do overcome the inertia that keeps you trapped in a life that isn't what you want it to be? Here's a few practical tips and how tos designed to motivate you to get off your butt and travel the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + No Strangers on a Train +
    +

    No Strangers on a Train

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95818694160937 + -83.40824602873336 + + – + + We mythologize trains because they harken back to an age of community travel, a real, tangible community of travelers, not just backpackers, but people from all walks of life, people traveling near and far together in a shared space that isn't locked down like an airplane and isn't isolated like a car; it's a shared travel experience and there are precious few of those left in our world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies +
    +

    Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies

    + + +

    + + Birmingham, Alabama, U.S. + + 33.521441993672646 + -86.81079982502803 + + – + + A few pages from Leonardo Da Vinci's notebooks make a rare trip outside Italy, to Birmingham, AL, of all places. But the Birmingham Museum of Art is home to far more alarming works of art, works which depict the eventual, inevitable, bunny takeover, after which all the elements of our reality will be replaced by bunnies. Seriously. You heard it here first. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains +
    +

    Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains

    + + +

    + + Great Smoky Mountains, Tennessee, U.S. + + 35.680446234758236 + -83.65024565485956 + + – + + Pigeon Forge is Myrtle Beach in the mountains. Redneck weddings cascade straight out of the chapel and into the mini golf reception area. Pigeon Forge is everything that's wrong with America. But we aren't here for Pigeon Forge, it just happens to have a free condo we're staying in. We're here for the mountains. Smoky Mountain National Park is just a few miles up the road. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Rope Swings and River Floats +
    +

    Rope Swings and River Floats

    + + +

    + + Mountain Cabin, Georgia, U.S. + + 34.53463159921271 + -83.90280245566663 + + – + + Two weekends ago we went up to the mountains, just outside of Dahlonega GA, and floated the Chestatee River using inner tubes, various pool toys and one super-cool inflatable seahorse. Unfortunately, proving one of my travel mottos -- you can never go back -- a return trip proved disastrous. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + In Love With a View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty and Living Well +
    +

    In Love With a View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty and Living Well

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.944877470043906 + -83.38860689432926 + + – + + Why all the vitriol about a seemingly innocuous concept -- that traveling doesn't have to cost a lot of money, isn't all that difficult and hey, you can even go right now? People like us, who feel tied down by responsibility, find the suggestion that we actually aren't tied down patronizing and yes, elitist. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Fall +
    +

    Fall

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.9448641194789 + -83.38856934340312 + + – + + The trees are in full technicolor swing. The land is slowly dying, and not just because it's Fall, we're also in the middle of a prolonged drought and this year the leaves are opting for a James Dean-style, leave-a-good-looking-corpse exit. If you're a leaf and you've got to go, do it with class. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + On The Other Ocean +
    +

    On The Other Ocean

    + + +

    + + Catalina Island, California, U.S. + + 33.46191438592164 + -118.52130172987002 + + – + + Consider what would happen if your house were tilted 30 degrees to the left, how this would complicate ordinary activities -- like say walking. Now throw in a bouncing motion that lifts the floor five or six feet up and down in a seesaw-like motion on a perpendicular axis to the 30 degree tilt -- things become more like riding a seesaw that's attached to a merry-go-round which is missing a few bolts. That's sailing. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Being There +
    +

    Being There

    + + +

    + + Myrtle Beach Airport, South Carolina, U.S. + + 33.68392513093142 + -78.92835615966722 + + – + + Myrtle Beach does not exist. Nearly everything in Myrtle Beach is a paltry derivative of some original form. For instance, most of the country has golf courses, in Myrtle Beach there are endless rows of putt-putt courses, where most towns attempt to draw in big name musical acts for their tourist venues, Myrtle Beach is content with impersonators. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sailing Through +
    +

    Sailing Through

    + + +

    + + Charleston, South Carolina, U.S. + + 32.83557033524099 + -79.82256172976372 + + – + + The rumors are true. I moved back to the south; Athens GA to be exact. But I hate staying in one place for too long, so after a month or two in Athens I headed up to Charleston to visit a friend. The south is curious place. If you've never been here I couldn't hope to explain it, but it's not so much a place as an approach. A way of getting somewhere more than anywhere specific. Perhaps even a wrong turn. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Goodbye to the Mother and the Cove +
    +

    Goodbye to the Mother and the Cove

    + + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + 34.040907225218874 + -118.47207783003557 + + – + + It's strange how you can plan something, go through all the motions of making it happen without ever really understanding what you're doing. I've been doing this for the better part of three years now. I realized recently that I have no real idea how I came to be here. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Everything All The Time +
    +

    Everything All The Time

    + + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + 33.97530686407635 + -118.42890499373785 + + – + + I don't know if I'm just overly paranoid but when I call up memories in the dark hours of the Beaujolais-soaked pre-dawn, I see a collection of mildly amusing, occasionally painful series of embarrassments, misunderstandings and general wrong-place, wrong-time sort of moments. Which isn't to imply that my life is a British sitcom, just that I'm not in a hurry to re-live any of it. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Sun Came Up With No Conclusions +
    +

    The Sun Came Up With No Conclusions

    + + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + 33.97517340607632 + -118.42887280722941 + + – + + "And so it is that we, as men, do not exist until we do; and then it is that we play with our world of existent things, and order and disorder them, and so it shall be that non-existence shall take us back from existence and that nameless spirituality shall return to Void, like a tired child home from a very wild circus." -- Robert Anton Wilson and Kerry Thornley. Good luck and Godspeed Mr. Wilson. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Give It Up Or Turnit A Loose +
    +

    Give It Up Or Turnit A Loose

    + + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + 33.97519564909091 + -118.42893718024602 + + – + + Traveling soul. Soul is not something out there or in you, it's the place where you meet the out there; something very similar to what I think James Brown meant — a mixture of the secular and the spiritual, the profane and the sublime. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Homeward +
    +

    Homeward

    + + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + 33.975160060264834 + -118.42903373977045 + + – + + New York, New York. John F Kennedy airport 1 am date unknown, sleepy looking customs guard stamps a passport without hardly looking at, without even checking to see where I had been. A light drizzle is falling outside and the subways extension to the terminal never looked so good. What is it like to be home? I don't know, I'll tell you when I get there. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Twenty More Minutes to Go +
    +

    Twenty More Minutes to Go

    + + +

    + + Newport Beach, California, U.S. + + 33.63332664528318 + -117.90302036551485 + + – + + Well it's the night before I leave. I just got done pacing around the driveway of my parents house smoking cigarettes… nervously? Excitedly? Restlessly? A bit of all of those I suppose. I walk across the street, over the drainage ditch and head for the swing set at the park. Right now I'm swinging in a park in Costa Mesa California. Tomorrow France. Weird. [Photo to the right, via Flickr] + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Travel Tips and Resources +
    +

    Travel Tips and Resources

    + + +

    + + Newport Beach, California, U.S. + + 33.63209390723631 + -117.90123937840589 + + – + + An overview of the things you might want to bring on an extended trip, as well as some tips and recommendations on things like visas and vaccinations. The part that was most helpful for me was learning what I didn't need to bring — as it turns out, quite a bit. Nowadays my pack is much smaller and lighter. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The New Luddites +
    +

    The New Luddites

    + + +

    + + Newport Beach, California, U.S. + + 33.632147504909575 + -117.90106771735248 + + – + + An older, non-travel piece about Google's plan to scan all the world's books and Luddite-like response from many authors. Let's see, someone wants to make your book easier to find, searchable and indexable and you're opposed to it? You're a fucking idiot. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + New Adventures in HiFi Text +
    +

    New Adventures in HiFi Text

    + + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + 42.32272216993563 + -72.62770885922362 + + – + + This project is no longer maintained or necessary thanks to projects like Pandoc which can take Markdown use it to create LaTeX and a dozen other types of files. It's just here as an historical artifact of my own amusement. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + One Nation Under a Groove +
    +

    One Nation Under a Groove

    + + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + 42.32254049078502 + -72.62804030361056 + + – + + The sky is falling! The iPod! It's ruining our culture! Or, uh, maybe it's just like the Walkman, but better. And since, so far as I can tell, the world did not collapse with the introduction of the Walkman and headphones, it probably isn't going to fall apart just because the storage format for our music has changed. [Photo to the right via Flickr] + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Farewell Mr. Hunter S Thompson +
    +

    Farewell Mr. Hunter S Thompson

    + + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + 42.322635681187286 + -72.62795447292216 + + – + + Hunter S. Thompson departs on a journey to the western lands. Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas delivered the penultimate eulogy for the dreams of the 1960's, one that mourned, but also tried to lay the empty idealism to rest. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Art of the Essay +
    +

    The Art of the Essay

    + + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + 42.322477030437234 + -72.62834071102037 + + – + + I generally ignore internet debates, they never go anywhere, so why bother. But we all have our weak points and when programmer Paul Graham posted what might be the dumbest essay on writing that's ever been written, I just couldn't help myuself. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Farewell Mr. Cash +
    +

    Farewell Mr. Cash

    + + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + 42.3225087606193 + -72.62804030361072 + + – + + Johnny Cash heads for the western lands. + +

    +
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    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-america/7/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-america/7/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..687f9e7 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-america/7/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,96 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from North America -- Page 7 + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Journal entries from North America

    +
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    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
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    +

    Journal entries from North America

    +
    +
    + Nothing is Finished, Nothing is Perfect +
    +

    Nothing is Finished, Nothing is Perfect

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95815048298076 + -83.40810770339355 + + – + + A dozen years ago this week I was at an Iraqi restaurant in Paris. It was a tiny place near the cross roads of two very forgettable avenues, an unassuming door, a small menu board of the kind you see dozens of on nearly every block. I have no recollection of what drew us in, maybe just hunger. The only other people in it were the owner and his wife. To this day I would call it the best meal of my life. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Halloween +
    +

    Halloween

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95636176760647 + -83.40707773513215 + + – + + Every Halloween I complain about how hot it is. I'm not sure where I got the idea that it was cold in Georgia come Halloween, but reviewing some pictures from the last half decade or so very clearly shows me wrong. It's often quite hot on Halloween and probably always will be from here on out. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Useless Stuff +
    +

    Useless Stuff

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95799920005176 + -83.40821499175449 + + – + + Normally when you move you just shove all that stuff you don't really acknowledge that you've been dragging around for years without using into a box and truck it on to the next place you'll live where you can happily shove it in the back of a new closet. When you're moving into a 1969 Dodge Travco with four other people and less than 100 square feet of usable space that's not an option. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Equinox +
    +

    Equinox

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.9850879025932 + -83.38062578983113 + + – + + I have a thing for solar cycles. I was born a few hours before the winter solstice. My wife and I were married on the summer solstice. My son was born a few hours before the winter solstice. None of that was planned. It's all synchronicity. Coincidence some would say, though I don't believe that synchronicities like that are coincidence. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Cloudland Canyon +
    +

    Cloudland Canyon

    + + +

    + + Cloudland Canyon, Georgia, U.S. + + 34.8338921973676 + -85.4818844250578 + + – + + I have a terrible habit of never going to obvious places that are right around me. For example I lived within 100 miles or so of Death Valley for 26 years and never once went. Then I moved thousands of miles across the country and finally arranged a trip to Death Valley. Except that it appears I'm getting better about these things. Maybe. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Autumn Bus Update +
    +

    Autumn Bus Update

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95793690700317 + -83.40810770339355 + + – + + The bare walls are gone, the ceiling is in, but still there is still much to do -- even if we do plan to leave before it's completely finished. We need a floor and couch at the bare minimum, though I'd like to have the propane and sewage system working as well. Oh and then there's a cab area, which I really haven't touched. Miles to go before I sleep. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Change of Ideas (The Worst) +
    +

    Change of Ideas (The Worst)

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.90329999583211 + -83.33059998840027 + + – + + I want the bus to be The Best. But. as an article I'm fond of says, "the best means waiting, planning, researching, and saving until one can acquire the perfect equipment for a given task." On the other side of the coin there is The Worst. if you have to have everything perfect you're never going to go. The Worst just goes. Now. The Worst figures things out from experience rather than hopes and fears. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + What Are You Going to Do? +
    +

    What Are You Going to Do?

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95701140490208 + -83.40944880790045 + + – + + We've started telling people about our plans to live full time in the blue bus. After the eyebrows come down and the puzzled frowns flatten out, the questions come. Most of them revolve around some form of, but, but but... *what will you do without a house? What will you do when that thing breaks down? What will you do when...* Rather than answer everyone individually I thought I'd answer all those questions here, as best I can: ***I don't know***. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Engine +
    +

    Engine

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.958194977909265 + -83.4081398899018 + + – + + The Travco is not starting. I can see the problem in my head, but I cannot make it work. It has to be the fuel pump. I have spark. I have compression. The missing ingredient in the basic trifecta of the internal combustion engines is fuel. But seeing it and understanding it are different than actually making it work. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Back From Somewhere +
    +

    Back From Somewhere

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.96708459770432 + -83.38646227664735 + + – + + Neither the intense afternoon sun beating down on the concrete slab of parking lot, nor the humidity left over from morning rains convinced my kids to abandon the Jittery Joe's skate contest. We were there all afternoon, over four hours of skating, pulled pork and the occasional train rolling by. They never stopped loving it. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Root Down +
    +

    Root Down

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95784791685379 + -83.40821499175358 + + – + + The longer you've been in one location the more stuff that's accumulated. As far as I can tell there is no real way to combat the detritus of the world seeping into your space, save cutting off all contact with the outside world. I imagine monasteries are generally immaculate; the rest of us get out the pick axes and clear the rubble. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Another Spring +
    +

    Another Spring

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.88121959056056 + -83.31667656250653 + + – + + This becomes a day like any other that is somehow different. Then another and another. Little things. The air feels brighter. The river is lower. Less practical footwear appears on the feet around you. The mornings are crisp and the pollen hasn't started yet. The trees still bare though the smaller shrubs turn purple and white. Everything feels fragile but possible again. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Up in the Air +
    +

    Up in the Air

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95794580601253 + -83.40819353408179 + + – + + I tore the rear air conditioning unit off the back of the bus today. Afterward I stood back and looked at the Travco. All the clean lines and curves joined together again, no more air conditioning warts to interrupt the sliding smooth and unbroken swoop of white and blue. The big blue bus looked sleek and whole again. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bring on the Change +
    +

    Bring on the Change

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.958016998057886 + -83.4080862457218 + + – + + I've been thinking about this little mantra ever since I saw it six or seven years ago. I don't think I've ever seen what I consider the secret to happiness so succinctly and completely captured. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Tools +
    +

    Tools

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95817717994103 + -83.40842956847534 + + – + + We are not things, Alan Watts was fond of saying, we are happenings. But we are happenings with things. Specifically with tools, many of which help us happen in one way or another. What to make of these tools then? + +

    +
    +
    +
    + 8-Track Gorilla +
    +

    8-Track Gorilla

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.9579814020434 + -83.40812916106634 + + – + + I just sold an antiquated music player that takes a format no one has manufactured in over three decades for $86. It was an old Oldsmobile 8-track cassette player I pulled out of the bus. I have no idea how it came to be in a 1969 Dodge Travco. What I do have an idea about is why I just sold it, as-is, could-be-working, could not be working, for $86 more than you would think it was worth. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Progress +
    +

    Progress

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.957904369989365 + -83.4083437377863 + + – + + I'm not crazy anti-tech, I just think the good, sustainable technologies are rare. I'm not a delusional lunatic who thinks I'm living in the Victorian era or anything. I just don't really like air conditioning. Or heaters. Or generators. And I prefer a good fire to electric light. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Elvis Has Left the Building +
    +

    Elvis Has Left the Building

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.963774457452075 + -83.40132707900412 + + – + + It's not that I have anything against the king, it's that I don't have anything at all, no feelings one way or the other on Elvis, so he came out and won't be going back in. The walls, ceiling and floor of the Travco are also coming out. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Big Blue Bus +
    +

    The Big Blue Bus

    + + +

    + + Asheville Area, North Carolina, U.S. + + 35.82050050961864 + -82.54565948803042 + + – + + Change of plans, sold the trailer, bought a 1969 Dodge Travco, the coolest vehicle ever made. The first few corners were nerve-wracking, the kind of white knuckled terror-inducing driving I haven't done since the very first time I sat down behind a wheel. Or the time I claimed I could ride a motorcycle when I actually had no clue. It all works out in the end. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ode to the Outdoor Shower +
    +

    Ode to the Outdoor Shower

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.660804289800733 + -84.86735815332483 + + – + + The outdoor shower may be one of life's greatest joys. Certainly it makes for memorable showers. I have fond memories of sunshowers hung from the mast of a sailboat, the slick mossy wood of an outdoor shower in Laos, the cold marble of bucket showers in India, the sandy tile of the beach showers where I grew up. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + A Big Long Week +
    +

    A Big Long Week

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.660095736315927 + -84.86705774591675 + + – + + Whenever Lilah and Olivia want to convey long lengths of time they use the phrase "in a big long week". As in, "we have not had any cookies in a big long week." A big long week could be anywhere from two days to over a year. In this case we had two big long weeks on the island. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Tate's Hell +
    +

    Tate’s Hell

    + + +

    + + Tate’s Hell, Florida, U.S. + + 29.854238614588233 + -84.8141645841502 + + – + + Tate supposedly wandered out of his eponymous hell swamp and managed to say "my name is Cebe Tate, and I just came from Hell!" before promptly dropping dead. If you're like me you're not going to take this legend very seriously. You're going to think, pshaw, swamps are fun, how bad can this one be? As it happens, if you're not prepared, it can be pretty bad. Especially in Yellow Fly season. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + We're Here +
    +

    We’re Here

    + + +

    + + Thomasville, Georgia, U.S. + + 30.841040782644317 + -83.98170346556772 + + – + + Right now the girls call everywhere "here". This greatly simplifies the whole "are we there yet" dilemma of driving with children. That's not the question. On the drive down here to St. George Island they would ask "are we here yet?" To which Corrinne and I would answer, "yes, we are here." They're young enough that they let us get away with that. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Coming Home +
    +

    Coming Home

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95742966190523 + -83.40147728270863 + + – + + I am happy to report that, despite a sketchy tow hookup that doesn't lock to the ball, some last-minute wiring snafus, a considerable amount of dry rot on one tire and of course the fact that it still isn't registered, I did nevertheless succeed in getting our 1969 Yellowstone back to our house. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-americindex.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-americindex.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7db32d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/north-americindex.html @@ -0,0 +1,592 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from North America -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from North America

    +
    +
    + Eastbound & Down +
    +

    Eastbound & Down

    + + +

    + + Kerrville, Texas, U.S. + + 30.003937578862942 + -99.12746185387483 + + – + + Next year we'll winter in Mexico, but for now we're headed back to one of our favorite places -- the Gulf Coast. Naturally we didn't just drive straight there, we detoured up to Carlsbad Caverns before making a mad dash across Texas to the coast. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Ghost of Cochise +
    +

    The Ghost of Cochise

    + + +

    + + Dragoon Mountains, Arizona, U.S. + + 31.84049609721996 + -109.92530578547527 + + – + + Every time I've been here odd things have happened. I have seen strange shapes in the shadows, heard whispers whipping through the wind, and found some downright hard to explain things. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + A Long Errand +
    +

    A Long Errand

    + + +

    + + Catalina State Park, Arizona, U.S. + + 32.42613099108599 + -110.9155344382878 + + – + + While we were in Tucson Corrinne and the kids stayed with the bus while I grabbed a flight up to Reno where I met my uncle and we drove back down to his house to pick up our new dinghy -- a 1983 Volvo 240 wagon. It's the best car we've ever owned. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You're All I Need to Get By +
    +

    You’re All I Need to Get By

    + + +

    + + Catalina State Park, Arizona, U.S. + + 32.427652391812835 + -110.91665023724731 + + – + + It was good to get back into the desert, into wide open wild spaces. It's worth remembering that Nature is everywhere, even downtown Manhattan, there is in fact nothing but Nature. That said, it's undeniably nicer for those of us who enjoy them, to be in less inhabited, vast tracts of wild, which is exactly what we had outside of Gila Bend, AZ. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Escaping California +
    +

    Escaping California

    + + +

    + + Painted Rocks Petroglyph Area, Arizona, U.S. + + 33.02151850199567 + -113.0501865757584 + + – + + There might have been a good bit of cheering in the bus as we crossed over the Colorado River, out of California and into Arizona. California wore us down. It's not a place we like. As my daughter put it, "everything is dead in California, there's no flowers or butterflies, I love flowers and butterflies." + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Funland at the Beach +
    +

    Funland at the Beach

    + + +

    + + Newport Beach, California, U.S. + + 33.631708923621495 + -117.9022383100234 + + – + + I suck at waiting. We all suck at waiting actually, which is why after four days waiting around in the desert left us feeling a little stir crazy. We thought, screw the calendar, let's do Christmas now. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week +
    +

    The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week

    + + +

    + + Palm Springs, California, U.S. + + 33.76420806670276 + -116.43985503996053 + + – + + Sometimes things do not go as planned. I came down with a sinus infection that gave me a fever of 104 and took three rounds of antibiotics to put down and forced us to spend a few days in Bakersfield. We we left I was pretty doped up on cold medicine, but we really wanted to get out of Bakerfield so we went for it. About half way up Tehachapi pass oil was spraying out the right side of the engine and that was that. I pulled over and called AAA. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Aquarium Kings +
    +

    Aquarium Kings

    + + +

    + + King City, California, U.S. + + 36.20658011394801 + -121.14895576255992 + + – + + After so much time away from the bus it was good to be on the road again. We headed down to Monterey to visit some friends and take the kids to aquarium. From there we continued south and inland, making an unscheduled, but thoroughly enjoyable stop in the lovely King City, CA. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The City +
    +

    The City

    + + +

    + + San Francisco, California, U.S. + + 37.80126393315256 + -122.42681378125286 + + – + + Visiting the city on our way to Thanksgiving. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Absence of Glass Beach +
    +

    The Absence of Glass Beach

    + + +

    + + Mendocino Coast, California, U.S. + + 39.48050112619824 + -123.80275481919242 + + – + + After Halloween we made our way south, ducking inland and around the Lost Coast, down to Fort Bragg where we finally, for a few days at least got some sunshine. Glass beach though? That's long gone thanks to good old American greed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Halloween and the Big Trees +
    +

    Halloween and the Big Trees

    + + +

    + + Patrick’s Point, California, U.S. + + 41.138628503323744 + -124.15792220805898 + + – + + Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. It's got all the good elements of ritual to it, costumes, masks, sounds, night, and obliquely somewhere in there, veneration of the dead. For one moment, one evening, everyone is something they're not and somehow more themselves for it. The masks of everyday life get replaced with masks of our choosing, if only for one night. Plus, candy. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Through +
    +

    Through

    + + +

    + + Patrick’s Point, California, U.S. + + 41.14114944646635 + -124.15835136151323 + + – + + Good or bad you have to go through, not around. This is easy when life is good. When there are problems it gets more difficult. But still. The only way out is through. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Pacific Sense +
    +

    Pacific Sense

    + + +

    + + Patrick’s Point, California, U.S. + + 41.140761615367445 + -124.15646308637378 + + – + + We made it all the way to the Pacific ocean, but when we arrived we couldn't see it. As is typical up this way, the ocean was wrapped in a blanket of thick fog. We hiked down into the gloom of fog and spent the evening on the beach. The one place that will always feel like home to me. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Shadow of Lassen +
    +

    The Shadow of Lassen

    + + +

    + + Shasta National Forest, California, U.S. + + 40.59515988130533 + -121.1237215401611 + + – + + From my uncle's house we headed northwest, up into the Shasta National Forest where there's more free camping than you can shake a stick at. We liked it so much we stayed an extra night. Why not? It's not like we have anywhere we have to be. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dialed In +
    +

    Dialed In

    + + +

    + + Carson City/Washoe Lake, Nevada, U.S. + + 39.149406639836954 + -119.76115936077889 + + – + + With my uncle's help the bus gets some much needed work done. It's now running about 1000X better than it was and more importantly I know a lot more. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Trains, Hot Springs and Broken Buses +
    +

    Trains, Hot Springs and Broken Buses

    + + +

    + + Bishop, California, U.S. + + 37.169660646001255 + -118.30864661988545 + + – + + After a night in the middle of Gold Point we hit the road, continuing our somewhat random plan. I came up with something I thought was pretty good: take highway 266 west from Gold Point, grab highway 168, go over the White Mountains, drop down into Big Pine and follow 395 up to my aunt and uncle's house up in Wellington. It seems simple when you type it out. I bet it made the gods chuckle anyway. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ghost Town +
    +

    Ghost Town

    + + +

    + + Gold Point, Nevada, U.S. + + 37.35014190110647 + -117.36613982986752 + + – + + Gold Point Nevada has been through several boom and bust cycles, today it's a very lightly inhabited, largely abandoned ghost town. What better place to spend a night or two? + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Valley of Fire +
    +

    Valley of Fire

    + + +

    + + Valley of Fire, Nevada, U.S. + + 36.4185620941458 + -114.55827468743294 + + – + + The forecast for Zion turned cold about half way through Corrinne's parents visit. Since our guest room is a tent, and since Zion wasn't to our taste anyway, we decamped for Valley of Fire, a strange collection of red rock piles an hour outside of Las Vegas. A few thousand feet lower Valley of Fire was warmer and, as it turned out, a whole lot more fun. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Zion +
    +

    Zion

    + + +

    + + Zion National Park, Utah, U.S. + + 37.1811499946847 + -113.00096267590985 + + – + + After moving pretty fast for a few days we were ready for a break. While it's not exactly secluded, quiet or anything of things we generally like, the logical place to stop in this area is Zion National Park. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + On The Road, Again +
    +

    On The Road, Again

    + + +

    + + Castle Rock, Utah, U.S. + + 38.56767070147155 + -112.33783477684241 + + – + + The Honda minivan dies and we move on with just the big blue bus. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Canyonlands +
    +

    Canyonlands

    + + +

    + + Needles District, Canyonlands National Park, Utah, U.S. + + 38.121769697123575 + -109.81166595396103 + + – + + Our camp in the Aspen trees was not far from one of my favorite national parks, Canyonlands. The portion near us is known as the Needles District is home to, among other things, Newspaper Rock, a huge collection of Petrogylphs. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Aspens +
    +

    Aspens

    + + +

    + + Abajo (Blue) Mountains, Utah, U.S. + + 37.87990829536428 + -109.44916004124589 + + – + + A stand of Aspen is considerably different than most trees in a forest. Aspens are rarely individual trees. Instead they grow like rhizomes, like giant white asparagus. Aspens are not really trees, the trunks we see are not the soul of the plant. The truth of Aspens is under the ground. They are massive root systems, some as large as twenty acres, that send up white trunks, which then sprout leaves. All of this means that some Aspen groves have been around a very long time, one is said to be 80,000 years old. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Breakdown +
    +

    Breakdown

    + + +

    + + Ridgway State Park, Colorado, U.S. + + 38.2176568851275 + -107.73812526670027 + + – + + The universe gives me a lesson in humility. And a fever of 103. And a burnt toe. Because nothing makes the gods laugh like a human making a plan. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ridgway State Park +
    +

    Ridgway State Park

    + + +

    + + Ridgway State Park, Colorado, U.S. + + 38.21678023423405 + -107.73833984340939 + + – + + After our adventures in the canyon country we headed north, through the hordes of Moab and back east toward Grand Junction, where we did a bit of resupplying before heading up the valley to the town of Ridgway. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/slovenia/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/slovenia/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..81214ff --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/slovenia/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,136 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Slovenia + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Slovenia

    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two

    + + +

    + + Bled, Slovenia + + 46.365209982615575 + 14.109942911091283 + + – + + There is a roughly 200km loop of road that leads northwest out of Bled, through a pass in the Julian Alps and then down the other side, twisting and winding back toward Bled by way of craggy canyons, small hamlets and crystalline rivers. We set out sometime after breakfast. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ghost +
    +

    Ghost

    + + +

    + + Ljubljana, Slovenia + + 46.05085985632457 + 14.50674891269926 + + – + + Like Dubrovnik, Trogir is a walled city of roughly Venetian vintage, but Trogir's wall has largely crumbled away or been removed. Still, it has the gorgeous narrow cobblestone streets, arched doorways and towering forts that give all Dalmatian towns their Rapunzel-like fairly tale quality. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/slovenia/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/slovenia/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..708c09b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/slovenia/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,142 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Slovenia -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Slovenia

    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two

    + + +

    + + Bled, Slovenia + + 46.365209982615575 + 14.109942911091283 + + – + + There is a roughly 200km loop of road that leads northwest out of Bled, through a pass in the Julian Alps and then down the other side, twisting and winding back toward Bled by way of craggy canyons, small hamlets and crystalline rivers. We set out sometime after breakfast. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ghost +
    +

    Ghost

    + + +

    + + Ljubljana, Slovenia + + 46.05085985632457 + 14.50674891269926 + + – + + Like Dubrovnik, Trogir is a walled city of roughly Venetian vintage, but Trogir's wall has largely crumbled away or been removed. Still, it has the gorgeous narrow cobblestone streets, arched doorways and towering forts that give all Dalmatian towns their Rapunzel-like fairly tale quality. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/sloveniindex.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/sloveniindex.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..44991ce --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/sloveniindex.html @@ -0,0 +1,142 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Slovenia -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Slovenia

    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two

    + + +

    + + Bled, Slovenia + + 46.365209982615575 + 14.109942911091283 + + – + + There is a roughly 200km loop of road that leads northwest out of Bled, through a pass in the Julian Alps and then down the other side, twisting and winding back toward Bled by way of craggy canyons, small hamlets and crystalline rivers. We set out sometime after breakfast. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ghost +
    +

    Ghost

    + + +

    + + Ljubljana, Slovenia + + 46.05085985632457 + 14.50674891269926 + + – + + Like Dubrovnik, Trogir is a walled city of roughly Venetian vintage, but Trogir's wall has largely crumbled away or been removed. Still, it has the gorgeous narrow cobblestone streets, arched doorways and towering forts that give all Dalmatian towns their Rapunzel-like fairly tale quality. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/southeast-asia/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/southeast-asia/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..78e6aa0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/southeast-asia/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,584 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Southeast Asia + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Southeast Asia

    +
    +
    + Closing Time +
    +

    Closing Time

    + + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + 7.0586452366957175 + 98.53981016694692 + + – + + Headed back to Europe: I started to write a bit of reminiscence, trying to remember the highlights of my time in Asia before I return to the west, but about halfway through I kept thinking of a popular Buddhist saying — be here now. Most of these dispatches are written in past tense, but this time I want to simply be here now. This moment, on this train. This is the last time I'll post something from Southeast Asia. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning of the End +
    +

    Beginning of the End

    + + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + 7.4090692758064645 + 99.207916245987 + + – + + I wasn't expecting much from Ko Kradan, but in the end I discovered a slice of Thailand the way it's often describe by wistful hippies who first came here twenty years ago. Tong and Ngu and the rest of the Thais working at Paradise Lost were the nicest people I met in Thailand and Wally was by far the most laid back farang I've come across. I ended up staying on Ko Kradan for the remainder of my time in the south. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Going Down South +
    +

    Going Down South

    + + +

    + + Koh Phi Phi, Thailand + + 7.735826857017756 + 98.77876280363327 + + – + + The Phi Phi Island Resort, where some friends were staying, is nestled on the leeward shore of Koh Phi Phi Island and posts a private beach, beautiful reef, fancy swimming pools and rooms with real sheets. Unheard of. I sauntered in a day early, acted like I owned the place, rented snorkel gear, charged it to a random room number and spent the afternoon on the reef. If only I could have put it on the Underhill's credit card. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Book of Right On +
    +

    The Book of Right On

    + + +

    + + Sinoukville, Cambodia + + 10.626275865572227 + 103.49945066918632 + + – + + The next day we continued on to Sinoukville which is Cambodia's attempt at a seaside resort. Combining the essential elements of Goa and Thailand, Sinoukville is a pleasant, if somewhat hippy-oriented, travelers haven. We rented Honda Dreams and cruised down the coast to deserted white sand beaches, thatched huts serving noodles and rice, where we watched sunsets and dodged rain storms. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Midnight in a Perfect World +
    +

    Midnight in a Perfect World

    + + +

    + + Death Island, Cambodia + + 10.438267017137903 + 104.32325361706974 + + – + + Death Island, as Rob nicknamed it, was just what I needed. The first day we sat down for lunch and ordered crab; a boy in his underwear proceeded to run out of the kitchen, swam out in the ocean and began unloading crabs from a trap into a bucket. It doesn't get much fresher than that. Throw in a nice beach, some cheap bungalows and you're away. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Angkor Wat +
    +

    Angkor Wat

    + + +

    + + Angkor Wat, Cambodia + + 13.497808126788645 + 103.89289854510803 + + – + + Roughly half a million people a year visit Angkor Wat. The first evening we decided to see just how tourist-filled Angkor was by heading to the most popular sunset temple, Phnom Bakheng, to watch the sunset. And there were a lot of tourists. Thousands of them. And that was just at one temple. Thus was hatched the plan: see Angkor in the heat of the day. Yes it will be hot. Hot hot hot. Fucking hot. But hopefully empty. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + ...Wait 'til it Blows +
    +

    …Wait ‘til it Blows

    + + +

    + + Seam Reap, Cambodia + + 13.361228724078332 + 103.86148451313011 + + – + + One the things I may have failed to mention thus far in my Cambodia reportage is that this was/is one of the most heavily mined areas in the world. You might think that removing landmines involves sophisticated technology of the sort you see in BBC documentaries on Bosnia, but here in Cambodia landmine removal is most often handled by the technological marvel of southeast Asia — the bamboo stick. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning to See the Light +
    +

    Beginning to See the Light

    + + +

    + + Floating Village, Cambodia + + 12.821174848475923 + 104.04052732926735 + + – + + Surprisingly, a floating village is not that different than a village on the land. There are the same stores, the computer repair shop, the grocers, the petrol station, the temple, the dance hall and all the other things that makeup a town. I could even say with some authority that the town is laid out in streets, watery pathways that form nearly perfect lines. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Blood on the Tracks +
    +

    Blood on the Tracks

    + + +

    + + Phenom Phen, Cambodia + + 11.56597559052094 + 104.92750166386062 + + – + + As I mentioned in the last entry I came down with a bit of a fever for a few days. This was accompanied by what we in the group have come to term, for lack of a nicer, but equally descriptive phrase — pissing out the ass. It's not a pretty picture. Nor is it a pleasant experience, and consequently I don't have a real clear recollection of the journey from Ban Lung to Kratie or from Kratie out to Sen Monoron. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ticket To Ride +
    +

    Ticket To Ride

    + + +

    + + Ban Lung, Cambodia + + 13.734549299840165 + 106.97941301763984 + + – + + I can't see. My eyebrows are orange with dust. I cannot see them, but I know they must be; they were yesterday. Every now and then when her legs clench down on my hips or her fingernails dig into my shoulders, I remember Debi is behind me and I am more or less responsible for not killing both of us. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Little Corner of the World +
    +

    Little Corner of the World

    + + +

    + + Four Thousand Islands, Lao (PDR) + + 14.130915842740961 + 105.83782194571636 + + – + + It's difficult to explain but the further south you go in Laos the more relaxed life becomes. Since life in the north is not exactly high stress, by the time we arrived in the four thousand Islands we had to check our pulse periodically to ensure that time was in fact still moving forward. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Can&#8217;t Get There From Here +
    +

    Can’t Get There From Here

    + + +

    + + Attapeu, Lao (PDR) + + 14.806085524831946 + 106.83689115944449 + + – + + The most magical light in Laos lives on the Bolevan Plateau. For some reason not many tourists seem to make it out to the Bolevan Plateau, in spite of the fact that the roads are quite good, transport runs regularly, the villages peaceful, even sleepy, little hamlets. In short, the Bolevan Plateau is wonderful, and not the least in part because no one else is there. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Safe as Milk +
    +

    Safe as Milk

    + + +

    + + Sekong, Lao (PDR) + + 14.623949505069236 + 106.5756225437582 + + – + + You would think, if you were the United States and you were illegally and unofficially bombing a foreign country you might not want to stamp "US Bomb" on the side of your bombs, and yet there it was all over Laos: "US Bomb." Clearly somebody didn't think things all the way through, especially given that roughly one third of said bombs failed to explode. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Everyday the Fourteenth +
    +

    Everyday the Fourteenth

    + + +

    + + Savannakhet, Lao (PDR) + + 16.560435757136183 + 104.75026129218114 + + – + + We piled four large bags, four daypacks and five people in a six meter dugout canoe. The boat was powered by the ever-present-in-southeast-Asia long tail motor which is essential a lawnmower engine with a three meter pole extending out of it to which a small propeller is attached — perfect for navigating shallow water. And by shallow I mean sometimes a mere inch between the hull and the riverbed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Water Slides and Spirit Guides +
    +

    Water Slides and Spirit Guides

    + + +

    + + Konglor Cave, Lao (PDR) + + 18.06285035750356 + 104.49783323740189 + + – + + The dramatic black karst limestone mountains ringing Ban Na Hin grew darker as the light faded. I was sitting alone on the back porch of our guesthouse watching the light slowly disappear from the bottoms of the clouds and wondering absently how many pages it would take to explain how I came to be in the tiny town of Ban Na Hin, or if such an explanation even really existed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Lovely Universe +
    +

    The Lovely Universe

    + + +

    + + Vang Vieng, Lao (PDR) + + 18.92544862065571 + 102.43755339150223 + + – + + I would like to say that I have something memorable to write about Vang Vieng, but the truth is we mostly sat around doing very little, making new friends, drinking a beer around the fire and waiting out the Chinese new year celebrations, which meant none of us could get Cambodian visas until the following Monday. We were forced to relax beside the river for several more days than we intended. Yes friends, traveling is hard, but I do it for you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan +
    +

    I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan

    + + +

    + + Luang Nam Tha, Lao (PDR) + + 20.853678554651314 + 101.19094847224211 + + – + + The next time someone asks you, “would you like to live in a tree house and travel five hundred feet above the ground attached to a zip wire?” I highly suggest you say, “yes, where do a I sign up?” If you happen to be in Laos, try the Gibbon Experience. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Hymn of the Big Wheel +
    +

    Hymn of the Big Wheel

    + + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + 19.827433510057354 + 102.42279051308633 + + – + + Jose Saramago writes in The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis that the gods "journey like us in the river of things, differing from us only because we call them gods and sometimes believe in them." Sitting in the middle of the river listening to the gurgle of water moving over stone and around trees I began to think that perhaps this is the sound of some lost language, a sound capable of creating mountains, valleys, estuaries, isthmuses and all the other forms around us, gurgling and sonorous but without clear meaning, shrouded in turquoise, a mystery through which we can move our sense of wonder intact. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Down the River +
    +

    Down the River

    + + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + 19.875064447947235 + 102.13199614056808 + + – + + Morning in Chiang Khong Thailand revealed itself as a foggy, and not a little mysterious, affair with the far shore of the Mekong, the Laos shore, almost completely hidden in a veil of mist. The first ferry crossed at eight and I was on it, looking to meet up with the slow boat to Luang Prabang. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers

    + + +

    + + Doi Inthanan National Park, Thailand + + 19.315031381446268 + 98.84262083585028 + + – + + The light outside the windows was still a pre-dawn inky blue when the freezing cold water hit my back. A cold shower at six thirty in the morning is infinitely more powerful, albeit not at long lasting, as a cup of coffee. After dropping my body temperature a few degrees and having no towel to dry off with, just a dirty shirt and ceaseless ceiling fan, a cup of tea seemed like a good idea so I stopped in at the restaurant downstairs and, after a cup of hot water with some Jasmine leaves swirling at the bottom of it, I climbed on my rental motorbike and set out for Doi Inthanan National Park. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You and I Are Disappearing +
    +

    You and I Are Disappearing

    + + +

    + + Chang Mai, Thailand + + 18.787042343613653 + 98.9876746993555 + + – + + The all night bus reached Chiang Mai well past dawn, the city already beginning to stir. I considered trying to nap, but in the end decided to explore the town. What better way to see Buddhist temples than in the dreamy fog of sleeplessness? Chiang Mai has over three hundred wats within the somewhat sprawling city limits, most of them reasonably modern and, in my opinion, not worth visiting. I narrowed the field to three, which I figured was a nice round one percent. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Buddha on the Bounty +
    +

    Buddha on the Bounty

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.726128126466529 + 100.547304139446 + + – + + The house Jim Thompson left behind in Bangkok is gorgeous, but the real charm is the garden and its orchids. I wandered around the gardens which really aren't that large for some time and then found a bench near a collection of orchids, where I sat for the better part of an hour, occasionally taking a photograph or two, but mostly thinking about how human orchids are. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Brink of the Clouds +
    +

    Brink of the Clouds

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.750921779579318 + 100.54314135105552 + + – + + "The city is a cathedral" writes James Salter, "its scent is dreams." Salter may have been referring to New York, but his words ring true in Bangkok. And the best place to feel it at night is on the river or from the top of the Baiyoke Sky Hotel — where a circular, revolving observation deck offers 360° views of the Bangkok nightscape. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Are You Amplified to Rock? +
    +

    Are You Amplified to Rock?

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.761790973148347 + 100.4934453824343 + + – + + It's a new year, are you amplified to rock? Ready, set, go. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/southeast-asia/2/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/southeast-asia/2/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..84567f3 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/southeast-asia/2/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,147 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Southeast Asia -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Southeast Asia

    +
    +
    + Are You Amplified to Rock? +
    +

    Are You Amplified to Rock?

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.761790973148347 + 100.4934453824343 + + – + + It's a new year, are you amplified to rock? Ready, set, go. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Merry Christmas 2005 +
    +

    Merry Christmas 2005

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.761790973148347 + 100.49344538243446 + + – + + Seasons Greeting from luxagraf. I'm in Bangkok, Thailand at the moment. I am taking a short break from traveling to do a little working so I don't have much to report. I've seen the two big temples down in the Khaosan Rd area, but otherwise I've been trying to live an ordinary life in Bangkok, if such a thing is possible. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/southeast-asia/3/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/southeast-asia/3/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..74cd5fb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/southeast-asia/3/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,96 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Southeast Asia -- Page 3 + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Southeast Asia

    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/southeast-asia/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/southeast-asia/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c2dc102 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/southeast-asia/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,589 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Southeast Asia -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Southeast Asia

    +
    +
    + Closing Time +
    +

    Closing Time

    + + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + 7.0586452366957175 + 98.53981016694692 + + – + + Headed back to Europe: I started to write a bit of reminiscence, trying to remember the highlights of my time in Asia before I return to the west, but about halfway through I kept thinking of a popular Buddhist saying — be here now. Most of these dispatches are written in past tense, but this time I want to simply be here now. This moment, on this train. This is the last time I'll post something from Southeast Asia. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bird of Paradise +
    +

    Bird of Paradise

    + + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + 7.308899962925842 + 99.25542353204538 + + – + + I wasn't expecting much from Ko Kradan, but in the end I discovered a slice of Thailand the way it's often describe by wistful hippies who first came here twenty years ago. Nok and Ngu and the rest of the Thais working at Paradise Lost were the nicest people I met in Thailand and Wally was by far the most laid back farang I've come across. I ended up staying on Ko Kradan for the remainder of my time in the south. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning of the End +
    +

    Beginning of the End

    + + +

    + + Koh Hai, Thailand + + 7.41778171093197 + 99.21022179617557 + + – + + I will confess to being a bit melancholy on the ferry from Ko Phi Phi to Ko Lanta. It was slowly beginning to sink in that my trip was nearly over, the money nearly gone and coming home no longer felt so far in the future. Still, it;s hard to be too melancholy in the Thai Islands, even the one's that are covered in trash. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Going Down South +
    +

    Going Down South

    + + +

    + + Koh Phi Phi, Thailand + + 7.735826857017756 + 98.77876280363327 + + – + + The Phi Phi Island Resort, where some friends were staying, is nestled on the leeward shore of Koh Phi Phi Island and posts a private beach, beautiful reef, fancy swimming pools and rooms with real sheets. Unheard of. I sauntered in a day early, acted like I owned the place, rented snorkel gear, charged it to a random room number and spent the afternoon on the reef. If only I could have put it on the Underhill's credit card. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Book of Right On +
    +

    The Book of Right On

    + + +

    + + Sinoukville, Cambodia + + 10.626275865572227 + 103.49945066918632 + + – + + The next day we continued on to Sinoukville which is Cambodia's attempt at a seaside resort. Combining the essential elements of Goa and Thailand, Sinoukville is a pleasant, if somewhat hippy-oriented, travelers haven. We rented Honda Dreams and cruised down the coast to deserted white sand beaches, thatched huts serving noodles and rice, where we watched sunsets and dodged rain storms. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Midnight in a Perfect World +
    +

    Midnight in a Perfect World

    + + +

    + + Death Island, Cambodia + + 10.438267017137903 + 104.32325361706974 + + – + + Death Island, as Rob nicknamed it, was just what I needed. The first day we sat down for lunch and ordered crab; a boy in his underwear proceeded to run out of the kitchen, swam out in the ocean and began unloading crabs from a trap into a bucket. It doesn't get much fresher than that. Throw in a nice beach, some cheap bungalows and you're away. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Angkor Wat +
    +

    Angkor Wat

    + + +

    + + Angkor Wat, Cambodia + + 13.497808126788645 + 103.89289854510803 + + – + + Roughly half a million people a year visit Angkor Wat. The first evening we decided to see just how tourist-filled Angkor was by heading to the most popular sunset temple, Phnom Bakheng, to watch the sunset. And there were a lot of tourists. Thousands of them. And that was just at one temple. Thus was hatched the plan: see Angkor in the heat of the day. Yes it will be hot. Hot hot hot. Fucking hot. But hopefully empty. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + ...Wait 'til it Blows +
    +

    …Wait ‘til it Blows

    + + +

    + + Seam Reap, Cambodia + + 13.361228724078332 + 103.86148451313011 + + – + + One the things I may have failed to mention thus far in my Cambodia reportage is that this was/is one of the most heavily mined areas in the world. You might think that removing landmines involves sophisticated technology of the sort you see in BBC documentaries on Bosnia, but here in Cambodia landmine removal is most often handled by the technological marvel of southeast Asia — the bamboo stick. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning to See the Light +
    +

    Beginning to See the Light

    + + +

    + + Floating Village, Cambodia + + 12.821174848475923 + 104.04052732926735 + + – + + Surprisingly, a floating village is not that different than a village on the land. There are the same stores, the computer repair shop, the grocers, the petrol station, the temple, the dance hall and all the other things that makeup a town. I could even say with some authority that the town is laid out in streets, watery pathways that form nearly perfect lines. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Blood on the Tracks +
    +

    Blood on the Tracks

    + + +

    + + Phenom Phen, Cambodia + + 11.56597559052094 + 104.92750166386062 + + – + + As I mentioned in the last entry I came down with a bit of a fever for a few days. This was accompanied by what we in the group have come to term, for lack of a nicer, but equally descriptive phrase — pissing out the ass. It's not a pretty picture. Nor is it a pleasant experience, and consequently I don't have a real clear recollection of the journey from Ban Lung to Kratie or from Kratie out to Sen Monoron. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ticket To Ride +
    +

    Ticket To Ride

    + + +

    + + Ban Lung, Cambodia + + 13.734549299840165 + 106.97941301763984 + + – + + I can't see. My eyebrows are orange with dust. I cannot see them, but I know they must be; they were yesterday. Every now and then when her legs clench down on my hips or her fingernails dig into my shoulders, I remember Debi is behind me and I am more or less responsible for not killing both of us. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Little Corner of the World +
    +

    Little Corner of the World

    + + +

    + + Four Thousand Islands, Lao (PDR) + + 14.130915842740961 + 105.83782194571636 + + – + + It's difficult to explain but the further south you go in Laos the more relaxed life becomes. Since life in the north is not exactly high stress, by the time we arrived in the four thousand Islands we had to check our pulse periodically to ensure that time was in fact still moving forward. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Can&#8217;t Get There From Here +
    +

    Can’t Get There From Here

    + + +

    + + Attapeu, Lao (PDR) + + 14.806085524831946 + 106.83689115944449 + + – + + The most magical light in Laos lives on the Bolevan Plateau. For some reason not many tourists seem to make it out to the Bolevan Plateau, in spite of the fact that the roads are quite good, transport runs regularly, the villages peaceful, even sleepy, little hamlets. In short, the Bolevan Plateau is wonderful, and not the least in part because no one else is there. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Safe as Milk +
    +

    Safe as Milk

    + + +

    + + Sekong, Lao (PDR) + + 14.623949505069236 + 106.5756225437582 + + – + + You would think, if you were the United States and you were illegally and unofficially bombing a foreign country you might not want to stamp "US Bomb" on the side of your bombs, and yet there it was all over Laos: "US Bomb." Clearly somebody didn't think things all the way through, especially given that roughly one third of said bombs failed to explode. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Everyday the Fourteenth +
    +

    Everyday the Fourteenth

    + + +

    + + Savannakhet, Lao (PDR) + + 16.560435757136183 + 104.75026129218114 + + – + + We piled four large bags, four daypacks and five people in a six meter dugout canoe. The boat was powered by the ever-present-in-southeast-Asia long tail motor which is essential a lawnmower engine with a three meter pole extending out of it to which a small propeller is attached — perfect for navigating shallow water. And by shallow I mean sometimes a mere inch between the hull and the riverbed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Water Slides and Spirit Guides +
    +

    Water Slides and Spirit Guides

    + + +

    + + Konglor Cave, Lao (PDR) + + 18.06285035750356 + 104.49783323740189 + + – + + The dramatic black karst limestone mountains ringing Ban Na Hin grew darker as the light faded. I was sitting alone on the back porch of our guesthouse watching the light slowly disappear from the bottoms of the clouds and wondering absently how many pages it would take to explain how I came to be in the tiny town of Ban Na Hin, or if such an explanation even really existed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Lovely Universe +
    +

    The Lovely Universe

    + + +

    + + Vang Vieng, Lao (PDR) + + 18.92544862065571 + 102.43755339150223 + + – + + I would like to say that I have something memorable to write about Vang Vieng, but the truth is we mostly sat around doing very little, making new friends, drinking a beer around the fire and waiting out the Chinese new year celebrations, which meant none of us could get Cambodian visas until the following Monday. We were forced to relax beside the river for several more days than we intended. Yes friends, traveling is hard, but I do it for you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan +
    +

    I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan

    + + +

    + + Luang Nam Tha, Lao (PDR) + + 20.853678554651314 + 101.19094847224211 + + – + + The next time someone asks you, “would you like to live in a tree house and travel five hundred feet above the ground attached to a zip wire?” I highly suggest you say, “yes, where do a I sign up?” If you happen to be in Laos, try the Gibbon Experience. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Hymn of the Big Wheel +
    +

    Hymn of the Big Wheel

    + + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + 19.827433510057354 + 102.42279051308633 + + – + + Jose Saramago writes in The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis that the gods "journey like us in the river of things, differing from us only because we call them gods and sometimes believe in them." Sitting in the middle of the river listening to the gurgle of water moving over stone and around trees I began to think that perhaps this is the sound of some lost language, a sound capable of creating mountains, valleys, estuaries, isthmuses and all the other forms around us, gurgling and sonorous but without clear meaning, shrouded in turquoise, a mystery through which we can move our sense of wonder intact. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Down the River +
    +

    Down the River

    + + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + 19.875064447947235 + 102.13199614056808 + + – + + Morning in Chiang Khong Thailand revealed itself as a foggy, and not a little mysterious, affair with the far shore of the Mekong, the Laos shore, almost completely hidden in a veil of mist. The first ferry crossed at eight and I was on it, looking to meet up with the slow boat to Luang Prabang. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers

    + + +

    + + Doi Inthanan National Park, Thailand + + 19.315031381446268 + 98.84262083585028 + + – + + The light outside the windows was still a pre-dawn inky blue when the freezing cold water hit my back. A cold shower at six thirty in the morning is infinitely more powerful, albeit not at long lasting, as a cup of coffee. After dropping my body temperature a few degrees and having no towel to dry off with, just a dirty shirt and ceaseless ceiling fan, a cup of tea seemed like a good idea so I stopped in at the restaurant downstairs and, after a cup of hot water with some Jasmine leaves swirling at the bottom of it, I climbed on my rental motorbike and set out for Doi Inthanan National Park. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You and I Are Disappearing +
    +

    You and I Are Disappearing

    + + +

    + + Chang Mai, Thailand + + 18.787042343613653 + 98.9876746993555 + + – + + The all night bus reached Chiang Mai well past dawn, the city already beginning to stir. I considered trying to nap, but in the end decided to explore the town. What better way to see Buddhist temples than in the dreamy fog of sleeplessness? Chiang Mai has over three hundred wats within the somewhat sprawling city limits, most of them reasonably modern and, in my opinion, not worth visiting. I narrowed the field to three, which I figured was a nice round one percent. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Buddha on the Bounty +
    +

    Buddha on the Bounty

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.726128126466529 + 100.547304139446 + + – + + The house Jim Thompson left behind in Bangkok is gorgeous, but the real charm is the garden and its orchids. I wandered around the gardens which really aren't that large for some time and then found a bench near a collection of orchids, where I sat for the better part of an hour, occasionally taking a photograph or two, but mostly thinking about how human orchids are. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Brink of the Clouds +
    +

    Brink of the Clouds

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.750921779579318 + 100.54314135105552 + + – + + "The city is a cathedral" writes James Salter, "its scent is dreams." Salter may have been referring to New York, but his words ring true in Bangkok. And the best place to feel it at night is on the river or from the top of the Baiyoke Sky Hotel — where a circular, revolving observation deck offers 360° views of the Bangkok nightscape. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/southeast-asiindex.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/southeast-asiindex.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fb4e824 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/southeast-asiindex.html @@ -0,0 +1,589 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Southeast Asia -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Southeast Asia

    +
    +
    + Closing Time +
    +

    Closing Time

    + + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + 7.0586452366957175 + 98.53981016694692 + + – + + Headed back to Europe: I started to write a bit of reminiscence, trying to remember the highlights of my time in Asia before I return to the west, but about halfway through I kept thinking of a popular Buddhist saying — be here now. Most of these dispatches are written in past tense, but this time I want to simply be here now. This moment, on this train. This is the last time I'll post something from Southeast Asia. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bird of Paradise +
    +

    Bird of Paradise

    + + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + 7.308899962925842 + 99.25542353204538 + + – + + I wasn't expecting much from Ko Kradan, but in the end I discovered a slice of Thailand the way it's often describe by wistful hippies who first came here twenty years ago. Nok and Ngu and the rest of the Thais working at Paradise Lost were the nicest people I met in Thailand and Wally was by far the most laid back farang I've come across. I ended up staying on Ko Kradan for the remainder of my time in the south. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning of the End +
    +

    Beginning of the End

    + + +

    + + Koh Hai, Thailand + + 7.41778171093197 + 99.21022179617557 + + – + + I will confess to being a bit melancholy on the ferry from Ko Phi Phi to Ko Lanta. It was slowly beginning to sink in that my trip was nearly over, the money nearly gone and coming home no longer felt so far in the future. Still, it;s hard to be too melancholy in the Thai Islands, even the one's that are covered in trash. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Going Down South +
    +

    Going Down South

    + + +

    + + Koh Phi Phi, Thailand + + 7.735826857017756 + 98.77876280363327 + + – + + The Phi Phi Island Resort, where some friends were staying, is nestled on the leeward shore of Koh Phi Phi Island and posts a private beach, beautiful reef, fancy swimming pools and rooms with real sheets. Unheard of. I sauntered in a day early, acted like I owned the place, rented snorkel gear, charged it to a random room number and spent the afternoon on the reef. If only I could have put it on the Underhill's credit card. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Book of Right On +
    +

    The Book of Right On

    + + +

    + + Sinoukville, Cambodia + + 10.626275865572227 + 103.49945066918632 + + – + + The next day we continued on to Sinoukville which is Cambodia's attempt at a seaside resort. Combining the essential elements of Goa and Thailand, Sinoukville is a pleasant, if somewhat hippy-oriented, travelers haven. We rented Honda Dreams and cruised down the coast to deserted white sand beaches, thatched huts serving noodles and rice, where we watched sunsets and dodged rain storms. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Midnight in a Perfect World +
    +

    Midnight in a Perfect World

    + + +

    + + Death Island, Cambodia + + 10.438267017137903 + 104.32325361706974 + + – + + Death Island, as Rob nicknamed it, was just what I needed. The first day we sat down for lunch and ordered crab; a boy in his underwear proceeded to run out of the kitchen, swam out in the ocean and began unloading crabs from a trap into a bucket. It doesn't get much fresher than that. Throw in a nice beach, some cheap bungalows and you're away. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Angkor Wat +
    +

    Angkor Wat

    + + +

    + + Angkor Wat, Cambodia + + 13.497808126788645 + 103.89289854510803 + + – + + Roughly half a million people a year visit Angkor Wat. The first evening we decided to see just how tourist-filled Angkor was by heading to the most popular sunset temple, Phnom Bakheng, to watch the sunset. And there were a lot of tourists. Thousands of them. And that was just at one temple. Thus was hatched the plan: see Angkor in the heat of the day. Yes it will be hot. Hot hot hot. Fucking hot. But hopefully empty. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + ...Wait 'til it Blows +
    +

    …Wait ‘til it Blows

    + + +

    + + Seam Reap, Cambodia + + 13.361228724078332 + 103.86148451313011 + + – + + One the things I may have failed to mention thus far in my Cambodia reportage is that this was/is one of the most heavily mined areas in the world. You might think that removing landmines involves sophisticated technology of the sort you see in BBC documentaries on Bosnia, but here in Cambodia landmine removal is most often handled by the technological marvel of southeast Asia — the bamboo stick. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning to See the Light +
    +

    Beginning to See the Light

    + + +

    + + Floating Village, Cambodia + + 12.821174848475923 + 104.04052732926735 + + – + + Surprisingly, a floating village is not that different than a village on the land. There are the same stores, the computer repair shop, the grocers, the petrol station, the temple, the dance hall and all the other things that makeup a town. I could even say with some authority that the town is laid out in streets, watery pathways that form nearly perfect lines. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Blood on the Tracks +
    +

    Blood on the Tracks

    + + +

    + + Phenom Phen, Cambodia + + 11.56597559052094 + 104.92750166386062 + + – + + As I mentioned in the last entry I came down with a bit of a fever for a few days. This was accompanied by what we in the group have come to term, for lack of a nicer, but equally descriptive phrase — pissing out the ass. It's not a pretty picture. Nor is it a pleasant experience, and consequently I don't have a real clear recollection of the journey from Ban Lung to Kratie or from Kratie out to Sen Monoron. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ticket To Ride +
    +

    Ticket To Ride

    + + +

    + + Ban Lung, Cambodia + + 13.734549299840165 + 106.97941301763984 + + – + + I can't see. My eyebrows are orange with dust. I cannot see them, but I know they must be; they were yesterday. Every now and then when her legs clench down on my hips or her fingernails dig into my shoulders, I remember Debi is behind me and I am more or less responsible for not killing both of us. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Little Corner of the World +
    +

    Little Corner of the World

    + + +

    + + Four Thousand Islands, Lao (PDR) + + 14.130915842740961 + 105.83782194571636 + + – + + It's difficult to explain but the further south you go in Laos the more relaxed life becomes. Since life in the north is not exactly high stress, by the time we arrived in the four thousand Islands we had to check our pulse periodically to ensure that time was in fact still moving forward. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Can&#8217;t Get There From Here +
    +

    Can’t Get There From Here

    + + +

    + + Attapeu, Lao (PDR) + + 14.806085524831946 + 106.83689115944449 + + – + + The most magical light in Laos lives on the Bolevan Plateau. For some reason not many tourists seem to make it out to the Bolevan Plateau, in spite of the fact that the roads are quite good, transport runs regularly, the villages peaceful, even sleepy, little hamlets. In short, the Bolevan Plateau is wonderful, and not the least in part because no one else is there. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Safe as Milk +
    +

    Safe as Milk

    + + +

    + + Sekong, Lao (PDR) + + 14.623949505069236 + 106.5756225437582 + + – + + You would think, if you were the United States and you were illegally and unofficially bombing a foreign country you might not want to stamp "US Bomb" on the side of your bombs, and yet there it was all over Laos: "US Bomb." Clearly somebody didn't think things all the way through, especially given that roughly one third of said bombs failed to explode. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Everyday the Fourteenth +
    +

    Everyday the Fourteenth

    + + +

    + + Savannakhet, Lao (PDR) + + 16.560435757136183 + 104.75026129218114 + + – + + We piled four large bags, four daypacks and five people in a six meter dugout canoe. The boat was powered by the ever-present-in-southeast-Asia long tail motor which is essential a lawnmower engine with a three meter pole extending out of it to which a small propeller is attached — perfect for navigating shallow water. And by shallow I mean sometimes a mere inch between the hull and the riverbed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Water Slides and Spirit Guides +
    +

    Water Slides and Spirit Guides

    + + +

    + + Konglor Cave, Lao (PDR) + + 18.06285035750356 + 104.49783323740189 + + – + + The dramatic black karst limestone mountains ringing Ban Na Hin grew darker as the light faded. I was sitting alone on the back porch of our guesthouse watching the light slowly disappear from the bottoms of the clouds and wondering absently how many pages it would take to explain how I came to be in the tiny town of Ban Na Hin, or if such an explanation even really existed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Lovely Universe +
    +

    The Lovely Universe

    + + +

    + + Vang Vieng, Lao (PDR) + + 18.92544862065571 + 102.43755339150223 + + – + + I would like to say that I have something memorable to write about Vang Vieng, but the truth is we mostly sat around doing very little, making new friends, drinking a beer around the fire and waiting out the Chinese new year celebrations, which meant none of us could get Cambodian visas until the following Monday. We were forced to relax beside the river for several more days than we intended. Yes friends, traveling is hard, but I do it for you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan +
    +

    I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan

    + + +

    + + Luang Nam Tha, Lao (PDR) + + 20.853678554651314 + 101.19094847224211 + + – + + The next time someone asks you, “would you like to live in a tree house and travel five hundred feet above the ground attached to a zip wire?” I highly suggest you say, “yes, where do a I sign up?” If you happen to be in Laos, try the Gibbon Experience. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Hymn of the Big Wheel +
    +

    Hymn of the Big Wheel

    + + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + 19.827433510057354 + 102.42279051308633 + + – + + Jose Saramago writes in The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis that the gods "journey like us in the river of things, differing from us only because we call them gods and sometimes believe in them." Sitting in the middle of the river listening to the gurgle of water moving over stone and around trees I began to think that perhaps this is the sound of some lost language, a sound capable of creating mountains, valleys, estuaries, isthmuses and all the other forms around us, gurgling and sonorous but without clear meaning, shrouded in turquoise, a mystery through which we can move our sense of wonder intact. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Down the River +
    +

    Down the River

    + + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + 19.875064447947235 + 102.13199614056808 + + – + + Morning in Chiang Khong Thailand revealed itself as a foggy, and not a little mysterious, affair with the far shore of the Mekong, the Laos shore, almost completely hidden in a veil of mist. The first ferry crossed at eight and I was on it, looking to meet up with the slow boat to Luang Prabang. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers

    + + +

    + + Doi Inthanan National Park, Thailand + + 19.315031381446268 + 98.84262083585028 + + – + + The light outside the windows was still a pre-dawn inky blue when the freezing cold water hit my back. A cold shower at six thirty in the morning is infinitely more powerful, albeit not at long lasting, as a cup of coffee. After dropping my body temperature a few degrees and having no towel to dry off with, just a dirty shirt and ceaseless ceiling fan, a cup of tea seemed like a good idea so I stopped in at the restaurant downstairs and, after a cup of hot water with some Jasmine leaves swirling at the bottom of it, I climbed on my rental motorbike and set out for Doi Inthanan National Park. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You and I Are Disappearing +
    +

    You and I Are Disappearing

    + + +

    + + Chang Mai, Thailand + + 18.787042343613653 + 98.9876746993555 + + – + + The all night bus reached Chiang Mai well past dawn, the city already beginning to stir. I considered trying to nap, but in the end decided to explore the town. What better way to see Buddhist temples than in the dreamy fog of sleeplessness? Chiang Mai has over three hundred wats within the somewhat sprawling city limits, most of them reasonably modern and, in my opinion, not worth visiting. I narrowed the field to three, which I figured was a nice round one percent. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Buddha on the Bounty +
    +

    Buddha on the Bounty

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.726128126466529 + 100.547304139446 + + – + + The house Jim Thompson left behind in Bangkok is gorgeous, but the real charm is the garden and its orchids. I wandered around the gardens which really aren't that large for some time and then found a bench near a collection of orchids, where I sat for the better part of an hour, occasionally taking a photograph or two, but mostly thinking about how human orchids are. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Brink of the Clouds +
    +

    Brink of the Clouds

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.750921779579318 + 100.54314135105552 + + – + + "The city is a cathedral" writes James Salter, "its scent is dreams." Salter may have been referring to New York, but his words ring true in Bangkok. And the best place to feel it at night is on the river or from the top of the Baiyoke Sky Hotel — where a circular, revolving observation deck offers 360° views of the Bangkok nightscape. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/thailand/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/thailand/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8038b54 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/thailand/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,278 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Thailand + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Thailand

    +
    +
    + Closing Time +
    +

    Closing Time

    + + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + 7.0586452366957175 + 98.53981016694692 + + – + + Headed back to Europe: I started to write a bit of reminiscence, trying to remember the highlights of my time in Asia before I return to the west, but about halfway through I kept thinking of a popular Buddhist saying — be here now. Most of these dispatches are written in past tense, but this time I want to simply be here now. This moment, on this train. This is the last time I'll post something from Southeast Asia. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning of the End +
    +

    Beginning of the End

    + + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + 7.4090692758064645 + 99.207916245987 + + – + + I wasn't expecting much from Ko Kradan, but in the end I discovered a slice of Thailand the way it's often describe by wistful hippies who first came here twenty years ago. Tong and Ngu and the rest of the Thais working at Paradise Lost were the nicest people I met in Thailand and Wally was by far the most laid back farang I've come across. I ended up staying on Ko Kradan for the remainder of my time in the south. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Going Down South +
    +

    Going Down South

    + + +

    + + Koh Phi Phi, Thailand + + 7.735826857017756 + 98.77876280363327 + + – + + The Phi Phi Island Resort, where some friends were staying, is nestled on the leeward shore of Koh Phi Phi Island and posts a private beach, beautiful reef, fancy swimming pools and rooms with real sheets. Unheard of. I sauntered in a day early, acted like I owned the place, rented snorkel gear, charged it to a random room number and spent the afternoon on the reef. If only I could have put it on the Underhill's credit card. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers

    + + +

    + + Doi Inthanan National Park, Thailand + + 19.315031381446268 + 98.84262083585028 + + – + + The light outside the windows was still a pre-dawn inky blue when the freezing cold water hit my back. A cold shower at six thirty in the morning is infinitely more powerful, albeit not at long lasting, as a cup of coffee. After dropping my body temperature a few degrees and having no towel to dry off with, just a dirty shirt and ceaseless ceiling fan, a cup of tea seemed like a good idea so I stopped in at the restaurant downstairs and, after a cup of hot water with some Jasmine leaves swirling at the bottom of it, I climbed on my rental motorbike and set out for Doi Inthanan National Park. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You and I Are Disappearing +
    +

    You and I Are Disappearing

    + + +

    + + Chang Mai, Thailand + + 18.787042343613653 + 98.9876746993555 + + – + + The all night bus reached Chiang Mai well past dawn, the city already beginning to stir. I considered trying to nap, but in the end decided to explore the town. What better way to see Buddhist temples than in the dreamy fog of sleeplessness? Chiang Mai has over three hundred wats within the somewhat sprawling city limits, most of them reasonably modern and, in my opinion, not worth visiting. I narrowed the field to three, which I figured was a nice round one percent. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Buddha on the Bounty +
    +

    Buddha on the Bounty

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.726128126466529 + 100.547304139446 + + – + + The house Jim Thompson left behind in Bangkok is gorgeous, but the real charm is the garden and its orchids. I wandered around the gardens which really aren't that large for some time and then found a bench near a collection of orchids, where I sat for the better part of an hour, occasionally taking a photograph or two, but mostly thinking about how human orchids are. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Brink of the Clouds +
    +

    Brink of the Clouds

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.750921779579318 + 100.54314135105552 + + – + + "The city is a cathedral" writes James Salter, "its scent is dreams." Salter may have been referring to New York, but his words ring true in Bangkok. And the best place to feel it at night is on the river or from the top of the Baiyoke Sky Hotel — where a circular, revolving observation deck offers 360° views of the Bangkok nightscape. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Are You Amplified to Rock? +
    +

    Are You Amplified to Rock?

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.761790973148347 + 100.4934453824343 + + – + + It's a new year, are you amplified to rock? Ready, set, go. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Merry Christmas 2005 +
    +

    Merry Christmas 2005

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.761790973148347 + 100.49344538243446 + + – + + Seasons Greeting from luxagraf. I'm in Bangkok, Thailand at the moment. I am taking a short break from traveling to do a little working so I don't have much to report. I've seen the two big temples down in the Khaosan Rd area, but otherwise I've been trying to live an ordinary life in Bangkok, if such a thing is possible. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/thailand/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/thailand/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ed6f12e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/thailand/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,303 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Thailand -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Thailand

    +
    +
    + Closing Time +
    +

    Closing Time

    + + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + 7.0586452366957175 + 98.53981016694692 + + – + + Headed back to Europe: I started to write a bit of reminiscence, trying to remember the highlights of my time in Asia before I return to the west, but about halfway through I kept thinking of a popular Buddhist saying — be here now. Most of these dispatches are written in past tense, but this time I want to simply be here now. This moment, on this train. This is the last time I'll post something from Southeast Asia. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bird of Paradise +
    +

    Bird of Paradise

    + + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + 7.308899962925842 + 99.25542353204538 + + – + + I wasn't expecting much from Ko Kradan, but in the end I discovered a slice of Thailand the way it's often describe by wistful hippies who first came here twenty years ago. Nok and Ngu and the rest of the Thais working at Paradise Lost were the nicest people I met in Thailand and Wally was by far the most laid back farang I've come across. I ended up staying on Ko Kradan for the remainder of my time in the south. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning of the End +
    +

    Beginning of the End

    + + +

    + + Koh Hai, Thailand + + 7.41778171093197 + 99.21022179617557 + + – + + I will confess to being a bit melancholy on the ferry from Ko Phi Phi to Ko Lanta. It was slowly beginning to sink in that my trip was nearly over, the money nearly gone and coming home no longer felt so far in the future. Still, it;s hard to be too melancholy in the Thai Islands, even the one's that are covered in trash. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Going Down South +
    +

    Going Down South

    + + +

    + + Koh Phi Phi, Thailand + + 7.735826857017756 + 98.77876280363327 + + – + + The Phi Phi Island Resort, where some friends were staying, is nestled on the leeward shore of Koh Phi Phi Island and posts a private beach, beautiful reef, fancy swimming pools and rooms with real sheets. Unheard of. I sauntered in a day early, acted like I owned the place, rented snorkel gear, charged it to a random room number and spent the afternoon on the reef. If only I could have put it on the Underhill's credit card. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers

    + + +

    + + Doi Inthanan National Park, Thailand + + 19.315031381446268 + 98.84262083585028 + + – + + The light outside the windows was still a pre-dawn inky blue when the freezing cold water hit my back. A cold shower at six thirty in the morning is infinitely more powerful, albeit not at long lasting, as a cup of coffee. After dropping my body temperature a few degrees and having no towel to dry off with, just a dirty shirt and ceaseless ceiling fan, a cup of tea seemed like a good idea so I stopped in at the restaurant downstairs and, after a cup of hot water with some Jasmine leaves swirling at the bottom of it, I climbed on my rental motorbike and set out for Doi Inthanan National Park. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You and I Are Disappearing +
    +

    You and I Are Disappearing

    + + +

    + + Chang Mai, Thailand + + 18.787042343613653 + 98.9876746993555 + + – + + The all night bus reached Chiang Mai well past dawn, the city already beginning to stir. I considered trying to nap, but in the end decided to explore the town. What better way to see Buddhist temples than in the dreamy fog of sleeplessness? Chiang Mai has over three hundred wats within the somewhat sprawling city limits, most of them reasonably modern and, in my opinion, not worth visiting. I narrowed the field to three, which I figured was a nice round one percent. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Buddha on the Bounty +
    +

    Buddha on the Bounty

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.726128126466529 + 100.547304139446 + + – + + The house Jim Thompson left behind in Bangkok is gorgeous, but the real charm is the garden and its orchids. I wandered around the gardens which really aren't that large for some time and then found a bench near a collection of orchids, where I sat for the better part of an hour, occasionally taking a photograph or two, but mostly thinking about how human orchids are. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Brink of the Clouds +
    +

    Brink of the Clouds

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.750921779579318 + 100.54314135105552 + + – + + "The city is a cathedral" writes James Salter, "its scent is dreams." Salter may have been referring to New York, but his words ring true in Bangkok. And the best place to feel it at night is on the river or from the top of the Baiyoke Sky Hotel — where a circular, revolving observation deck offers 360° views of the Bangkok nightscape. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Are You Amplified to Rock? +
    +

    Are You Amplified to Rock?

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.761790973148347 + 100.4934453824343 + + – + + It's a new year, are you amplified to rock? Ready, set, go. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Merry Christmas 2005 +
    +

    Merry Christmas 2005

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.761790973148347 + 100.49344538243446 + + – + + Seasons Greeting from luxagraf. I'm in Bangkok, Thailand at the moment. I am taking a short break from traveling to do a little working so I don't have much to report. I've seen the two big temples down in the Khaosan Rd area, but otherwise I've been trying to live an ordinary life in Bangkok, if such a thing is possible. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/thailanindex.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/thailanindex.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4928c76 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/thailanindex.html @@ -0,0 +1,303 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Thailand -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from Thailand

    +
    +
    + Closing Time +
    +

    Closing Time

    + + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + 7.0586452366957175 + 98.53981016694692 + + – + + Headed back to Europe: I started to write a bit of reminiscence, trying to remember the highlights of my time in Asia before I return to the west, but about halfway through I kept thinking of a popular Buddhist saying — be here now. Most of these dispatches are written in past tense, but this time I want to simply be here now. This moment, on this train. This is the last time I'll post something from Southeast Asia. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bird of Paradise +
    +

    Bird of Paradise

    + + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + 7.308899962925842 + 99.25542353204538 + + – + + I wasn't expecting much from Ko Kradan, but in the end I discovered a slice of Thailand the way it's often describe by wistful hippies who first came here twenty years ago. Nok and Ngu and the rest of the Thais working at Paradise Lost were the nicest people I met in Thailand and Wally was by far the most laid back farang I've come across. I ended up staying on Ko Kradan for the remainder of my time in the south. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning of the End +
    +

    Beginning of the End

    + + +

    + + Koh Hai, Thailand + + 7.41778171093197 + 99.21022179617557 + + – + + I will confess to being a bit melancholy on the ferry from Ko Phi Phi to Ko Lanta. It was slowly beginning to sink in that my trip was nearly over, the money nearly gone and coming home no longer felt so far in the future. Still, it;s hard to be too melancholy in the Thai Islands, even the one's that are covered in trash. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Going Down South +
    +

    Going Down South

    + + +

    + + Koh Phi Phi, Thailand + + 7.735826857017756 + 98.77876280363327 + + – + + The Phi Phi Island Resort, where some friends were staying, is nestled on the leeward shore of Koh Phi Phi Island and posts a private beach, beautiful reef, fancy swimming pools and rooms with real sheets. Unheard of. I sauntered in a day early, acted like I owned the place, rented snorkel gear, charged it to a random room number and spent the afternoon on the reef. If only I could have put it on the Underhill's credit card. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers

    + + +

    + + Doi Inthanan National Park, Thailand + + 19.315031381446268 + 98.84262083585028 + + – + + The light outside the windows was still a pre-dawn inky blue when the freezing cold water hit my back. A cold shower at six thirty in the morning is infinitely more powerful, albeit not at long lasting, as a cup of coffee. After dropping my body temperature a few degrees and having no towel to dry off with, just a dirty shirt and ceaseless ceiling fan, a cup of tea seemed like a good idea so I stopped in at the restaurant downstairs and, after a cup of hot water with some Jasmine leaves swirling at the bottom of it, I climbed on my rental motorbike and set out for Doi Inthanan National Park. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You and I Are Disappearing +
    +

    You and I Are Disappearing

    + + +

    + + Chang Mai, Thailand + + 18.787042343613653 + 98.9876746993555 + + – + + The all night bus reached Chiang Mai well past dawn, the city already beginning to stir. I considered trying to nap, but in the end decided to explore the town. What better way to see Buddhist temples than in the dreamy fog of sleeplessness? Chiang Mai has over three hundred wats within the somewhat sprawling city limits, most of them reasonably modern and, in my opinion, not worth visiting. I narrowed the field to three, which I figured was a nice round one percent. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Buddha on the Bounty +
    +

    Buddha on the Bounty

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.726128126466529 + 100.547304139446 + + – + + The house Jim Thompson left behind in Bangkok is gorgeous, but the real charm is the garden and its orchids. I wandered around the gardens which really aren't that large for some time and then found a bench near a collection of orchids, where I sat for the better part of an hour, occasionally taking a photograph or two, but mostly thinking about how human orchids are. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Brink of the Clouds +
    +

    Brink of the Clouds

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.750921779579318 + 100.54314135105552 + + – + + "The city is a cathedral" writes James Salter, "its scent is dreams." Salter may have been referring to New York, but his words ring true in Bangkok. And the best place to feel it at night is on the river or from the top of the Baiyoke Sky Hotel — where a circular, revolving observation deck offers 360° views of the Bangkok nightscape. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Are You Amplified to Rock? +
    +

    Are You Amplified to Rock?

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.761790973148347 + 100.4934453824343 + + – + + It's a new year, are you amplified to rock? Ready, set, go. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Merry Christmas 2005 +
    +

    Merry Christmas 2005

    + + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + 13.761790973148347 + 100.49344538243446 + + – + + Seasons Greeting from luxagraf. I'm in Bangkok, Thailand at the moment. I am taking a short break from traveling to do a little working so I don't have much to report. I've seen the two big temples down in the Khaosan Rd area, but otherwise I've been trying to live an ordinary life in Bangkok, if such a thing is possible. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-kingdoindex.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-kingdoindex.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1655b97 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-kingdoindex.html @@ -0,0 +1,122 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from United Kingdom -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from United Kingdom

    +
    +
    + London Calling +
    +

    London Calling

    + + +

    + + London, United Kingdom + + 51.55119204682159 + -0.1495599746495864 + + – + + London: The British don't want me -- no money, no proof I'm leaving and no real reason for coming, good lord, I must be a vagabond, up to no good, surely. Eventually the customs agent relents and lets me in, a favor I repay by nearly burning down one of London's bigger parks. Seriously. + +

    +
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    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-kingdom/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-kingdom/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ff2ff5f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-kingdom/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,116 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from United Kingdom + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from United Kingdom

    +
    +
    + London Calling +
    +

    London Calling

    + + +

    + + London, United Kingdom + + 51.55119204682159 + -0.1495599746495864 + + – + + London: The British don't want me -- no money, no proof I'm leaving and no real reason for coming, good lord, I must be a vagabond, up to no good, surely. Eventually the customs agent relents and lets me in, a favor I repay by nearly burning down one of London's bigger parks. Seriously. + +

    +
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    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-kingdom/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-kingdom/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a94715b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-kingdom/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,122 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from United Kingdom -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from United Kingdom

    +
    +
    + London Calling +
    +

    London Calling

    + + +

    + + London, United Kingdom + + 51.55119204682159 + -0.1495599746495864 + + – + + London: The British don't want me -- no money, no proof I'm leaving and no real reason for coming, good lord, I must be a vagabond, up to no good, surely. Eventually the customs agent relents and lets me in, a favor I repay by nearly burning down one of London's bigger parks. Seriously. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-stateindex.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-stateindex.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..72b7062 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-stateindex.html @@ -0,0 +1,592 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from United States -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from the United States

    +
    +
    + Eastbound & Down +
    +

    Eastbound & Down

    + + +

    + + Kerrville, Texas, U.S. + + 30.003937578862942 + -99.12746185387483 + + – + + Next year we'll winter in Mexico, but for now we're headed back to one of our favorite places -- the Gulf Coast. Naturally we didn't just drive straight there, we detoured up to Carlsbad Caverns before making a mad dash across Texas to the coast. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Ghost of Cochise +
    +

    The Ghost of Cochise

    + + +

    + + Dragoon Mountains, Arizona, U.S. + + 31.84049609721996 + -109.92530578547527 + + – + + Every time I've been here odd things have happened. I have seen strange shapes in the shadows, heard whispers whipping through the wind, and found some downright hard to explain things. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + A Long Errand +
    +

    A Long Errand

    + + +

    + + Catalina State Park, Arizona, U.S. + + 32.42613099108599 + -110.9155344382878 + + – + + While we were in Tucson Corrinne and the kids stayed with the bus while I grabbed a flight up to Reno where I met my uncle and we drove back down to his house to pick up our new dinghy -- a 1983 Volvo 240 wagon. It's the best car we've ever owned. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You're All I Need to Get By +
    +

    You’re All I Need to Get By

    + + +

    + + Catalina State Park, Arizona, U.S. + + 32.427652391812835 + -110.91665023724731 + + – + + It was good to get back into the desert, into wide open wild spaces. It's worth remembering that Nature is everywhere, even downtown Manhattan, there is in fact nothing but Nature. That said, it's undeniably nicer for those of us who enjoy them, to be in less inhabited, vast tracts of wild, which is exactly what we had outside of Gila Bend, AZ. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Escaping California +
    +

    Escaping California

    + + +

    + + Painted Rocks Petroglyph Area, Arizona, U.S. + + 33.02151850199567 + -113.0501865757584 + + – + + There might have been a good bit of cheering in the bus as we crossed over the Colorado River, out of California and into Arizona. California wore us down. It's not a place we like. As my daughter put it, "everything is dead in California, there's no flowers or butterflies, I love flowers and butterflies." + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Funland at the Beach +
    +

    Funland at the Beach

    + + +

    + + Newport Beach, California, U.S. + + 33.631708923621495 + -117.9022383100234 + + – + + I suck at waiting. We all suck at waiting actually, which is why after four days waiting around in the desert left us feeling a little stir crazy. We thought, screw the calendar, let's do Christmas now. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week +
    +

    The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week

    + + +

    + + Palm Springs, California, U.S. + + 33.76420806670276 + -116.43985503996053 + + – + + Sometimes things do not go as planned. I came down with a sinus infection that gave me a fever of 104 and took three rounds of antibiotics to put down and forced us to spend a few days in Bakersfield. We we left I was pretty doped up on cold medicine, but we really wanted to get out of Bakerfield so we went for it. About half way up Tehachapi pass oil was spraying out the right side of the engine and that was that. I pulled over and called AAA. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Aquarium Kings +
    +

    Aquarium Kings

    + + +

    + + King City, California, U.S. + + 36.20658011394801 + -121.14895576255992 + + – + + After so much time away from the bus it was good to be on the road again. We headed down to Monterey to visit some friends and take the kids to aquarium. From there we continued south and inland, making an unscheduled, but thoroughly enjoyable stop in the lovely King City, CA. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The City +
    +

    The City

    + + +

    + + San Francisco, California, U.S. + + 37.80126393315256 + -122.42681378125286 + + – + + Visiting the city on our way to Thanksgiving. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Absence of Glass Beach +
    +

    The Absence of Glass Beach

    + + +

    + + Mendocino Coast, California, U.S. + + 39.48050112619824 + -123.80275481919242 + + – + + After Halloween we made our way south, ducking inland and around the Lost Coast, down to Fort Bragg where we finally, for a few days at least got some sunshine. Glass beach though? That's long gone thanks to good old American greed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Halloween and the Big Trees +
    +

    Halloween and the Big Trees

    + + +

    + + Patrick’s Point, California, U.S. + + 41.138628503323744 + -124.15792220805898 + + – + + Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. It's got all the good elements of ritual to it, costumes, masks, sounds, night, and obliquely somewhere in there, veneration of the dead. For one moment, one evening, everyone is something they're not and somehow more themselves for it. The masks of everyday life get replaced with masks of our choosing, if only for one night. Plus, candy. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Through +
    +

    Through

    + + +

    + + Patrick’s Point, California, U.S. + + 41.14114944646635 + -124.15835136151323 + + – + + Good or bad you have to go through, not around. This is easy when life is good. When there are problems it gets more difficult. But still. The only way out is through. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Pacific Sense +
    +

    Pacific Sense

    + + +

    + + Patrick’s Point, California, U.S. + + 41.140761615367445 + -124.15646308637378 + + – + + We made it all the way to the Pacific ocean, but when we arrived we couldn't see it. As is typical up this way, the ocean was wrapped in a blanket of thick fog. We hiked down into the gloom of fog and spent the evening on the beach. The one place that will always feel like home to me. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Shadow of Lassen +
    +

    The Shadow of Lassen

    + + +

    + + Shasta National Forest, California, U.S. + + 40.59515988130533 + -121.1237215401611 + + – + + From my uncle's house we headed northwest, up into the Shasta National Forest where there's more free camping than you can shake a stick at. We liked it so much we stayed an extra night. Why not? It's not like we have anywhere we have to be. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dialed In +
    +

    Dialed In

    + + +

    + + Carson City/Washoe Lake, Nevada, U.S. + + 39.149406639836954 + -119.76115936077889 + + – + + With my uncle's help the bus gets some much needed work done. It's now running about 1000X better than it was and more importantly I know a lot more. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Trains, Hot Springs and Broken Buses +
    +

    Trains, Hot Springs and Broken Buses

    + + +

    + + Bishop, California, U.S. + + 37.169660646001255 + -118.30864661988545 + + – + + After a night in the middle of Gold Point we hit the road, continuing our somewhat random plan. I came up with something I thought was pretty good: take highway 266 west from Gold Point, grab highway 168, go over the White Mountains, drop down into Big Pine and follow 395 up to my aunt and uncle's house up in Wellington. It seems simple when you type it out. I bet it made the gods chuckle anyway. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ghost Town +
    +

    Ghost Town

    + + +

    + + Gold Point, Nevada, U.S. + + 37.35014190110647 + -117.36613982986752 + + – + + Gold Point Nevada has been through several boom and bust cycles, today it's a very lightly inhabited, largely abandoned ghost town. What better place to spend a night or two? + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Valley of Fire +
    +

    Valley of Fire

    + + +

    + + Valley of Fire, Nevada, U.S. + + 36.4185620941458 + -114.55827468743294 + + – + + The forecast for Zion turned cold about half way through Corrinne's parents visit. Since our guest room is a tent, and since Zion wasn't to our taste anyway, we decamped for Valley of Fire, a strange collection of red rock piles an hour outside of Las Vegas. A few thousand feet lower Valley of Fire was warmer and, as it turned out, a whole lot more fun. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Zion +
    +

    Zion

    + + +

    + + Zion National Park, Utah, U.S. + + 37.1811499946847 + -113.00096267590985 + + – + + After moving pretty fast for a few days we were ready for a break. While it's not exactly secluded, quiet or anything of things we generally like, the logical place to stop in this area is Zion National Park. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + On The Road, Again +
    +

    On The Road, Again

    + + +

    + + Castle Rock, Utah, U.S. + + 38.56767070147155 + -112.33783477684241 + + – + + The Honda minivan dies and we move on with just the big blue bus. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Canyonlands +
    +

    Canyonlands

    + + +

    + + Needles District, Canyonlands National Park, Utah, U.S. + + 38.121769697123575 + -109.81166595396103 + + – + + Our camp in the Aspen trees was not far from one of my favorite national parks, Canyonlands. The portion near us is known as the Needles District is home to, among other things, Newspaper Rock, a huge collection of Petrogylphs. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Aspens +
    +

    Aspens

    + + +

    + + Abajo (Blue) Mountains, Utah, U.S. + + 37.87990829536428 + -109.44916004124589 + + – + + A stand of Aspen is considerably different than most trees in a forest. Aspens are rarely individual trees. Instead they grow like rhizomes, like giant white asparagus. Aspens are not really trees, the trunks we see are not the soul of the plant. The truth of Aspens is under the ground. They are massive root systems, some as large as twenty acres, that send up white trunks, which then sprout leaves. All of this means that some Aspen groves have been around a very long time, one is said to be 80,000 years old. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Breakdown +
    +

    Breakdown

    + + +

    + + Ridgway State Park, Colorado, U.S. + + 38.2176568851275 + -107.73812526670027 + + – + + The universe gives me a lesson in humility. And a fever of 103. And a burnt toe. Because nothing makes the gods laugh like a human making a plan. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ridgway State Park +
    +

    Ridgway State Park

    + + +

    + + Ridgway State Park, Colorado, U.S. + + 38.21678023423405 + -107.73833984340939 + + – + + After our adventures in the canyon country we headed north, through the hordes of Moab and back east toward Grand Junction, where we did a bit of resupplying before heading up the valley to the town of Ridgway. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..51da13f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,585 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from United States + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from the United States

    +
    +
    + Progress +
    +

    Progress

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.957904369989365 + -83.4083437377863 + + – + + I'm not crazy anti-tech, I just think the good, sustainable technologies are rare. I'm not a delusional lunatic who thinks I'm living in the Victorian era or anything. I just don't really like air conditioning. Or heaters. Or generators. And I prefer a good fire to electric light. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Elvis Has Left the Building +
    +

    Elvis Has Left the Building

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.963774457452075 + -83.40132707900412 + + – + + It's not that I have anything against the king, it's that I don't have anything at all, no feelings one way or the other on Elvis, so he came out and won't be going back in. The walls, ceiling and floor of the Travco are also coming out. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Big Blue Bus +
    +

    The Big Blue Bus

    + + +

    + + Asheville Area, North Carolina, U.S. + + 35.82050050961864 + -82.54565948803042 + + – + + Change of plans, sold the trailer, bought a 1969 Dodge Travco, the coolest vehicle ever made. The first few corners were nerve-wracking, the kind of white knuckled terror-inducing driving I haven't done since the very first time I sat down behind a wheel. Or the time I claimed I could ride a motorcycle when I actually had no clue. It all works out in the end. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ode to the Outdoor Shower +
    +

    Ode to the Outdoor Shower

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.660804289800733 + -84.86735815332483 + + – + + The outdoor shower may be one of life's greatest joys. Certainly it makes for memorable showers. I have fond memories of sunshowers hung from the mast of a sailboat, the slick mossy wood of an outdoor shower in Laos, the cold marble of bucket showers in India, the sandy tile of the beach showers where I grew up. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + A Big Long Week +
    +

    A Big Long Week

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.660095736315927 + -84.86705774591675 + + – + + Whenever Lilah and Olivia want to convey long lengths of time they use the phrase "in a big long week". As in, "we have not had any cookies in a big long week." A big long week could be anywhere from two days to over a year. In this case we had two big long weeks on the island. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Tate's Hell +
    +

    Tate’s Hell

    + + +

    + + Tate’s Hell, Florida, U.S. + + 29.854238614588233 + -84.8141645841502 + + – + + Tate supposedly wandered out of his eponymous hell swamp and managed to say "my name is Cebe Tate, and I just came from Hell!" before promptly dropping dead. If you're like me you're not going to take this legend very seriously. You're going to think, pshaw, swamps are fun, how bad can this one be? As it happens, if you're not prepared, it can be pretty bad. Especially in Yellow Fly season. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + We're Here +
    +

    We’re Here

    + + +

    + + Thomasville, Georgia, U.S. + + 30.841040782644317 + -83.98170346556772 + + – + + Right now the girls call everywhere "here". This greatly simplifies the whole "are we there yet" dilemma of driving with children. That's not the question. On the drive down here to St. George Island they would ask "are we here yet?" To which Corrinne and I would answer, "yes, we are here." They're young enough that they let us get away with that. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Coming Home +
    +

    Coming Home

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95742966190523 + -83.40147728270863 + + – + + I am happy to report that, despite a sketchy tow hookup that doesn't lock to the ball, some last-minute wiring snafus, a considerable amount of dry rot on one tire and of course the fact that it still isn't registered, I did nevertheless succeed in getting our 1969 Yellowstone back to our house. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Poison You’ve Been Dreaming Of +
    +

    The Poison You’ve Been Dreaming Of

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95273082672748 + -83.40319389647894 + + – + + Everyday we go to the store and blithely buy things without ever thinking about how they got here or what the cost of these items might be. We trade our time (all we have) for money to buy things that are killing us and the people we love. And we consider this totally sane. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Down The River +
    +

    Down The River

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95799920005253 + -83.4382557327161 + + – + + Rivers make the familiar foreign in an instant. For the entirety of this trip I almost no idea where I was in Athens. I floated through an area that I have lived in and explored off and on for almost 20 years now and yet all it takes to make it utterly unknown is looking at it from a waterway rather than the land. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Pig Roast +
    +

    Pig Roast

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95240599235981 + -83.39672977275296 + + – + + I was headed downtown about a week ago when I noticed a sign that said, "free pig roast". There are two types of people in this world, those who go to free pig roasts and vegans fools. Sign me up. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Schoolhouse +
    +

    Schoolhouse

    + + +

    + + Oconee County, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.76306639858435 + -83.43694681471746 + + – + + Something called touch-a-truck that rolls through town, or just south of town at a place call Heritage Park, every year. It turns out to be pretty much what it sounds like: a place where kids can touch trucks — semi-trucks, fire engines, ambulances and more. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ice Storm +
    +

    Ice Storm

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.94511246686547 + -83.37615722961178 + + – + + I love storms, preferably summer storms with plenty of warm humid wind, lightning and the attendant thunder, but winter storms are nice too. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Walking in the Woods +
    +

    Walking in the Woods

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.984367309819 + -83.38138753719177 + + – + + It’s always struck me as strange that we have a separate word for walking in nature, hiking, as opposed to just walking. Is walking just too mundane? + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Purcell Wooden Toys +
    +

    Purcell Wooden Toys

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.950381311835336 + -83.37821716613469 + + – + + The evolution of toys in my opinion starts with what is still the greatest of all toys -- the stick. After that, I suggest my friend Chris's handcrafted wooden toys. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sunrise +
    +

    Sunrise

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.94724852440723 + -83.37856048888914 + + – + + Watching the sun rise, coffee on the stove, light in the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Hoppin' John +
    +

    Hoppin’ John

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.93927363608245 + -83.38577026672033 + + – + + New Year's cynics are boring. What they miss is that, sure, the only meaning in New Years is what you bring to the table, but that’s true of every day you exist on this planet. So bring something to the table damn it. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Our New 1969 Yellowstone Trailer +
    +

    Our New 1969 Yellowstone Trailer

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.955507442515085 + -83.39298004455148 + + – + + There are no real blank parts of the map anymore, to misquote Conrad, but there sure are a lot of empty spaces left. We intend to see some of them in our new (to us anyway) 1969 Yellowstone travel trailer. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Night Before +
    +

    The Night Before

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.947319725402615 + -83.40491051024922 + + – + + Every voyage has a night before. We tend to remember the excitement of the next morning, when our senses are on edge, hyper-aware and it's easy to be anchored in the now. But me, I like that night before. I like when you're still imagining what it might be like. Still trying to picture it all in your head, fit yourself into your own imagination. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bourbon Bacon Bark +
    +

    Bourbon Bacon Bark

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.94981172269912 + -83.37375397033351 + + – + + Searching for what the Danes call Hygge in the sugar deliciousness that is Bourbon Bacon Bark. Because you rarely go wrong with alliteration. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Creamed Corn +
    +

    Creamed Corn

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95322920033558 + -83.40053314513801 + + – + + Creamed corn doesn't lend itself to showy food photography, but then neither do most Thanksgiving dishes. Strange holiday that one. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Colors +
    +

    Colors

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.96668418436029 + -83.4123777801458 + + – + + Autumn in the South is never as spectacular as is in New England. The colors here are neither as intense nor as long lasting. But still, it is our autumn, our season, our reminder. And this is by far the most colorful year of leaves that we’ve seen in 15 years. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Muffins +
    +

    Muffins

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.96380115264605 + -83.40128416365957 + + – + + When you're two years old everything in the world is new every day. Even things you saw yesterday look different, feel different, *are*, inexplicably, different today. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Memorial Park +
    +

    Memorial Park

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.926604399603534 + -83.3854269439668 + + – + + Loons, Maine, Memorial Park. *What that sound is?* + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/2/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/2/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d0cce80 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/2/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,593 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from United States -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from the United States

    +
    +
    + Canyoneering +
    +

    Canyoneering

    + + +

    + + Nowhere, Utah, U.S. + + -55.95445649483696 + 108.54297879103399 + + – + + Unmarked, hard to find roads, cliff dwellings new and old, petroglyphs, and a kiva you can climb down into. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dolores River +
    +

    Dolores River

    + + +

    + + Dolores River, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.660899397864696 + -108.73788112592959 + + – + + How a happy series of of breakdowns and detours got us to the Dolores River. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Canyon of the Ancients +
    +

    Canyon of the Ancients

    + + +

    + + Canyon of the Ancients, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.35177941505963 + -108.66222137403007 + + – + + I like maps, especially blank spots on maps and in the United States there are very few places with as many blank spots as the four corners region of Utah, Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona. One of the relative blank spots I kept staring at was something called Canyon of the Ancients. After our disappoint experience with Mesa Verde we were anxious to get back to some ruins that were less crowded and this sounded good. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Mancos Days +
    +

    Mancos Days

    + + +

    + + Mancos Camp, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.34127141315386 + -108.18800682029091 + + – + + One day I drove down to the coffee shop in Mancos and instead of the quiet little town I'd been expecting, streets were shut down and there were cars and people everywhere. It turned out to be something called Mancos Days. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Time and Placement +
    +

    Time and Placement

    + + +

    + + Durango, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.33925834885527 + -107.91300529443193 + + – + + Every evening around 5 the thunder starts in. You could set your watch by it. Except that there's no need for a watch up here. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Mancos and Mesa Verde +
    +

    Mancos and Mesa Verde

    + + +

    + + Mancos Camp, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.3408278612485 + -108.18796390491319 + + – + + Stay anywhere to long and things start to settle in too much. The bus was made to move, its fluids pool, metal rusts, wood decays, the windows smear with dirt and rain, the tires lose air. And the chipmunks will come for the avocados. I'm from California, messing with my avocados is messing with my emotions, I don't care if you're cute and striped. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Happy 5th Birthday +
    +

    Happy 5th Birthday

    + + +

    + + Durango, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.339292469040316 + -107.91403526270777 + + – + + For their birthday we took the girls (and their brother) on the narrow gauge steam engine railway from Durango to Silverton. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Junction Creek +
    +

    Junction Creek

    + + +

    + + Durango, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.3450926749058 + -107.91497940028198 + + – + + While tourist-filled and mountain-kitschy to some degree, Durango nevertheless has some cool stuff to do -- a wonderful public library where the kids got to see the U.S. National Yoyo champion (yes, really), a really cool indoor water park masquerading as a rec center, complete with a three story water slide, a science museum, and a host of other fun stuff -- as one of the camp hosts we befriended put it, in Durango they really know how to do it. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Arc of Time +
    +

    Arc of Time

    + + +

    + + Chaco Canyon, New Mexico, U.S. + + 36.04736212964947 + -107.9295706172955 + + – + + I have only one note from Chaco Canyon: the wind gusts, a light whistling sound through the thin curled leaves of creosote; in the interludes the stillness is filled with raven calls reverberating across the canyon, a conversation bouncing around sandstone, echoing in arroyos until, like everything else here, they fade into the darkness of the past. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Solstice +
    +

    Solstice

    + + +

    + + Sangre de Christo Mountains, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.323790180379966 + -105.14230484011725 + + – + + We celebrated the Solstice by heading back up into the Sangre de Christo Mountains, to Bear Lake. We had to see it, even if we couldn't get the bus to it. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The High Country +
    +

    The High Country

    + + +

    + + Trinidad, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.13126787159957 + -104.55608123788944 + + – + + Inside my head there are tons of voices, but one dominates the rest most of the time, it's the voice that always says, sure, let's try it, what's the worst that could happen? Most of the time the answer to that question is very tame. Once you get past your prejudices and irrational fears, you'll find the worst is not that bad and it's pretty unlikely to happen in the first place. That said... + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Escaping Texas +
    +

    Escaping Texas

    + + +

    + + Trinidad, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.13424101584671 + -104.55605978022751 + + – + + That night was our first in the wide open big sky of the west. The sunset reflected on the clouds for hours. I let the fire burn down and watched the sky instead. Later on thunderheads rolled in over the peaks of the Sangre de Christo range. Arcing flashes of lightening bounced around the clouds like streaking silver pinballs. Just as the last light faded away coyotes began to bark and sing. Finally, the west. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dallas +
    +

    Dallas

    + + +

    + + Fort Parker State Park, Texas, U.S. + + 31.599022773408446 + -96.54395813109835 + + – + + From Austin we drifted north, toward Dallas, stopping in at Fort Parker State Park. Even now that it's summer, during the week we still have the campgrounds to ourselves. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sprawl (Austin, part deux) +
    +

    Sprawl (Austin, part deux)

    + + +

    + + Austin, Texas, U.S. + + 30.192040627071453 + -97.72052520857657 + + – + + We eventually managed to book a campsite at McKinney Falls State Park, which is just a few miles from downtown Austin. It's a short drive from the campground into Austin, but it's not exactly a pretty one, it winds through the massive sprawling suburbs that encircle Austin. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Austin, part one +
    +

    Austin, part one

    + + +

    + + Bastrop, Texas, U.S. + + 30.047031601879716 + -97.15953582878349 + + – + + I should probably post something about Austin, but all I've been able to think about lately is Alex Honnold free soloing El Capitan. While the sheer physicality of climbing for three hours and fifty-six minutes with no break is impressive, to me it's nothing next to the mental strength and absolute confidence it takes to even consider doing something like that, let alone doing it. If that doesn't blow your fucking mind then I have to say, I think you're probably not wired up quite right. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Keeps on A-Rainin' +
    +

    Keeps on A-Rainin’

    + + +

    + + Huntsville State Park, Texas, U.S. + + 30.637514423959555 + -95.52600616591704 + + – + + A while back someone asked what we do when it rains. At the time I didn't know because, despite having some big storms come through in various places, it still hadn't really rained during the day. In Huntsville it rained most of the day so now I know. When it rains, we put on raincoats and play in the rain. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Little Black Train +
    +

    Little Black Train

    + + +

    + + DeQuincy, Louisiana, U.S. + + 30.45214034312658 + -93.43474680590685 + + – + + We travel the back roads, the county roads, the bumpy, twisting, slow roads. Occasionally it's a nerve wracking pain the butt and you get lost sometimes, but then we're not in a hurry and we have nowhere to go so we're never really lost. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Palmetto Island State Park +
    +

    Palmetto Island State Park

    + + +

    + + Near Abbeville, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.858303099084598 + -92.14195961180936 + + – + + From New Orleans we headed west through the bayou country, crossing from the Mississippi basin to the Atchafalaya river delta area where the Atchafalaya River meets the Gulf of Mexico. It's a land of rice paddies, blue crab traps, great flocks of snowy egrets and duckweed-filled cypress swamps. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + New Orleans Instrumental Number 2 +
    +

    New Orleans Instrumental Number 2

    + + +

    + + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.962702189957493 + -90.064084474772 + + – + + We couldn't leave New Orleans without doing something that's become a pilgrimage of sorts for me -- visiting Marie Laveau's grave. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + New Orleans Instrumental Number 1 +
    +

    New Orleans Instrumental Number 1

    + + +

    + + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.957951590136158 + -90.06316179487764 + + – + + New Orleans is the last living city in the United States. Every time I return here I am amazed that it is allowed to continue existing, that something so contrary to the rest of America has not been destroyed, locked up and disneyfied. But it hasn’t. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Davis Bayou +
    +

    Davis Bayou

    + + +

    + + Davis Bayou, Mississippi, U.S. + + 30.391216890192254 + -88.7901424812386 + + – + + There is something very relaxing about marshes, or bayous as they call them down here. There's a rhythm to life. The tide goes out, the tide goes in. The periwinkles go up the cordgrass, they go back down. You almost get the feeling that life is predictable. And then you watch a heron wading in the mud, like herons always do, when suddenly it trips and falls face first in the water and you remember that nothing is totally predictable, just rhythmic, one foot in front of the other. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dauphin Island +
    +

    Dauphin Island

    + + +

    + + Dauphin Island, Alabama, U.S. + + 30.250936985476603 + -88.081551139365 + + – + + From Fort Pickens we headed inland, through Pensacola and up around Mobile Bay before heading back down to the coast and out to Dauphin Island. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Gulf Islands National Seashore +
    +

    Gulf Islands National Seashore

    + + +

    + + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.320886143534025 + -87.27098221076228 + + – + + Gulf Island National Seashore might be the prettiest beach I've been to in the U.S. It's downright stunning. If you plunked me here I might guess I was in Thailand, except for the dunes, the dunes are unmistakably Gulf coast barrier island dunes. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Coming Home +
    +

    Coming Home

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.66013302873015 + -84.86978287027401 + + – + + I haven't accurately tallied it, but my guess is that we've spent nearly two months on St. George Island over the years. Enough time anyway, to make it feel a little like coming home when we get here. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/3/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/3/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6f89efb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/3/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,593 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from United States -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from the United States

    +
    +
    + Swamped +
    +

    Swamped

    + + +

    + + Okefenokee Swamp, Georgia, U.S. + + 30.730813688628597 + -82.53927583057352 + + – + + From Edisto we took a few back roads through the low country, headed south and west. We were headed for the middle of nowhere, but it was further than we wanted to go in a day. So we spent a night at the mouth of the Altamaha River before heading on to the middle of nowhere. Or the edge of the Okefenokee swamp. Same thing really. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Storming +
    +

    Storming

    + + +

    + + Edisto Island, South Carolina, U.S. + + 32.509299424657236 + -80.30565018047915 + + – + + We woke up on our third day to cloudy skies and predictions of a massive storm. Seemed like a good day to head up to Charleston, do some laundry, run errands and check out the city. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Edge of the Continent +
    +

    The Edge of the Continent

    + + +

    + + Edisto Island, South Carolina, U.S. + + 32.508647989854175 + -80.3035902439571 + + – + + We avoid interstates and even divided highways for the most part, sticking to the county roads, the thin gray lines on the map known only by local names, no number at all. We follow the river, more or less, down out of the red Georgia mud into the Carolina coastal plain. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + April Fools +
    +

    April Fools

    + + +

    + + Raysville, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.63195904692882 + -82.47742409070177 + + – + + Our original plan called for us to hit the road on the first day of spring. In reality we finally got going, fittingly enough, on April 1st. Not that we went far, but hey, the road is the road. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Watson Mill Bridge +
    +

    Watson Mill Bridge

    + + +

    + + Watson Mill State Park, Georgia, U.S. + + 34.03350040134611 + -83.07300323795661 + + – + + In which we get fancy RV stuff, like propane and running water. The new carburetor I ordered is nowhere to be found, but hey, new wheels and new tires. Plus, did I mention we can cook indoors now? Luxury living. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Mooring of Starting Out +
    +

    The Mooring of Starting Out

    + + +

    + + Watson Mill State Park, Georgia, U.S. + + 34.034211686271625 + -83.0760931427401 + + – + + starting out is like being in that weird moment where Wily E Coyote has merrily run past the edge of the cliff and managed to keep going out of sheer blissful ignorance -- until he looks down. Starting out is that moment when you look down and realize the edge of the cliff is well behind you now -- you're on your way down. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Wilds of Winder +
    +

    The Wilds of Winder

    + + +

    + + Fort Yargo State Park, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.96861504910654 + -83.7242972308598 + + – + + A couple weeks back we thought we had a buyer for the house but it fell through last minute. It was enough, however, to get everyone excited at the prospect of actually hitting the road. And then that hope was yanked away. To make up for that we decided it was time to do something of an exploratory trip, to test out life in the bus with a two night trip to Fort Yargo State Park + +

    +
    +
    +
    + 1969 Dodge Travco Before +
    +

    1969 Dodge Travco Before

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.958221674854826 + -83.40821499175449 + + – + + To close out the year I thought I'd post some images from all the work that I've done on the bus over the last 12 months. It's not finished yet, but here's some pictures of what she used to look like, along with some of the damage I uncovered and repaired. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Happy Birthday, Sun +
    +

    Happy Birthday, Sun

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.958711117373646 + -83.40825790709812 + + – + + I've always found it a little curious that so many people, myself included, who don’t otherwise practice the Christian faith, choose to celebrate Christmas. Winter solstice makes far more sense as a holiday to latch onto if you want an excuse to celebrate this time of year. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Waiting for the Sun +
    +

    Waiting for the Sun

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95917830987785 + -83.40837592429536 + + – + + November came and went. The ginko down the street buried the still green grass in a blanket of brilliant yellow. The maples at the park had a banner year of blood red leaves. Even the oaks seemed brighter than usual. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Nothing is Finished, Nothing is Perfect +
    +

    Nothing is Finished, Nothing is Perfect

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95815048298076 + -83.40810770339355 + + – + + A dozen years ago this week I was at an Iraqi restaurant in Paris. It was a tiny place near the cross roads of two very forgettable avenues, an unassuming door, a small menu board of the kind you see dozens of on nearly every block. I have no recollection of what drew us in, maybe just hunger. The only other people in it were the owner and his wife. To this day I would call it the best meal of my life. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Halloween +
    +

    Halloween

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95636176760647 + -83.40707773513215 + + – + + Every Halloween I complain about how hot it is. I'm not sure where I got the idea that it was cold in Georgia come Halloween, but reviewing some pictures from the last half decade or so very clearly shows me wrong. It's often quite hot on Halloween and probably always will be from here on out. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Useless Stuff +
    +

    Useless Stuff

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95799920005176 + -83.40821499175449 + + – + + Normally when you move you just shove all that stuff you don't really acknowledge that you've been dragging around for years without using into a box and truck it on to the next place you'll live where you can happily shove it in the back of a new closet. When you're moving into a 1969 Dodge Travco with four other people and less than 100 square feet of usable space that's not an option. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Equinox +
    +

    Equinox

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.9850879025932 + -83.38062578983113 + + – + + I have a thing for solar cycles. I was born a few hours before the winter solstice. My wife and I were married on the summer solstice. My son was born a few hours before the winter solstice. None of that was planned. It's all synchronicity. Coincidence some would say, though I don't believe that synchronicities like that are coincidence. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Cloudland Canyon +
    +

    Cloudland Canyon

    + + +

    + + Cloudland Canyon, Georgia, U.S. + + 34.8338921973676 + -85.4818844250578 + + – + + I have a terrible habit of never going to obvious places that are right around me. For example I lived within 100 miles or so of Death Valley for 26 years and never once went. Then I moved thousands of miles across the country and finally arranged a trip to Death Valley. Except that it appears I'm getting better about these things. Maybe. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Autumn Bus Update +
    +

    Autumn Bus Update

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95793690700317 + -83.40810770339355 + + – + + The bare walls are gone, the ceiling is in, but still there is still much to do -- even if we do plan to leave before it's completely finished. We need a floor and couch at the bare minimum, though I'd like to have the propane and sewage system working as well. Oh and then there's a cab area, which I really haven't touched. Miles to go before I sleep. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Change of Ideas (The Worst) +
    +

    Change of Ideas (The Worst)

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.90329999583211 + -83.33059998840027 + + – + + I want the bus to be The Best. But. as an article I'm fond of says, "the best means waiting, planning, researching, and saving until one can acquire the perfect equipment for a given task." On the other side of the coin there is The Worst. if you have to have everything perfect you're never going to go. The Worst just goes. Now. The Worst figures things out from experience rather than hopes and fears. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + What Are You Going to Do? +
    +

    What Are You Going to Do?

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95701140490208 + -83.40944880790045 + + – + + We've started telling people about our plans to live full time in the blue bus. After the eyebrows come down and the puzzled frowns flatten out, the questions come. Most of them revolve around some form of, but, but but... *what will you do without a house? What will you do when that thing breaks down? What will you do when...* Rather than answer everyone individually I thought I'd answer all those questions here, as best I can: ***I don't know***. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Engine +
    +

    Engine

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.958194977909265 + -83.4081398899018 + + – + + The Travco is not starting. I can see the problem in my head, but I cannot make it work. It has to be the fuel pump. I have spark. I have compression. The missing ingredient in the basic trifecta of the internal combustion engines is fuel. But seeing it and understanding it are different than actually making it work. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Back From Somewhere +
    +

    Back From Somewhere

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.96708459770432 + -83.38646227664735 + + – + + Neither the intense afternoon sun beating down on the concrete slab of parking lot, nor the humidity left over from morning rains convinced my kids to abandon the Jittery Joe's skate contest. We were there all afternoon, over four hours of skating, pulled pork and the occasional train rolling by. They never stopped loving it. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Root Down +
    +

    Root Down

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95784791685379 + -83.40821499175358 + + – + + The longer you've been in one location the more stuff that's accumulated. As far as I can tell there is no real way to combat the detritus of the world seeping into your space, save cutting off all contact with the outside world. I imagine monasteries are generally immaculate; the rest of us get out the pick axes and clear the rubble. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Another Spring +
    +

    Another Spring

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.88121959056056 + -83.31667656250653 + + – + + This becomes a day like any other that is somehow different. Then another and another. Little things. The air feels brighter. The river is lower. Less practical footwear appears on the feet around you. The mornings are crisp and the pollen hasn't started yet. The trees still bare though the smaller shrubs turn purple and white. Everything feels fragile but possible again. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Up in the Air +
    +

    Up in the Air

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95794580601253 + -83.40819353408179 + + – + + I tore the rear air conditioning unit off the back of the bus today. Afterward I stood back and looked at the Travco. All the clean lines and curves joined together again, no more air conditioning warts to interrupt the sliding smooth and unbroken swoop of white and blue. The big blue bus looked sleek and whole again. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bring on the Change +
    +

    Bring on the Change

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.958016998057886 + -83.4080862457218 + + – + + I've been thinking about this little mantra ever since I saw it six or seven years ago. I don't think I've ever seen what I consider the secret to happiness so succinctly and completely captured. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/4/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/4/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7c199f5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/4/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,593 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from United States -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from the United States

    +
    +
    + Tools +
    +

    Tools

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95817717994103 + -83.40842956847534 + + – + + We are not things, Alan Watts was fond of saying, we are happenings. But we are happenings with things. Specifically with tools, many of which help us happen in one way or another. What to make of these tools then? + +

    +
    +
    +
    + 8-Track Gorilla +
    +

    8-Track Gorilla

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.9579814020434 + -83.40812916106634 + + – + + I just sold an antiquated music player that takes a format no one has manufactured in over three decades for $86. It was an old Oldsmobile 8-track cassette player I pulled out of the bus. I have no idea how it came to be in a 1969 Dodge Travco. What I do have an idea about is why I just sold it, as-is, could-be-working, could not be working, for $86 more than you would think it was worth. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Progress +
    +

    Progress

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.957904369989365 + -83.4083437377863 + + – + + I'm not crazy anti-tech, I just think the good, sustainable technologies are rare. I'm not a delusional lunatic who thinks I'm living in the Victorian era or anything. I just don't really like air conditioning. Or heaters. Or generators. And I prefer a good fire to electric light. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Elvis Has Left the Building +
    +

    Elvis Has Left the Building

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.963774457452075 + -83.40132707900412 + + – + + It's not that I have anything against the king, it's that I don't have anything at all, no feelings one way or the other on Elvis, so he came out and won't be going back in. The walls, ceiling and floor of the Travco are also coming out. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Big Blue Bus +
    +

    The Big Blue Bus

    + + +

    + + Asheville Area, North Carolina, U.S. + + 35.82050050961864 + -82.54565948803042 + + – + + Change of plans, sold the trailer, bought a 1969 Dodge Travco, the coolest vehicle ever made. The first few corners were nerve-wracking, the kind of white knuckled terror-inducing driving I haven't done since the very first time I sat down behind a wheel. Or the time I claimed I could ride a motorcycle when I actually had no clue. It all works out in the end. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ode to the Outdoor Shower +
    +

    Ode to the Outdoor Shower

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.660804289800733 + -84.86735815332483 + + – + + The outdoor shower may be one of life's greatest joys. Certainly it makes for memorable showers. I have fond memories of sunshowers hung from the mast of a sailboat, the slick mossy wood of an outdoor shower in Laos, the cold marble of bucket showers in India, the sandy tile of the beach showers where I grew up. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + A Big Long Week +
    +

    A Big Long Week

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.660095736315927 + -84.86705774591675 + + – + + Whenever Lilah and Olivia want to convey long lengths of time they use the phrase "in a big long week". As in, "we have not had any cookies in a big long week." A big long week could be anywhere from two days to over a year. In this case we had two big long weeks on the island. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Tate's Hell +
    +

    Tate’s Hell

    + + +

    + + Tate’s Hell, Florida, U.S. + + 29.854238614588233 + -84.8141645841502 + + – + + Tate supposedly wandered out of his eponymous hell swamp and managed to say "my name is Cebe Tate, and I just came from Hell!" before promptly dropping dead. If you're like me you're not going to take this legend very seriously. You're going to think, pshaw, swamps are fun, how bad can this one be? As it happens, if you're not prepared, it can be pretty bad. Especially in Yellow Fly season. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + We're Here +
    +

    We’re Here

    + + +

    + + Thomasville, Georgia, U.S. + + 30.841040782644317 + -83.98170346556772 + + – + + Right now the girls call everywhere "here". This greatly simplifies the whole "are we there yet" dilemma of driving with children. That's not the question. On the drive down here to St. George Island they would ask "are we here yet?" To which Corrinne and I would answer, "yes, we are here." They're young enough that they let us get away with that. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Coming Home +
    +

    Coming Home

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95742966190523 + -83.40147728270863 + + – + + I am happy to report that, despite a sketchy tow hookup that doesn't lock to the ball, some last-minute wiring snafus, a considerable amount of dry rot on one tire and of course the fact that it still isn't registered, I did nevertheless succeed in getting our 1969 Yellowstone back to our house. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Poison You’ve Been Dreaming Of +
    +

    The Poison You’ve Been Dreaming Of

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95273082672748 + -83.40319389647894 + + – + + Everyday we go to the store and blithely buy things without ever thinking about how they got here or what the cost of these items might be. We trade our time (all we have) for money to buy things that are killing us and the people we love. And we consider this totally sane. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Down The River +
    +

    Down The River

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95799920005253 + -83.4382557327161 + + – + + Rivers make the familiar foreign in an instant. For the entirety of this trip I almost no idea where I was in Athens. I floated through an area that I have lived in and explored off and on for almost 20 years now and yet all it takes to make it utterly unknown is looking at it from a waterway rather than the land. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Pig Roast +
    +

    Pig Roast

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95240599235981 + -83.39672977275296 + + – + + I was headed downtown about a week ago when I noticed a sign that said, "free pig roast". There are two types of people in this world, those who go to free pig roasts and vegans fools. Sign me up. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Schoolhouse +
    +

    Schoolhouse

    + + +

    + + Oconee County, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.76306639858435 + -83.43694681471746 + + – + + Something called touch-a-truck that rolls through town, or just south of town at a place call Heritage Park, every year. It turns out to be pretty much what it sounds like: a place where kids can touch trucks — semi-trucks, fire engines, ambulances and more. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ice Storm +
    +

    Ice Storm

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.94511246686547 + -83.37615722961178 + + – + + I love storms, preferably summer storms with plenty of warm humid wind, lightning and the attendant thunder, but winter storms are nice too. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Walking in the Woods +
    +

    Walking in the Woods

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.984367309819 + -83.38138753719177 + + – + + It’s always struck me as strange that we have a separate word for walking in nature, hiking, as opposed to just walking. Is walking just too mundane? + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Purcell Wooden Toys +
    +

    Purcell Wooden Toys

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.950381311835336 + -83.37821716613469 + + – + + The evolution of toys in my opinion starts with what is still the greatest of all toys -- the stick. After that, I suggest my friend Chris's handcrafted wooden toys. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sunrise +
    +

    Sunrise

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.94724852440723 + -83.37856048888914 + + – + + Watching the sun rise, coffee on the stove, light in the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Hoppin' John +
    +

    Hoppin’ John

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.93927363608245 + -83.38577026672033 + + – + + New Year's cynics are boring. What they miss is that, sure, the only meaning in New Years is what you bring to the table, but that’s true of every day you exist on this planet. So bring something to the table damn it. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Our New 1969 Yellowstone Trailer +
    +

    Our New 1969 Yellowstone Trailer

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.955507442515085 + -83.39298004455148 + + – + + There are no real blank parts of the map anymore, to misquote Conrad, but there sure are a lot of empty spaces left. We intend to see some of them in our new (to us anyway) 1969 Yellowstone travel trailer. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Night Before +
    +

    The Night Before

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.947319725402615 + -83.40491051024922 + + – + + Every voyage has a night before. We tend to remember the excitement of the next morning, when our senses are on edge, hyper-aware and it's easy to be anchored in the now. But me, I like that night before. I like when you're still imagining what it might be like. Still trying to picture it all in your head, fit yourself into your own imagination. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bourbon Bacon Bark +
    +

    Bourbon Bacon Bark

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.94981172269912 + -83.37375397033351 + + – + + Searching for what the Danes call Hygge in the sugar deliciousness that is Bourbon Bacon Bark. Because you rarely go wrong with alliteration. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Creamed Corn +
    +

    Creamed Corn

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95322920033558 + -83.40053314513801 + + – + + Creamed corn doesn't lend itself to showy food photography, but then neither do most Thanksgiving dishes. Strange holiday that one. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Colors +
    +

    Colors

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.96668418436029 + -83.4123777801458 + + – + + Autumn in the South is never as spectacular as is in New England. The colors here are neither as intense nor as long lasting. But still, it is our autumn, our season, our reminder. And this is by far the most colorful year of leaves that we’ve seen in 15 years. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/5/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/5/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1a2d25c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/5/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,593 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from United States -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from the United States

    +
    +
    + Muffins +
    +

    Muffins

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.96380115264605 + -83.40128416365957 + + – + + When you're two years old everything in the world is new every day. Even things you saw yesterday look different, feel different, *are*, inexplicably, different today. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Memorial Park +
    +

    Memorial Park

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.926604399603534 + -83.3854269439668 + + – + + Loons, Maine, Memorial Park. *What that sound is?* + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Halloween +
    +

    Halloween

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95550744251432 + -83.37426895446605 + + – + + Halloween with three owls, a Theremin-wielding ghost band and a zoo full of ghouls. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + King of Birds +
    +

    King of Birds

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.65740132288772 + -84.87336630151736 + + – + + Watching birds teaches you to see the world a bit differently. You're always alert to flittering movements in your peripheral vision. After a while you start to scan the tree line, the edges of the marsh, the place where the buildings meet the sky, the borderlands where movement begins. You quite literally see the world differently. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Oysterman Wanted +
    +

    Oysterman Wanted

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.664094724906768 + -84.86566792845446 + + – + + The world of oystermen and local fishing industry is doomed. Even the people resisting the transition know they’re no longer fighting for their way of life. They’re just fighting to keep the thinnest resemblance of what they’ve always known around until they leave this world. They’re fighting to keep from having to watch the death of everything they know. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + All the Pretty Beaches +
    +

    All the Pretty Beaches

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.65981806259068 + -84.87047444700387 + + – + + St. George is just off the Gulf Coast of northwest Florida, only about 7 hours from where I live. There are better places if you're looking to dive or snorkel. Ditto if it's nightlife you're after. But if you're looking for a seemingly endless amount of gorgeous white sand beaches you'll share with only a few migratory birds, St. George is the place to be. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Consider the Apalachicola Oyster +
    +

    Consider the Apalachicola Oyster

    + + +

    + + Apalachicola, Florida, U.S. + + 29.728672056480878 + -84.9837897312466 + + – + + If you know the name Apalachicola at all it’s likely because of its eponymous oysters. Very few things, let alone culinary things, are as attached to place as oysters. In fact, once you get beyond the Rockefeller, ordering “oysters” is akin to walking in a bar and ordering “a beer.” But unlike beer, oysters don’t have brands, they have places — Pemaquid, Wellfleet, Blue Point, Apalachicola. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Things Behind the Sun +
    +

    Things Behind the Sun

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95674257719642 + -83.37592612645985 + + – + + My grandparents left the home they lived in for 60 years today. I don't know how much of my life was spent in that house, probably well over a year if you added up all the holidays and family gatherings. And now I'm thousands of miles away and someone is clearing out the house. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Street Food in Athens Georgia +
    +

    Street Food in Athens Georgia

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.959861666904274 + -83.37601195713451 + + – + + Cheap food, made fresh, in front of you. Served hot, wrapped in newspaper. Street food is the people's food, it removes the mystery of the kitchen, lays the process bare. It's also the staple diet of people around the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + We Used to Wait For It +
    +

    We Used to Wait For It

    + + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + 34.04477171337467 + -118.25204621066614 + + – + + When we first came here, there was nothing. Downtown Los Angeles was an empty husk of a place fifteen years ago. Now it's reborn, alive and kicking. Yet there is something in the older buildings, something in the old walls, something lost in the bricks, something in the concrete, the marble. Something you don’t find anymore. Something we need to find again. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The World Outside +
    +

    The World Outside

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.96016249314553 + -83.4028816107045 + + – + + The world outside the house is blanketed in snow, a monochrome of white interrupted only by the dark, wet trunks of trees, the red brick of chimneys, the occasional green of shrubs poking through. The roads are unbroken expanses of smooth white, no one is out yet, no footprints track their way through the snowy sidewalk. The world outside is the same as it was last night, before the snow began, and yet, it feels totally different. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Charleston A-Z +
    +

    Charleston A-Z

    + + +

    + + Charleston, South Carolina, U.S. + + 32.7859576527261 + -79.9366307147337 + + – + + Charleston alphabetically. For example, Q is for quiet, Charleston has a lot of it. Just head down to the Battery area, walk through the park and starting walking down the side streets. Take one of the many alleys and walkways that weave between the massive, stately houses. Get lost. It doesn't take much to find a quiet place of your own. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River

    + + +

    + + Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado, U.S. + + 40.457462390627 + -109.25843237269746 + + – + + This is the only real way to see Dinosaur National Monument — you must journey down the river. There are two major rivers running through Dinosaur, the Yampa, which carves through Yampa Canyon, and the Green, which cuts through Lodore. Adventure Bound Rafting runs some of the best whitewater rafting trips in Colorado and I was lucky enough to go down the Green River with them, through the majestic Lodore Canyon. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park

    + + +

    + + Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado, U.S. + + 40.52063402652926 + -108.99388073317648 + + – + + Dinosaur National Monument was poorly named. The best parts of it are not the fossils in the quarry (which is closed for 2010 anyway) but the canyon country — some of the best, most remote canyon country you'll find in this part of the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone +
    +

    The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone

    + + +

    + + Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming, U.S. + + 44.46180292448713 + -110.82196979172171 + + – + + There is wilderness in Yellowstone, even if it's just inches from the boardwalks that transport thousands around the geothermal pools. It may not be wilderness on a grand scale — the sweeping mountain peaks or wild rivers of other parks — but in some ways that makes it more enticing. As one Ranger told me, Yellowstone isn't about the big picture, the grand scenery, it's about the tiny details within each pool. To really see Yellowstone, he said, you have to take your time, move slowly and look closely. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Backpacking in the Grand Tetons +
    +

    Backpacking in the Grand Tetons

    + + +

    + + Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming, U.S. + + 43.79315431684632 + -110.79651831037907 + + – + + Hiking into the wilderness empties your mind. You fall into the silence of the mountains and you can relax in a way that's very difficult to do in the midst of civilization. The white noise that surrounds us in our everyday lives, that noise we don't even notice as it adds thin layers of stress that build up over days, weeks, years, does not seem capable of following us into the mountains. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Great Sand Dunes National Park +
    +

    Great Sand Dunes National Park

    + + +

    + + Great Sand Dunes National Park, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.72673718028319 + -105.55097578487117 + + – + + Something about the desert inspires me to get up early and watch the sunrise. The cool mornings seem worth getting up for out here in the high plains of Colorado, especially when there's the chance to watch the sunrise from the largest sand dunes in North America, here in Great Sand Dune National Park. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Comanche National Grasslands +
    +

    Comanche National Grasslands

    + + +

    + + Comanche National Grasslands, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.14748995999048 + -103.0095720147769 + + – + + To say the Comanche National Grasslands is off the grid would be an understatement. With the exception of Highway 50 in Nevada, I've never driven through such isolation and vast openness anywhere in the world. And it's easy to get lost. There are no signs, no road names even, just dirt paths crisscrossing a wide, perfectly flat expanses of grass. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks +
    +

    Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks

    + + +

    + + Amarillo, Texas, U.S. + + 35.18854030957816 + -101.9194793559329 + + – + + There are many reasons, but here's the one I currently consider most important: National Parks never close. Take Palo Dura State park outside of Amarillo, Texas. Were it a National Park, I would be there right now. But it's not, it's a state park and so I'm sitting in a hotel room in Amarillo because everyone knows nature closes at 10PM. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Legend of Billy the Kid +
    +

    The Legend of Billy the Kid

    + + +

    + + Hico, Texas, U.S. + + 31.981920692582488 + -98.03087709969479 + + – + + History rarely offers neat, tidy stories. But the messier, more confusing and more controversial the story becomes, the more it works its way into our imaginations. The legend of Billy the Kid is like that of Amelia Earhart or D.B. Cooper — the less we know for sure, the more compelling the story becomes. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Dixie Drug Store +
    +

    The Dixie Drug Store

    + + +

    + + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.955903613807074 + -90.06511865792525 + + – + + New Orleans is it's own world. So much so that's it's impossible to put your finger on what it is that makes it different. New Orleans is a place where the line between consensus reality and private dream seems to have never fully developed. And a wonderful world it is. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Begin the Begin +
    +

    Begin the Begin

    + + +

    + + Gulf Port, Mississippi, U.S. + + 30.380400296597216 + -89.03081058216594 + + – + + It's travel time again. This time I'm driving my 1969 Ford truck out west, to Texas, Colorado, Utah and more — a road trip around the western United States. The first stop is Gulf Port, Mississippi. It's hard to believe, sitting here on the deserted beaches of Gulf Shore, watching the sun break through the ominous clouds, but soon this beauty will be gone. The BP oil spill is somewhere out there, blown slowly ashore by the storm hovering over us, waiting to drown the beaches in crude. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Los Angeles, I'm Yours +
    +

    Los Angeles, I’m Yours

    + + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + 34.05582387432624 + -118.23588250455148 + + – + + Los Angeles is all about the car. Shiny, air-conditioned comfort, gliding you soundlessly from one place to another without the need to interact with anything in between. But I have discovered that if you abandon the car for the subway and your own two feet, the illusion that L.A. is just a model train set world — tiny, plastic and devoid of any ground beneath the ground — fades and you find yourself, for a time, in a real city. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + (There'll Be) Peace in the Valley +
    +

    (There’ll Be) Peace in the Valley

    + + +

    + + Death Valley, California, U.S. + + 36.42090257717807 + -116.80985925955854 + + – + + Sometimes you ignore the places close to home because, well, there's always next weekend. Which is why I never made it Death Valley in the twenty-five years I lived in California. It took being all the way across the country to get me out to Death Valley. Which might explain why I actually got up before dawn just to watch the sunrise at Zabriskie Point. + +

    +
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    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/6/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/6/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c599ee8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/6/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,592 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from United States -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from the United States

    +
    +
    + So Far, I Have Not Found The Science +
    +

    So Far, I Have Not Found The Science

    + + +

    + + Okefenokee Swamp, Georgia, U.S. + + 30.91341551845187 + -82.18322287959928 + + – + + A canoe trip through the Okefenokee Swamp down in the southern most corner of Georgia. Paddling the strange reddish and incredibly still waters. Begging alligators, aching muscles and the kindly folks of Stintson's Barbecue all getting their due. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + How to Get Off Your Butt and Travel the World +
    +

    How to Get Off Your Butt and Travel the World

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95763520280544 + -83.40871809752001 + + – + + How do you make the leap from cubicle daydreams to life on to the road? You want to travel the world, but, like me, you have a million excuses stopping you. How do overcome the inertia that keeps you trapped in a life that isn't what you want it to be? Here's a few practical tips and how tos designed to motivate you to get off your butt and travel the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + No Strangers on a Train +
    +

    No Strangers on a Train

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95818694160937 + -83.40824602873336 + + – + + We mythologize trains because they harken back to an age of community travel, a real, tangible community of travelers, not just backpackers, but people from all walks of life, people traveling near and far together in a shared space that isn't locked down like an airplane and isn't isolated like a car; it's a shared travel experience and there are precious few of those left in our world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies +
    +

    Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies

    + + +

    + + Birmingham, Alabama, U.S. + + 33.521441993672646 + -86.81079982502803 + + – + + A few pages from Leonardo Da Vinci's notebooks make a rare trip outside Italy, to Birmingham, AL, of all places. But the Birmingham Museum of Art is home to far more alarming works of art, works which depict the eventual, inevitable, bunny takeover, after which all the elements of our reality will be replaced by bunnies. Seriously. You heard it here first. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains +
    +

    Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains

    + + +

    + + Great Smoky Mountains, Tennessee, U.S. + + 35.680446234758236 + -83.65024565485956 + + – + + Pigeon Forge is Myrtle Beach in the mountains. Redneck weddings cascade straight out of the chapel and into the mini golf reception area. Pigeon Forge is everything that's wrong with America. But we aren't here for Pigeon Forge, it just happens to have a free condo we're staying in. We're here for the mountains. Smoky Mountain National Park is just a few miles up the road. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Rope Swings and River Floats +
    +

    Rope Swings and River Floats

    + + +

    + + Mountain Cabin, Georgia, U.S. + + 34.53463159921271 + -83.90280245566663 + + – + + Two weekends ago we went up to the mountains, just outside of Dahlonega GA, and floated the Chestatee River using inner tubes, various pool toys and one super-cool inflatable seahorse. Unfortunately, proving one of my travel mottos -- you can never go back -- a return trip proved disastrous. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + In Love With a View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty and Living Well +
    +

    In Love With a View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty and Living Well

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.944877470043906 + -83.38860689432926 + + – + + Why all the vitriol about a seemingly innocuous concept -- that traveling doesn't have to cost a lot of money, isn't all that difficult and hey, you can even go right now? People like us, who feel tied down by responsibility, find the suggestion that we actually aren't tied down patronizing and yes, elitist. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Fall +
    +

    Fall

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.9448641194789 + -83.38856934340312 + + – + + The trees are in full technicolor swing. The land is slowly dying, and not just because it's Fall, we're also in the middle of a prolonged drought and this year the leaves are opting for a James Dean-style, leave-a-good-looking-corpse exit. If you're a leaf and you've got to go, do it with class. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + On The Other Ocean +
    +

    On The Other Ocean

    + + +

    + + Catalina Island, California, U.S. + + 33.46191438592164 + -118.52130172987002 + + – + + Consider what would happen if your house were tilted 30 degrees to the left, how this would complicate ordinary activities -- like say walking. Now throw in a bouncing motion that lifts the floor five or six feet up and down in a seesaw-like motion on a perpendicular axis to the 30 degree tilt -- things become more like riding a seesaw that's attached to a merry-go-round which is missing a few bolts. That's sailing. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Being There +
    +

    Being There

    + + +

    + + Myrtle Beach Airport, South Carolina, U.S. + + 33.68392513093142 + -78.92835615966722 + + – + + Myrtle Beach does not exist. Nearly everything in Myrtle Beach is a paltry derivative of some original form. For instance, most of the country has golf courses, in Myrtle Beach there are endless rows of putt-putt courses, where most towns attempt to draw in big name musical acts for their tourist venues, Myrtle Beach is content with impersonators. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sailing Through +
    +

    Sailing Through

    + + +

    + + Charleston, South Carolina, U.S. + + 32.83557033524099 + -79.82256172976372 + + – + + The rumors are true. I moved back to the south; Athens GA to be exact. But I hate staying in one place for too long, so after a month or two in Athens I headed up to Charleston to visit a friend. The south is curious place. If you've never been here I couldn't hope to explain it, but it's not so much a place as an approach. A way of getting somewhere more than anywhere specific. Perhaps even a wrong turn. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Goodbye to the Mother and the Cove +
    +

    Goodbye to the Mother and the Cove

    + + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + 34.040907225218874 + -118.47207783003557 + + – + + It's strange how you can plan something, go through all the motions of making it happen without ever really understanding what you're doing. I've been doing this for the better part of three years now. I realized recently that I have no real idea how I came to be here. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Everything All The Time +
    +

    Everything All The Time

    + + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + 33.97530686407635 + -118.42890499373785 + + – + + I don't know if I'm just overly paranoid but when I call up memories in the dark hours of the Beaujolais-soaked pre-dawn, I see a collection of mildly amusing, occasionally painful series of embarrassments, misunderstandings and general wrong-place, wrong-time sort of moments. Which isn't to imply that my life is a British sitcom, just that I'm not in a hurry to re-live any of it. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Sun Came Up With No Conclusions +
    +

    The Sun Came Up With No Conclusions

    + + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + 33.97517340607632 + -118.42887280722941 + + – + + "And so it is that we, as men, do not exist until we do; and then it is that we play with our world of existent things, and order and disorder them, and so it shall be that non-existence shall take us back from existence and that nameless spirituality shall return to Void, like a tired child home from a very wild circus." -- Robert Anton Wilson and Kerry Thornley. Good luck and Godspeed Mr. Wilson. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Give It Up Or Turnit A Loose +
    +

    Give It Up Or Turnit A Loose

    + + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + 33.97519564909091 + -118.42893718024602 + + – + + Traveling soul. Soul is not something out there or in you, it's the place where you meet the out there; something very similar to what I think James Brown meant — a mixture of the secular and the spiritual, the profane and the sublime. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Homeward +
    +

    Homeward

    + + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + 33.975160060264834 + -118.42903373977045 + + – + + New York, New York. John F Kennedy airport 1 am date unknown, sleepy looking customs guard stamps a passport without hardly looking at, without even checking to see where I had been. A light drizzle is falling outside and the subways extension to the terminal never looked so good. What is it like to be home? I don't know, I'll tell you when I get there. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Twenty More Minutes to Go +
    +

    Twenty More Minutes to Go

    + + +

    + + Newport Beach, California, U.S. + + 33.63332664528318 + -117.90302036551485 + + – + + Well it's the night before I leave. I just got done pacing around the driveway of my parents house smoking cigarettes… nervously? Excitedly? Restlessly? A bit of all of those I suppose. I walk across the street, over the drainage ditch and head for the swing set at the park. Right now I'm swinging in a park in Costa Mesa California. Tomorrow France. Weird. [Photo to the right, via Flickr] + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Travel Tips and Resources +
    +

    Travel Tips and Resources

    + + +

    + + Newport Beach, California, U.S. + + 33.63209390723631 + -117.90123937840589 + + – + + An overview of the things you might want to bring on an extended trip, as well as some tips and recommendations on things like visas and vaccinations. The part that was most helpful for me was learning what I didn't need to bring — as it turns out, quite a bit. Nowadays my pack is much smaller and lighter. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The New Luddites +
    +

    The New Luddites

    + + +

    + + Newport Beach, California, U.S. + + 33.632147504909575 + -117.90106771735248 + + – + + An older, non-travel piece about Google's plan to scan all the world's books and Luddite-like response from many authors. Let's see, someone wants to make your book easier to find, searchable and indexable and you're opposed to it? You're a fucking idiot. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + New Adventures in HiFi Text +
    +

    New Adventures in HiFi Text

    + + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + 42.32272216993563 + -72.62770885922362 + + – + + This project is no longer maintained or necessary thanks to projects like Pandoc which can take Markdown use it to create LaTeX and a dozen other types of files. It's just here as an historical artifact of my own amusement. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + One Nation Under a Groove +
    +

    One Nation Under a Groove

    + + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + 42.32254049078502 + -72.62804030361056 + + – + + The sky is falling! The iPod! It's ruining our culture! Or, uh, maybe it's just like the Walkman, but better. And since, so far as I can tell, the world did not collapse with the introduction of the Walkman and headphones, it probably isn't going to fall apart just because the storage format for our music has changed. [Photo to the right via Flickr] + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Farewell Mr. Hunter S Thompson +
    +

    Farewell Mr. Hunter S Thompson

    + + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + 42.322635681187286 + -72.62795447292216 + + – + + Hunter S. Thompson departs on a journey to the western lands. Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas delivered the penultimate eulogy for the dreams of the 1960's, one that mourned, but also tried to lay the empty idealism to rest. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Art of the Essay +
    +

    The Art of the Essay

    + + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + 42.322477030437234 + -72.62834071102037 + + – + + I generally ignore internet debates, they never go anywhere, so why bother. But we all have our weak points and when programmer Paul Graham posted what might be the dumbest essay on writing that's ever been written, I just couldn't help myuself. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Farewell Mr. Cash +
    +

    Farewell Mr. Cash

    + + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + 42.3225087606193 + -72.62804030361072 + + – + + Johnny Cash heads for the western lands. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/7/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/7/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..234830c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/7/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,96 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from United States -- Page 7 + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
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    + +
    +

    Journal entries from the United States

    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6d07e45 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/united-states/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,592 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from United States -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Journal entries from the United States

    +
    +
    + Nothing is Finished, Nothing is Perfect +
    +

    Nothing is Finished, Nothing is Perfect

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95815048298076 + -83.40810770339355 + + – + + A dozen years ago this week I was at an Iraqi restaurant in Paris. It was a tiny place near the cross roads of two very forgettable avenues, an unassuming door, a small menu board of the kind you see dozens of on nearly every block. I have no recollection of what drew us in, maybe just hunger. The only other people in it were the owner and his wife. To this day I would call it the best meal of my life. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Halloween +
    +

    Halloween

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95636176760647 + -83.40707773513215 + + – + + Every Halloween I complain about how hot it is. I'm not sure where I got the idea that it was cold in Georgia come Halloween, but reviewing some pictures from the last half decade or so very clearly shows me wrong. It's often quite hot on Halloween and probably always will be from here on out. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Useless Stuff +
    +

    Useless Stuff

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95799920005176 + -83.40821499175449 + + – + + Normally when you move you just shove all that stuff you don't really acknowledge that you've been dragging around for years without using into a box and truck it on to the next place you'll live where you can happily shove it in the back of a new closet. When you're moving into a 1969 Dodge Travco with four other people and less than 100 square feet of usable space that's not an option. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Equinox +
    +

    Equinox

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.9850879025932 + -83.38062578983113 + + – + + I have a thing for solar cycles. I was born a few hours before the winter solstice. My wife and I were married on the summer solstice. My son was born a few hours before the winter solstice. None of that was planned. It's all synchronicity. Coincidence some would say, though I don't believe that synchronicities like that are coincidence. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Cloudland Canyon +
    +

    Cloudland Canyon

    + + +

    + + Cloudland Canyon, Georgia, U.S. + + 34.8338921973676 + -85.4818844250578 + + – + + I have a terrible habit of never going to obvious places that are right around me. For example I lived within 100 miles or so of Death Valley for 26 years and never once went. Then I moved thousands of miles across the country and finally arranged a trip to Death Valley. Except that it appears I'm getting better about these things. Maybe. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Autumn Bus Update +
    +

    Autumn Bus Update

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95793690700317 + -83.40810770339355 + + – + + The bare walls are gone, the ceiling is in, but still there is still much to do -- even if we do plan to leave before it's completely finished. We need a floor and couch at the bare minimum, though I'd like to have the propane and sewage system working as well. Oh and then there's a cab area, which I really haven't touched. Miles to go before I sleep. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Change of Ideas (The Worst) +
    +

    Change of Ideas (The Worst)

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.90329999583211 + -83.33059998840027 + + – + + I want the bus to be The Best. But. as an article I'm fond of says, "the best means waiting, planning, researching, and saving until one can acquire the perfect equipment for a given task." On the other side of the coin there is The Worst. if you have to have everything perfect you're never going to go. The Worst just goes. Now. The Worst figures things out from experience rather than hopes and fears. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + What Are You Going to Do? +
    +

    What Are You Going to Do?

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95701140490208 + -83.40944880790045 + + – + + We've started telling people about our plans to live full time in the blue bus. After the eyebrows come down and the puzzled frowns flatten out, the questions come. Most of them revolve around some form of, but, but but... *what will you do without a house? What will you do when that thing breaks down? What will you do when...* Rather than answer everyone individually I thought I'd answer all those questions here, as best I can: ***I don't know***. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Engine +
    +

    Engine

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.958194977909265 + -83.4081398899018 + + – + + The Travco is not starting. I can see the problem in my head, but I cannot make it work. It has to be the fuel pump. I have spark. I have compression. The missing ingredient in the basic trifecta of the internal combustion engines is fuel. But seeing it and understanding it are different than actually making it work. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Back From Somewhere +
    +

    Back From Somewhere

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.96708459770432 + -83.38646227664735 + + – + + Neither the intense afternoon sun beating down on the concrete slab of parking lot, nor the humidity left over from morning rains convinced my kids to abandon the Jittery Joe's skate contest. We were there all afternoon, over four hours of skating, pulled pork and the occasional train rolling by. They never stopped loving it. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Root Down +
    +

    Root Down

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95784791685379 + -83.40821499175358 + + – + + The longer you've been in one location the more stuff that's accumulated. As far as I can tell there is no real way to combat the detritus of the world seeping into your space, save cutting off all contact with the outside world. I imagine monasteries are generally immaculate; the rest of us get out the pick axes and clear the rubble. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Another Spring +
    +

    Another Spring

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.88121959056056 + -83.31667656250653 + + – + + This becomes a day like any other that is somehow different. Then another and another. Little things. The air feels brighter. The river is lower. Less practical footwear appears on the feet around you. The mornings are crisp and the pollen hasn't started yet. The trees still bare though the smaller shrubs turn purple and white. Everything feels fragile but possible again. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Up in the Air +
    +

    Up in the Air

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95794580601253 + -83.40819353408179 + + – + + I tore the rear air conditioning unit off the back of the bus today. Afterward I stood back and looked at the Travco. All the clean lines and curves joined together again, no more air conditioning warts to interrupt the sliding smooth and unbroken swoop of white and blue. The big blue bus looked sleek and whole again. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bring on the Change +
    +

    Bring on the Change

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.958016998057886 + -83.4080862457218 + + – + + I've been thinking about this little mantra ever since I saw it six or seven years ago. I don't think I've ever seen what I consider the secret to happiness so succinctly and completely captured. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Tools +
    +

    Tools

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95817717994103 + -83.40842956847534 + + – + + We are not things, Alan Watts was fond of saying, we are happenings. But we are happenings with things. Specifically with tools, many of which help us happen in one way or another. What to make of these tools then? + +

    +
    +
    +
    + 8-Track Gorilla +
    +

    8-Track Gorilla

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.9579814020434 + -83.40812916106634 + + – + + I just sold an antiquated music player that takes a format no one has manufactured in over three decades for $86. It was an old Oldsmobile 8-track cassette player I pulled out of the bus. I have no idea how it came to be in a 1969 Dodge Travco. What I do have an idea about is why I just sold it, as-is, could-be-working, could not be working, for $86 more than you would think it was worth. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Progress +
    +

    Progress

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.957904369989365 + -83.4083437377863 + + – + + I'm not crazy anti-tech, I just think the good, sustainable technologies are rare. I'm not a delusional lunatic who thinks I'm living in the Victorian era or anything. I just don't really like air conditioning. Or heaters. Or generators. And I prefer a good fire to electric light. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Elvis Has Left the Building +
    +

    Elvis Has Left the Building

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.963774457452075 + -83.40132707900412 + + – + + It's not that I have anything against the king, it's that I don't have anything at all, no feelings one way or the other on Elvis, so he came out and won't be going back in. The walls, ceiling and floor of the Travco are also coming out. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Big Blue Bus +
    +

    The Big Blue Bus

    + + +

    + + Asheville Area, North Carolina, U.S. + + 35.82050050961864 + -82.54565948803042 + + – + + Change of plans, sold the trailer, bought a 1969 Dodge Travco, the coolest vehicle ever made. The first few corners were nerve-wracking, the kind of white knuckled terror-inducing driving I haven't done since the very first time I sat down behind a wheel. Or the time I claimed I could ride a motorcycle when I actually had no clue. It all works out in the end. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ode to the Outdoor Shower +
    +

    Ode to the Outdoor Shower

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.660804289800733 + -84.86735815332483 + + – + + The outdoor shower may be one of life's greatest joys. Certainly it makes for memorable showers. I have fond memories of sunshowers hung from the mast of a sailboat, the slick mossy wood of an outdoor shower in Laos, the cold marble of bucket showers in India, the sandy tile of the beach showers where I grew up. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + A Big Long Week +
    +

    A Big Long Week

    + + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.660095736315927 + -84.86705774591675 + + – + + Whenever Lilah and Olivia want to convey long lengths of time they use the phrase "in a big long week". As in, "we have not had any cookies in a big long week." A big long week could be anywhere from two days to over a year. In this case we had two big long weeks on the island. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Tate's Hell +
    +

    Tate’s Hell

    + + +

    + + Tate’s Hell, Florida, U.S. + + 29.854238614588233 + -84.8141645841502 + + – + + Tate supposedly wandered out of his eponymous hell swamp and managed to say "my name is Cebe Tate, and I just came from Hell!" before promptly dropping dead. If you're like me you're not going to take this legend very seriously. You're going to think, pshaw, swamps are fun, how bad can this one be? As it happens, if you're not prepared, it can be pretty bad. Especially in Yellow Fly season. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + We're Here +
    +

    We’re Here

    + + +

    + + Thomasville, Georgia, U.S. + + 30.841040782644317 + -83.98170346556772 + + – + + Right now the girls call everywhere "here". This greatly simplifies the whole "are we there yet" dilemma of driving with children. That's not the question. On the drive down here to St. George Island they would ask "are we here yet?" To which Corrinne and I would answer, "yes, we are here." They're young enough that they let us get away with that. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Coming Home +
    +

    Coming Home

    + + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95742966190523 + -83.40147728270863 + + – + + I am happy to report that, despite a sketchy tow hookup that doesn't lock to the ball, some last-minute wiring snafus, a considerable amount of dry rot on one tire and of course the fact that it still isn't registered, I did nevertheless succeed in getting our 1969 Yellowstone back to our house. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + +
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    + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/mapindex.html b/bak/oldluxpages/mapindex.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6043f35 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/mapindex.html @@ -0,0 +1,176 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Map and Trips + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Browse luxagraf by map

    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +

    Trips

    + +

    Regions

    + +

    Countries

    + +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/newsletter/friends/001/test.html b/bak/oldluxpages/newsletter/friends/001/test.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..626f995 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/newsletter/friends/001/test.html @@ -0,0 +1,210 @@ + + + + + Begin the Begin by Scott Gilbertson + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    + + +
    +
    + + + + +
    +
    + + clouds over a field, black and white photographed by luxagraf + +
    +
    +
    +

    Begin the Begin

    +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Okay, so thanks for helping with this, I have already found and fixed two bugs. Anyway, instead of Lorem Ipsum, I will write some sort of guide to maybe how this should look. Ideally there is a photo above this with a light gray border around it, I think it’s 40 pixels, but anyway, somewhat thick.

    +

    Above that should be the title of the piece in somewhat large serif text. Ideally my fancy font, but some mail clients seem to block those so Georgia is the fall back. Then above that there’s a line with the name of the newsletter Friends of a Long Year, the issue, 001, and the date.

    +

    Then these grafs should be sans serif, 16pt ish text. There are also some hr tags in there to make little gray lines, but if those don’t work, I don’t care that much. here’s one as a test:

    +
    +

    Then there is a footer with some basic info like who sent this, the archive, etc, none of these links work yet. Oh and an unsubscribe link, which also won’t work for you because I only added you to the testing database, not the live one. Anyway, if this looks even remotely close to this, I win!. Haha. It is such a pain in the ass to style HTML for email clients. I have to inject inline style tags to every single paragraph you see here just to get the fucking font right, like what century is it?

    +

    I totally understand why everyone just signs up for mailchimp. But I wanted to build something that didn’t track people and there’s just no way to do that with any of the commercial services I looked at. Which is sad. But there you go, surveillance capitalism at work. anyhoo. thanks again.

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    + +
    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/newsletter/friends/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/newsletter/friends/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a9f717c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/newsletter/friends/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,135 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Friends of a Long Year + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    + + +
    +
    + + +
    +
    +

    Join the Friends of a Long Year.

    + +

    Say what?

    +

    Friends of a Long Year is a monthly letter about living outdoors, travel, literature, music, vintage vehicles, and other ephemera. Unsubscribing is easy. It's all self-hosted, secure, and private.

    +

    The name Friends of a Long Year comes from the early 20th century explorer and desert rat, Mary Hunter Austin, whose collected essays, Lost Borders is dedicated to the "Friends of a Long Year".

    +

    While I came up with this name last year, it seems particularly fitting in 2020, which is shaping up to be a long year. If you like to travel with friends, mentally for now, please, join us.

    +
    +

    Letters

    + +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/oldpages/about.html b/bak/oldluxpages/oldpages/about.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6cd82c9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/oldpages/about.html @@ -0,0 +1,91 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | About Luxagraf + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    About Luxagraf

    +
    +

    Luxagraf is written and published by Scott Gilbertson.

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    +

    Photo by @lagsolo

    +

    If you must have more details about me, or if you’d like to hire me, check out scottgilbertson.net

    +

    Acknowledgments

    +

    I don’t use a pre-packaged publishing system that you can go download and use yourself. Luxagraf is created primarily by hand, with a lot of tools loosely joined. Most of these tools are free software that you too can use and modify as you see fit. Without these amazing tools I wouldn’t be able to do this — many thanks to the people who created and maintain them.

    +

    GeoDjango framework — Behind the scenes this handles a few things, like geographic queries and putting everything on a map. If you have any interest in working with geographic data, this is by far the best tool I’ve used.

    +

    Python — GeoDjango of course depends on Python, which in turn runs on my Linux server hosted by Digital Ocean. Nginx serves the flat HTML files you’re looking at here.

    +

    OpenStreetMap — I use OpenStreetMap data for all the maps on this site. OpenStreetMap is like the Wikipedia of maps, except that it isn’t wrong half the time. Whenever I feel skeptical about the so-called collective power of people on the internet, I remember OpenStreetMap and feel a little better.

    +

    Leaflet.js — This is the JavaScript Library that makes it really easy to load all the pretty maps you see on luxagraf. The map tiles themselves were developed by a company call ESRI and are credited with links on the various maps.

    +

    Vim — The text editor I used to type up most things, including these words right now.

    +

    The site validates as HTML5 and uses something the kids call responsive web design. I may or may not have written an entire book on responsive web design.

    +

    Luxagraf should work in every web browser. If you have trouble, or see something that just doesn’t seem right, please let me know.

    +

    Photography

    +

    Currently photos are taken with a Panasonic GF1. This is hands down the best digital camera I have ever used and second only to my old Nikon F3. In the past I have used a Panasonic LX2 and a Canon S45.

    +

    Minimal photo processing is done with either Adobe Lightroom and Photoshop on OS X or Darktable and GIMP on Linux.

    +

    The photo gallery layout was inspired by the lovely (and now defunct) Pictory photo showcase. Also note that while the writing is copyrighted to me, the photos are licensed under a Creative Commons attribution, share-alike license, which means you’re free to use them so long as you attribute them to me.

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/oldpages/babyvideos.html b/bak/oldluxpages/oldpages/babyvideos.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4e00739 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/oldpages/babyvideos.html @@ -0,0 +1,117 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Videos of Lilah and Olivia + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

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    +
    + +
    + +
    + +
    +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/oldpages/contact.html b/bak/oldluxpages/oldpages/contact.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..afc76c5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/oldpages/contact.html @@ -0,0 +1,92 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Contact Luxagraf + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Contact Luxagraf

    +
    +

    I’d love to hear what you think about the posts on luxagraf. If you use Twitter, send me a message: @luxagraf. Or, if you prefer, you can email me:

    +

    + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cfb66ed --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,326 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Photo Galleries: Images from Around the World Page 1 + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

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    + +
    + +
    +

    Photographs from Around the World

    +
      +
    • +
      + Florida, Apalachicola Area +
      +

      Florida, Apalachicola Area

      +

      Photos from three trips, spanning three years.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Nusa Lembongan +
      +

      Nusa Lembongan

      +

      Just of the coast of Bali, Nusa Lembongan is a much more laid back island with some of the best snorkeling in the world.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Ubud, Bali +
      +

      Ubud, Bali

      +

      We spent a week in Ubud, relaxing, watching the monkeys, riding motorbikes and, thanks to some nice locals, visiting a temple ceremony in Tegallantang.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Rome +
      +

      Rome

      +

      Rome is big, ancient and crowded, but it’s also home to some of the best food you’ll ever have (or cook for yourself).

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Florence & the Museum of Zoology +
      +

      Florence & the Museum of Zoology

      +

      Florence is gorgeous, if crowded. And “La Specola”, the Museum of Zoology, is, perhaps not for everyone, but remarkable nonetheless.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Naples & Pompeii +
      +

      Naples & Pompeii

      +

      Pompeii is the main reason we came to Italy. And while Naples is a bit dirty and covered in graffiti, it ended up being my favorite spot in Italy.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Paris 2011 +
      +

      Paris 2011

      +

      One week in Paris. Never enough.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Rocky Mountain National Park +
      +

      Rocky Mountain National Park

      +

      Four days in the Rockies…

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Lodore Canyon River Trip +
      +

      Lodore Canyon River Trip

      +

      My friend Mike is guide for the Adventure Bound rafting company in Colorado and brought me along on a trip down the Green River through Lodore Canyon in Dinosaur National …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Dinosaur National Monument +
      +

      Dinosaur National Monument

      +

      I made a quick trip down to take a look at Echo Park in Dinosaur National Monument. Brutal road, but a great, isolated campground at the end of it.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Yellowstone National Park +
      +

      Yellowstone National Park

      +

      From Grand Teton I headed north to the very crowded, but beautiful, Yellowstone National Park.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Grand Teton National Park +
      +

      Grand Teton National Park

      +

      Some images of the Tetons and my overnight backpacking trip up to Holly Lake.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Great Sand Dunes National Park +
      +

      Great Sand Dunes National Park

      +

      The tallest sand dunes in North America.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Comanche National Grasslands +
      +

      Comanche National Grasslands

      +

      The little known, little visited chunk of land in south eastern Colorado. Highly recommended if you’re in the area. Dirt roads, few signs, bring a map.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + New Orleans/Gulf Port +
      +

      New Orleans/Gulf Port

      +

      The beginning of a six week road trip around the United States.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Los Angeles '10 +
      +

      Los Angeles '10

      +

      I’d never been on the subway system in Los Angeles so we went down to Union Station and then walked around downtown LA.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Death Valley +
      +

      Death Valley

      +

      Neither a valley (it’s technically a basin), nor particularly deadly (only one person died to give it its name), but very beautiful and well worth a trip.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Okefenokee Swamp +
      +

      Okefenokee Swamp

      +

      A three-day canoe trip through the Okefenokee Swamp in southern Georgia.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + California '09 +
      +

      California '09

      +

      Started in Northern California and then flew down to the LA area for a sailing trip over to Catalina Island.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Las Penitas Beach, Nicaragua +
      +

      Las Penitas Beach, Nicaragua

      +

      Just south of Leon. Lovely Beaches, but nowhere decent to stay. Do it as a day trip; just grab the bus from the small market on the edge of Leon …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Leon, Nicaragua +
      +

      Leon, Nicaragua

      +

      Leon is beautiful, a city of poets and painters, philosophers and political revolutionaries. By far my favorite city in Nicaragua.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Corn Islands, Nicaragua (Again) +
      +

      Corn Islands, Nicaragua (Again)

      +

      For our honeymoon we went back to Little Corn Island. Unfortunately it rained most of the time we were there, but we enjoyed ourselves anyway.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Nicaragua - The Corn Islands +
      +

      Nicaragua - The Corn Islands

      +

      The Corn Islands are off the Eastern shore of Nicaragua and while they have very little in common with the mainland, they were definitely my favorite spot on this trip. …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Nicaragua - San Juan Del Sur +
      +

      Nicaragua - San Juan Del Sur

      +

      From Granada we decided to check out the Pacific side for a few days down in San Juan Del Sur.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    +
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    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/2/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/2/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9eaefa1 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/2/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,327 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Photo Galleries: Images from Around the World Page 2 + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

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    + +
    + +
    +

    Photographs from Around the World

    +
      +
    • +
      + Nicaragua - Granada +
      +

      Nicaragua - Granada

      +

      After one night in Managua we hopped a chicken bus down to the colonial town of Granada on the shores of Lago Nicaragua.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Sailing -- 2007 +
      +

      Sailing -- 2007

      +

      Every summer my family rents a boat and goes sailing. You can read about it on luxagraf.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Los Angeles - Summer 2007 +
      +

      Los Angeles - Summer 2007

      +

      Went out to LA for two weeks at the beginning of July. Saw some friends and went sailing with my family.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + New York +
      +

      New York

      +

      I was working one afternoon in May when I noticed an email from a mailing list I subscribe to that claimed $12 flights to New York. As it turns out …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Charleston SC +
      +

      Charleston SC

      +

      I get restless being in the same place for too long. After about a month in Athens a friend invited me up to visit her in Charleston SC. You can …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Misc LA +
      +

      Misc LA

      +

      After nine months abroad I went out to Los Angeles for a while to visit with friends and family. I ended up staying about eight months. There are some images …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Paris +
      +

      Paris

      +

      Back in Paris, returning full circle. From the luxagraf entry entitled Cadenza: "And now. Now I can see my reflection slighted in the window. I am haggard, tired, my …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Vienna, Austria +
      +

      Vienna, Austria

      +

      Vienna is a strange city; one I had trouble wrapping my head around at first. The old town area lies inside the Ringstraße. The Ringstraße is a wide circular boulevard …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Prague, Czech Republic +
      +

      Prague, Czech Republic

      +

      I’ll be honest, I was a little disappointed by Prague. I liked it; I had a good time in Prague, but I don’t know that I would go out of …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Cesky Krumlov +
      +

      Cesky Krumlov

      +

      Cesky Krumlov is a small Czech town nestled on a dramatic bend in the Vltava River. Like any European city worth its salt, it has a dramatic castle on a …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Salzburg, Austria +
      +

      Salzburg, Austria

      +

      We spent a couple of nights in Salzburg and wandered the castle area as well as the old town square. We ate in old of the oldest restaurants in Europe …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Bled, Slovenia +
      +

      Bled, Slovenia

      +

      Actually most of these are outside of Bled in the Julian Alps… There is a roughly 200km loop of road that leads northwest out of Bled, through a pass in …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Ljubjana, Slovenia +
      +

      Ljubjana, Slovenia

      +

      We were only in Ljubjana for two days, but it’s still one of my favorite cities in Europe.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Trogir, Croatia +
      +

      Trogir, Croatia

      +

      Like Dubrovnik, Trogir was a walled city of roughly Venetian vintage, but Trogir’s wall has largely crumbled away or been removed, though I know not how or why. Still it …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Dubrovnik, Croatia +
      +

      Dubrovnik, Croatia

      +

      Seaside town near the southern end of Croatia. A walled trading city whose origins can be traced as far back as the 7th century and variously controlled by the Byzantines, …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Lake Plitvice, Croatia +
      +

      Lake Plitvice, Croatia

      +

      National Park in the mountains of Croatia famed for it’s rivers and lakes. Also saw the first shots fired in the Baltic conflict. It’s hard to understand, standing on the …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Budapest, Hungary +
      +

      Budapest, Hungary

      +

      From London to Budapest where I am ostensibly from, though after having been there and seen the people, I’m not sure I buy that. Or I picked up some weird …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + London, England +
      +

      London, England

      +

      I’ll tell you what culture shock is, being able to understand conversations around you for the first time in eight month. Freaked me out at first. Then I met up …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Koh Phi Phi Thailand +
      +

      Koh Phi Phi Thailand

      +

      In which I head to south Thailand with a brief stop at the world famous Phi Phi islands. I also met up with some friend from the state on holiday …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Sinoukville Cambodia +
      +

      Sinoukville Cambodia

      +

      A beach party town. Fun, but not very Cambodian. This is where I said goodbye to Debi who I traveled with for two months and Rob and Jules who spent …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Bokor Hill Station Cambodia +
      +

      Bokor Hill Station Cambodia

      +

      From the beach we headed up into the hills to an abandoned hill station once home to the king’s summer getaway and a lavish casino until they were destroyed by …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Death Island Cambodia +
      +

      Death Island Cambodia

      +

      After three days of Templing in Angkor we were spent. We joined forces with Rob and Jules and headed back down to Phnom Penh for a day. The next morning, …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Angkor Wat +
      +

      Angkor Wat

      +

      Angkor Wat. At some point during the four days I was in Seam Reap I emailed on of my friends the following, which she found utterly hilarious: “I can honestly …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Bamboo Railway +
      +

      Bamboo Railway

      +

      After the Floating Village we made our way up to Battambang to check out the Bamboo railway. Cambodia still hasn’t fully recovered from the Khmer Rouge, transportation in particular is …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/3/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/3/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..feac3fd --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/3/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,327 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Photo Galleries: Images from Around the World Page 3 + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Photographs from Around the World

    +
      +
    • +
      + Floating Village Tonle Sap Cambodia +
      +

      Floating Village Tonle Sap Cambodia

      +

      After Phnom Phen we headed west to see some of the floating villages along the edge of Tonle Sap, the large lake in central Cambodia. There’s a very large lake …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + S21, Killing Fields Phnom Phen Cambodia +
      +

      S21, Killing Fields Phnom Phen Cambodia

      +

      The killing fields outside of Phnom Penh are in fact just that, fields with depressions, large holes in the ground, some marked with staggering numbers, others with no sign at …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Sen Monoron, Cambodia +
      +

      Sen Monoron, Cambodia

      +

      Not many pictures in this set because I came down with dysentery shorting after we arrived. That was fun.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Ban Lung, Cambodia +
      +

      Ban Lung, Cambodia

      +

      After crossing into Cambodia we were a bit overwhelmed by the dramatic increase in tourists so we high tailed it up to the far northeast corner to avoid the crowds. …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Si Phon Don Laos +
      +

      Si Phon Don Laos

      +

      Better known as the four thousand islands. Nearly on the Cambodian border the Mekong spreads out to a width of a few miles leaving many large and small islands in …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Champasak Laos +
      +

      Champasak Laos

      +

      After Attapeu I went on to Champasak alone while Matt and Debi went on to another village up in the hill country. I explored the wat in Champasak and generally …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Attapeu, Laos +
      +

      Attapeu, Laos

      +

      From Xekong it’s a short bus ride to far end of the Bolevan Plateau where village of Attapeu. From there it’s only a half day motorbike ride to the Ho …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Sekong (Xekong) +
      +

      Sekong (Xekong)

      +

      After saying goodbye to Jackie and Ofir, Matt and I headed inland to Sekong where we met up with Debi again and encountered a series of strange things like a …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Tat Lo Falls +
      +

      Tat Lo Falls

      +

      While waiting for Debi to get back from Thailand, we made a quick trip out the Tat Lo Falls for Valentine’s Day. I wrote about it in an entry that …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Hin Bun River Trip +
      +

      Hin Bun River Trip

      +

      After the trip to Konglor Cave we hired a boat for a seven hour journey back down to the Mekong. Alternately beautiful and grueling, Jacqui and I got a little …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Konglor Cave, Laos +
      +

      Konglor Cave, Laos

      +

      Konglor Cave is in central Laos, it’s tough to get to, primitive when you arrive and still the best place in Laos. For full details be sure to check out …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Bin Ha Nin +
      +

      Bin Ha Nin

      +

      A small village by the side of the road. The jumping off point for the trip to Konglor Cave, We elected to spend an extra day exploring the surrounding area. …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Laos - Vang Vieng +
      +

      Laos - Vang Vieng

      +

      Ofir and I took the boat down the Luang Prabang again, headed for Vang Vieng when he ran into a friend from his time traveling in India. That friend was …

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      Laos - Gibbon Experience

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      I met up with Ofir and Robin on the boat to Luang Prabang and when we stopped in Pak Beng for the night the three of us went to dinner …

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      Laos - Luang Prabang and around

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      I was planning to go into Laos make a quick trip to Luang Prabang and come back with a renewed Thai visa. As it turned out I spent two months …

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      Thailand - Doi Inthanon National Park

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      Doi Inthanon is the highest point and Thailand. It’s about a two hour motorbike ride from Chang Mai, but well worth the effort. From the base at 800m to the …

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      Thailand Mae Sa Botantical Gardens

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      The Mae Sa Valley is about half an hour by motorbike from Chang Mai and about halfway up the valley is a massive botanical garden curated by the Queen of …

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      Thailand Chang Mai

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      Chang Mai is in northern Thailand somewhat near the Burmese border. It has something like 300 wats, but Wat Umong is by far the best. Umong is set back in …

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      Bangkok Misc

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      The Baiyoke Sky Hotel, is, as it proudly proclaims to anyone who will listen, the tallest hotel in the world—not building mind you, I believe that honor goes to the …

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      Thailand Bangkok Wat Pho

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      Wat Pho is home of the reclining Buddha. Its also the largest and oldest wat in Bangkok. The Reclining Buddha is forty-six metres long and fifteen metres high — huge …

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      Thailand- Bangkok, Wat Phra Kaew

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      Wat Phra Kaew, better known as the temple of the emerald Buddha and a part of the larger Grand Palace, is generally considered the most important temple in Thailand.

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      Nepal - Sarangkot

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      Sarangkot is one of the foothills above Pokhara from which there are fantastic views of the Annapurna range of the Himalayas. It was too late in the season to actually …

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      Pokhara, Nepal

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      From Kathmandu I took a four hour bus ride up to Pokhara a small lake town at the base of the Annapurna Range. Pokhara was one of the most beautiful …

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      Swayambhunath / Pashupatinath, Kathmandu, Nepal

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      Swayambhunath — I have no idea how you pronounce that, which is why everyone refers to it as the monkey temple since a fairly large group of monkeys has been …

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      Durbar Square, Kathmandu, Nepal

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      Durbar Square (durbar means palace) is a collection of various pagodas, temples and the old palace of the King of Nepal. The palace itself no longer houses the King, but …

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      Agra Fort / Taj Mahal

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      When I first planned my travel route through India I was woefully ignorant. I tried to see too much too fast. I don’t regret anything and I loved India, but …

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      Jaisalmer, India

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      Jaisalmer is in the middle of the Great Thar Desert, which stretch across northeastern India and up into Pakistan. I arrived in Jaisalmer at about 5 AM to what has …

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      Majestic Fort, Jodhpur, India

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      Meherangarh, or the Majestic Fort as it’s known in English overlooks Jodhpur India. As its English name indicates, it is indeed perched majestically atop the only hill around, and seems …

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      Jagdish Temple, Bagore-ki-Haveli & Shilpogram

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      The Jagdish Temple, the oldest and largest temple in Udaipur was just behind my guesthouse. It has some amazing relief carvings. Other photos in this set are from Bagore-ki-Haveli, which …

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      Around Udaipur

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      I spent a couple days just wandering around Udaipur India, checking out the lake, stumbling across an Indian wedding and other miscellanea. The accompanying luxagraf post is also called +

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      Monsoon Palace

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      On the hill on the far side of the lake Udaipur, India is the Monsoon Palace. If I remember right this was the summer palace of the King. It’s currently …

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      City Palace Udaipur, India

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      By the time I reached Udaipur I had largely sussed out how to travel in India so I was finally able to wrap my head around a place. It also …

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      Anjuna Beach Market, Goa India

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      The market at Anjuna is quiet the um well now we know where old hippies go. It was good fun though. Old hippies are good peoples. You can read more …

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      Colva Beach, Goa, India

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      Goa India. You’ve heard about the parties, the hippies and raves. And if you’re anything like me that makes you want to stay in the southern part of Goa where …

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      Backwater tour Kerala India

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      There’s a big network of canals, channels and rivers around the Cochin area and one of the more popular things to do is take a tour of the "backwaters" I …

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      Fort Cochin India

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      My first stop in India. I had no idea what to expect. It ended up being lovely, though far more tropical than I was expecting. And oh my yes, you’re …

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      Paris III

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      Week three in Paris. The Louvre in all its overwhelming glory as well as my most favorited photo here on Flickr (which only has like two votes, sad really, but …

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      Paris II

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      Another week or so in Paris during which I managed to make it to the Centre Pompidou, Sainte Chapelle and Père Lachaise Cemetery. There’s of course a travel essay to …

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      Paris I

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      First impressions of Paris. There’s also a travelogue entry to accompany these photographs, have a look at Living in a Railway Car

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      San Francisco

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      Just before I left to travel the world, I went up to San Francisco to visit some friends.

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    Photos from Agra Fort / Taj Mahal

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    India-Agra Fort Taj Mahal_12_08_05_01

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    Agra Fort, made of impressively red sandstone and quite a massive piece of construction. If you'd like to learn more, have a go at the luxagraf essay entitled The Taj Express.

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    India-Agra Fort Taj Mahal_12_08_05_02

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    The entranceway. If you'd like to learn more, have a go at the luxagraf essay entitled The Taj Express.

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    This was one of the coolest sites I saw in India. The room was actually considerably darker, this was a rather long exposure balanced on my traveling partner's shoulder. If you'd like to read more, check out the luxagraf essay entitled The Taj Express.

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    I jumped in this one, to give a bit of scale to the facade, the sandstone blocks used to build the Agra Fort are simply massive. If you'd like to learn more, have a go at the luxagraf essay entitled The Taj Express.

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    Restoration in progress. And somehow I doubt the workers get any insurance coverage.

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    yes that's marble.

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    We waited around in this room for almost an hour to get this shot and the once that follow.

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    One of the many courtyards inside the fort. If you'd like to read more, have a go at the luxagraf essay entitled The Taj Express.

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    Approaching the Taj Mahal.

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    One of the most singular sights in the world. If you'd like to read a bit about the Taj Mahal, have a go at the luxagraf essay entitled The Taj Express.

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    Two mixed sandstone and marble building flank the Taj Mahal on either side. If you'd like to read a bit about my experiences at the Taj Mahal, have a go at the luxagraf essay entitled The Taj Express.

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    To give you some idea of the size of the Taj Mahal, those tiny black dots near the base are people. If you'd like to read a bit about my experiences at the Taj Mahal, have a go at the luxagraf essay entitled The Taj Express.

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    Unfortunately quite a hazy/smoggy day. Agra was certainly not the cleanest city in India. The actually clean the Taj Mahal with facial cream to keep the soot and exhaust pollution from blackening the marble. If you'd like to read a bit about my experiences at the Taj Mahal, have a go at the luxagraf essay entitled The Taj Express.

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    The jungle always wins. Read more: Angkor Wat.

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    Going for that unique angle.

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    Banyon Trees are amazing. Read more: Angkor Wat.

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    Why I travel with pale people: the bugs go to them.

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    This is by far the best temple. About two hours north of the main complex and largely untouched by the reconstruction efforts. Parts of it were wrecked by everybody's favorite assholes the Khmer Rouge, but for the most part the destruction is just the jungle reclaiming things. Read more: Angkor Wat.

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/anjuna-beach-market-goa-india/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/anjuna-beach-market-goa-india/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c241595 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/anjuna-beach-market-goa-india/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,348 @@ + + + + + Anjuna Beach Market, Goa India - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Photos from Anjuna Beach Market, Goa India

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    The Anjuna market... old hippies don't die, they come here. Read more at luxagraf.

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    This little girl is far more talented than I'm every going to be.

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    Paul Frank bootlegs in India. That's when you know you're big.

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    More stuff than you can shake a stick at. Most of it was over priced junk but I'm sure there's a few finds to be had. I was trying to travel light at this point. It wasn't until Nepal that I decided to start buying stuff. Silly me. Oh well. I did write a little something about the market though. You can read it at luxagraf.

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    Photos from Around Udaipur

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    India-Udaipur Around Town_11_27_05_01

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    I was lucky, the lake was full when I arrived. I've seen photos when the lake is pretty much just grass and it isn't nearly as nice.

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    Indian architecture seems to call for tons of little sitting rooms I guess you would call them, for lack of a better word. perhaps gazebo is closer. If you're up for a bit a reading, have a go at the accompanying travelogue entry Around Udaipur

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    A water pump of some kind.

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    Everybody loves an elephant. If you're the reading type, you might enjoy: Around Udaipur

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/attapeu-laos/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/attapeu-laos/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a9b3f63 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/attapeu-laos/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,1408 @@ + + + + + Attapeu, Laos - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Photos from Attapeu, Laos

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    Walking around Attapeu with Matt, Debi, Jules and Ben.

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    Attapeu is a sleepy little river town in the highlands of Laos, but they do have a kickin' market scene.

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    No idea what Matt is doing here.

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    One of my favorite photos. Nothing like fresh veggies.

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    Not sure the name of this river, but it's not the Mekong, I can tell you that.

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    Volleyball is big Laos.

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    Attapeu happened to be having a fair/carnival/circus thing while we were there... You can read about it on luxagraf: Can't Get There From Here

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    Monkeys on bikes. Note to animal rights folks, things aren't all that good for circus monkeys in Asia.

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    Sekong's best movie theatre. Lost in Translation of course.

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    On the way to the Ho Chi Min Trail

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    This woman is on the the last of her tribe who used to live in the hills of southern Laos. War deforestation and encroaching civilization have taken there toll. Read more at luxagraf: Can't Get There From Here

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    For those that didn't think the Russians were supplying North Vietnam with weapons.... They left behind a rocket. Presumably the warhead is long gone, but in Asia you never want to assume too much. You can read more on luxagraf: Can't Get There From Here

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    That's as far as we went on the Ho Chi Min trail.

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    South of Attepeu the road peters out and becomes well, not even the locals use it. We did meet one crazy German who traveled it by dirt bike. It took him something like 3 days to go about 60 miles. You can read more on luxagraf: Can't Get There From Here

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    riding back, Matt and I went for speed.

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    I still can't figure out where the rice is.

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    rickety wooden bridges, always the most fun part of riding honda dreams. You can read more on luxagraf: Can't Get There From Here

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    The storm it cometh. And then the camera gets put back in the plastic bag.

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    Everybody loves duckies. I love duckies. Even Ze Frank loves duckies.

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    Just before the sky opened up and dumped buckets of rain. For the full story you can read my blog post entitled The Backwaters of Kerala.

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    Some great sails on the inland waters of south India. If you're interested in learning more about the trip, have gander at the luxagraf post entitled The Backwaters of Kerala.

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    We traveled for several hours with very few signs of human settlement and the happened upon this rather striking door. Read more in The Backwaters of Kerala.

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    After the floating villages we headed off to see the bamboo railway. After the Khmer Rouge wrecked all the rail lines in Cambodia the people created their own trains using the most plentiful material in Asia -- bamboo.

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    Young girl eating a barbecued rat.

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    Matt and I shortly after having sampled some barbecued rat ourselves. It's not that bad. Actually yeah, it is. Read more over in an entry titled Beginning to See the Light.

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    Crossing into Cambodia. Illegally. Well technically it's not a real border, but tons of people get through.

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    First stop in Cambodia -- barber.

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    Debi was laid up with some sort of bug so Matt and I rented bikes and did a bit of joyriding out to waterfalls and the like.

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    We were looking for another waterfall and riding down this pretty rough rode, standing on the pegs and letting the bikes bounce violently around. We thought we were pretty bad ass. And then a cambodian family of five on single Honda Dream blew by us with the wife sitting side-saddle and nursing a baby. Seriously. Read more: Ticket To Ride:

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    The effects of clear cutting and slash and burn agriculture Read more: Ticket To Ride:

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    The dust, god the dust. Read more: Ticket To Ride:

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    Gone native. Read more: Ticket To Ride:

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    Spirit houses in a village about two hour motorcycle ride east of Ban Lung. Read more: Ticket To Ride:

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    Spirit totems in a village in the middle of absolute nowhere. Read more: Ticket To Ride:

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    More views of the city from the Baiyoke Sky Hotel. Brink of the Clouds

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    The end of a very very long day. Be sure to check out the corresponding entry on luxagraf: Water Slides and Spirit Guides.

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    Misspellings are pretty common in Asia but this was the only time I saw this. Coke is a believe what they're after.

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    When I say small village, I mean, um, small. Be sure to check out the corresponding entry on luxagraf: Water Slides and Spirit Guides.

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    The village we stayed in for two nights lies on one of the main thoroughfares between Thailand and Vietnam. The Vietnamese apparently consume more dog than they can produce domestically so every day four of these giant lorries would pass by from Thailand... loaded down with dogs.

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    Hiking through the local forest. Be sure to check out the corresponding entry on luxagraf: Water Slides and Spirit Guides.

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    spiders. lots of spiders

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    Local children endlessly fascinated with blond English people.

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    Some local children whose chief form of amusement was chucking each other around.

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    Jacqui reading some book where dolphins take over the world if I remember right.

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    Jacqui accidentally discovered some weird camera setting that produced these results. I don't remember what it was now.

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    That's about how the world looked at the time.

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    The castle on the hill, Bled. Actually its a monastery, but whatever. If you'd like to read more see: The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two.

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    Strange foamy stuff that was dripping off the trees where we stopped to eat lunch. If you'd like to read more see: The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two.

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/bokor-hill-station-cambodia/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/bokor-hill-station-cambodia/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..95599ac --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/bokor-hill-station-cambodia/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,508 @@ + + + + + Bokor Hill Station Cambodia - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Photos from Bokor Hill Station Cambodia

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    Fog rolling up the valley and over the hill a bit like the tide coming in. Read more in The Book Of Right On.

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    At some point this was a lavish casino where the swankiest folks in Asia partied. Read more in The Book Of Right On.

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    After the hill station we came back down to a river for a short boat ride home. Read more in The Book Of Right On.

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    Boats. Still my favorite way to get around. Read more in The Book Of Right On

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    Walk Slowly

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    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

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    Photos from Budapest, Hungary

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    My first evening in Budapest. Which is why I called the blog post, Refracted Light and Grace.

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    The shoes in the foreground are part of memorial to Holocaust victims.

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    Fantastic Gothic architecture.

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    From castle hill looking back at the Danube. Read more: Refracted Light and Grace

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    The museum up at castle hill.

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    Castle hill and around...

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    There's a bunch of caves and tunnels underneath Castle Hill, it's a little cheesy, but still fun. Refracted Light and Grace

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    My friends in Los Angeles have a band called whirling dervish and I read in a guidebook to Budapest about a monument to the whirling dervish who saved Budapest from some invading army. So I went out to find him and it took a while, nobody seemed to know who or what I was talking about when I stopped to ask directions. Eventually I did find them though.

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    A very famous whirling dervish whose name now escapes me.

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    Up the river from Budapest was this terribly cheesy tourist trap of the town whose name I've blocked out. But I did take this photo of this woman which I rather like. I'd like to know what she was thinking at the time.

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    Water pump. I took a picture of one in India so I thought why not Hungary?

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    No idea what's up with this. We took the train north out of budapest to visit a small town and I saw this while I was walking around. Refracted Light and Grace

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    Indoor market. Lacked the chaos and vibrancy of Asian markets, but it had amazing meats and spices. Also see: Refracted Light and Grace

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    One of the many bridges spanning the Daube

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    The hand of the pope, quite old, dead and fairly well decayed. Gross actually. And fucking weird. Who saves hands? If you'd like to read about Budapest, check out Refracted Light and Grace on luxagraf.

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    Last evening in Budapest. I like it when things have symmetry.

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    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

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    Photos from California '09

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    foggy, as always. bright sunshine not 5 minutes in either direction, so strange.

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    oak trees

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    The beach in front of our hotel, a short walk from glass beach

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    Sunset, the north coast

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    No sand, just glass

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    Should have put something in there to show size -- most of these are about the size of your smallest fingernail

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    Some of the best wine I've ever had. More info at www.martinelliwinery.com/

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    Hilery's birthday lunch at some vineyard I don't recall. She turned 16.

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    that's my boss. or editor as he prefers.

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    Hilary's birthday dinner

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    let's just not talk about shall we? Awesome ballpark though.

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    Corrinne's not so big on tourist traps.

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    It just wouldn't be LA in the summer if you didn't see a fire.

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    The streets of Cesky Krumlov.

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    sunset in the river.

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    Castle hill at night.

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    View from the castle.

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/champasak-laos/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/champasak-laos/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e8bcc5b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/champasak-laos/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,1108 @@ + + + + + Champasak Laos - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Pakse morning market, waiting on a truck...

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    mmmmm... beatles

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    Champasak is one of the few places where the Laos border extends to the other side of the Mekong River which necessitates a ferry. Read more about Champasak: Little Corner of the World.

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    The view from my guesthouse balcony. I was the only person staying when I arrived, but later in the afternoon I met a nice American woman named christi

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    A fair number of the artifacts at Wat Phu are in the museum at the base.

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    Champasak is home to Wat Phu which dates from the Angkor era. Read more about Champasak: Little Corner of the World.

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    there were a lot of bugs in Champasak, not biting bugs or anything, just lacewings, but lots of the them. Read more about Champasak: Little Corner of the World.

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    The next night was Debi's birthday. Fruit plate was the best we could do. Read more about Champasak: Little Corner of the World.

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    I sort of figured I would never see matt and debi again, but then one afternoon the just strolled into the guesthouse. Read more about Champasak: Little Corner of the World.

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    Windows.

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    Carved sandstone mind bogglingly detailed and just one of thousands. The craftsmanship in Indian palaces is far superior to any other I've ever seen. If you'd like to read more, check out the luxagraf entry entitled The City Palace.

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    I sat for quiet a while in what, if I remember right, was the King's bathing chamber, hypnotized by these stone inlays which became the basis of a short piece I later wrote.

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    The negative space equivalent of the previous image.

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    There's something terribly forlorn about empty birdcages.

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    Passenger pigeon cages.

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    The King's bath.

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    The King's other bath, outdoors in a sort of hanging garden.

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    The lake palace.

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    An Indian writing desk.

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    Solid Ivory doors.

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    The blue room.

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    Inlaid shards of glass forming peacock feathers. The level of detail is stunning. I wrote about it a little bit on luxagraf

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    It's hard to tell at this distance, but the entire facade of the window is tiny tile mosaic.

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/cloudland-canyon.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/cloudland-canyon.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..504b202 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/cloudland-canyon.html @@ -0,0 +1,324 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /photos/galleries/cloudland-canyon + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    +
    + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/photos/galleries/cloudland-canyon
    +
    +
    + +

    + Using the URLconf defined in config.base_urls, + Django tried these URL patterns, in this order: +

    +
      + +
    1. + + __debug__/ + + +
      2. + +
    2. + + tag-autocomplete/ + [name='tag-autocomplete'] + +
      3. + +
    3. + + ap-autocomplete/ + [name='ap-autocomplete'] + +
      4. + +
    4. + + ^admin/build/.* + + +
      5. + +
    5. + + admin/data/ + + +
      6. + +
    6. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/invoice/ + [name='download-invoice'] + +
      7. + +
    7. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/ + [name='monthly-invoice'] + +
      8. + +
    8. + + admin/ + + +
      9. + +
    9. + + luximages/insert/ + + +
      10. + +
    10. + + sitemap.xml + + +
      11. + +
    11. + + links/ + + +
      12. + +
    12. + + jrnl/ + + +
      13. + +
    13. + + projects/ + + +
      14. + +
    14. + + locations/ + + +
      15. + +
    15. + + expenses/ + + +
      16. + +
    16. + + photos/ + + + daily/<int:page> + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      17. + +
    17. + + photos/ + + + daily/ + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      18. + +
    18. + + photos/ + + + data/(<str:slug>/ + + +
      19. + +
    19. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/preview/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_image_preview'] + +
      20. + +
    20. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/tn/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_thumb_preview'] + +
      21. + +
    21. + + books/ + + +
      22. + +
    22. + + people/ + + +
      23. + +
    23. + + dialogues/ + + +
      24. + +
    24. + + field-notes/ + + +
      25. + +
    25. + + src/ + + +
      26. + +
    26. + + figments/ + + +
      27. + +
    27. + + resume/ + + +
      28. + +
    28. + + map + + +
      29. + +
    29. + + map/ + + +
      30. + +
    30. + + + [name='homepage'] + +
      31. + +
    31. + + comments/ + + +
      32. + +
    32. + + <slug> + + +
      33. + +
    33. + + <path>/<slug>/ + + +
      34. + +
    34. + + ^media\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      35. + +
    35. + + ^static\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      36. + +
    +

    + + The current path, photos/galleries/cloudland-canyon, didn't match any of these. +

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/colva-beach-goa-india/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/colva-beach-goa-india/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1a5693c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/colva-beach-goa-india/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,808 @@ + + + + + Colva Beach, Goa, India - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +

    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

    +
    +

    Photos from Colva Beach, Goa, India

    +
    +
    +
    India-Colva Beach Goa_11_16,17_05_01 +
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    Midday in Colva. The crowds have overrun the beach.

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    Tourism is still a couple years from displacing the original Colva industry -- fishing.

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    Parasailing in the evening.

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    some photos of the local menagerie

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    My fascination with windows. This one on from the inside of my guesthouse, the lovely Joema Tourist Home.

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    Every evening crowds of tourists and locals alike would gather at the main beach just to watch the sunset. It was marvelous to see so many people hang out together to observe something so seemingly ordinary as the setting sun, which is of course anything but ordinary. Miraculous in fact. If you'd like to read more have look at my awkwardly titled blog post: Fish Story.

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    Amazing light in Goa.

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    No filters, nothing, it really does look like this. Have a read through the journal if you're interested in learning more: Fish Story.

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    You can't have a tropical sunset without some palms.

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    India-Colva Beach Goa_11_19,20_05_26

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/comanche-national-grasslands/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/comanche-national-grasslands/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a21cd9f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/comanche-national-grasslands/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,308 @@ + + + + + Comanche National Grasslands - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

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    Photos from Comanche National Grasslands

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    Road to nowhere +
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    Road to nowhere

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    Somewhere in the texas panhandle.

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    Wheat

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    Everything around Comanche is farm/ranch land.

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    Ferruginous Hawk

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    I think. Not totally sure about that.

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    Another road to nowhere

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    There aren't many signs in the Comanche National Grasslands.

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    0.004 sec (1/250) sec at f/14.0, ISO 100

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/corn-islands-nicaragua-again/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/corn-islands-nicaragua-again/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..51a480c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/corn-islands-nicaragua-again/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,368 @@ + + + + + Corn Islands, Nicaragua (Again) - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Photos from Corn Islands, Nicaragua (Again)

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    Big Corn Harbor

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    Corrinne and I Waiting on the Panga

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    Hammocks

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    Approaching Storms

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    Cloudy Days

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    Yes, the wet season really is wet.

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    Ali, Corrinne

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    Ali is sort of like the self-appointed medicine man of Corn Island. He's a nice guy, but if you offers you any sort of drink involving noni, run.

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    Camilla, Adam

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    Some folks we met on Little Corn. Adam is currently living there, working a dive shop. Little Corn is a great place to dive, the full Padi open water course is only $295 if you aren't yet qualified.

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/death-island-cambodia/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/death-island-cambodia/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2d1125b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/death-island-cambodia/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,388 @@ + + + + + Death Island Cambodia - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Photos from Death Island Cambodia

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    Cambodia_Rabbit Island_3_27_06_01

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    Cambodia_Rabbit Island_3_27_06_03

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    For three days we lay around on rabbit island playing cards and eating crab pretty much three meals a day. hard life. We met an italian guy who'd been there for months.

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    The crab shack. There was also some fish on the menu I believe. Read more: Midnight in a Perfect World.

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    Hammocks. Glue thyself here for a few days. Read more: Midnight in a Perfect World

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    Cambodia_Rabbit Island_3_27_06_15

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/death-valley/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/death-valley/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0cdd994 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/death-valley/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,1248 @@ + + + + + Death Valley - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Photos from Death Valley

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    The Road to Titus Canyon

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    The road to Titus Canyon

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    Above Titus Canyon

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    Stovepipe Well

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    The well would get lost when the dunes shifted so someone stuck a stovepipe in it to make it easier to find.

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    Artist's Pallet Drive +
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    Artist's Pallet Drive

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    For the record, artist's pallet isn't all that exciting, there are far better things to do in Death Valley.

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    Mini Strata

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    Sort of a pointless photo, but the insanely small depth of field that's possible with the GF1 pancake lens sort of blows my mind.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

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    Daybreak +
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    Daybreak

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    The light moving across Zabriskie Point as the sun comes up is amazing

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    0.003 sec (1/320) sec at f/11.0, ISO 100

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    Flickr Fans +
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    Flickr Fans

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    Definitely go to Zabriskie Point to watch the sunrise, just be aware that you will not be alone.

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    Hulu Hooping at the Lowest Point +
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    Hulu Hooping at the Lowest Point

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    No idea why, but there you go.

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/dinosaur-national-monument/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/dinosaur-national-monument/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8d20c7f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/dinosaur-national-monument/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,448 @@ + + + + + Dinosaur National Monument - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

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    Photos from Dinosaur National Monument

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    Good Advice from Edward Abbey +
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    Good Advice from Edward Abbey

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

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    Turtle Head

    + + Map +

    Also sometimes seen as a skull.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

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    View from the Mesa

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

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    0.002 sec (1/640) sec at f/11.0, ISO 100

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    Ladore and Yampa Pano +
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    Ladore and Yampa Pano

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    Above Echo Park

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    That dirt road leads to Echo Park.

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    Sand Canyon +
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    Sand Canyon

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    On the road to Echo Park

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    0.004 sec (1/250) sec at f/11.0, ISO 100

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    Echo Park Pano

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    It's actually a pretty tight circle, this is about 270 degrees worth

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    0.067 sec (1/15) sec at f/11.0, ISO 100

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    Whispering Cave +
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    Whispering Cave

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    It's about 20-30 degrees cooler inside this thin cave, feels amazing in the summer heat.

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    0.01 sec (1/100) sec at f/4.5, ISO 100

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    Early Redneck Conversion +
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    Early Redneck Conversion

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    No idea when this dates from, but that wagon is definitely not a replica. (Clearly, rednecks have always loved them some home-brewed vehicles.)

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/dubrovnik-croatia/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/dubrovnik-croatia/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d80483d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/dubrovnik-croatia/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,1448 @@ + + + + + Dubrovnik, Croatia - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

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    Photos from Dubrovnik, Croatia

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    Croatia_Dubrovnik_5_11-14_06_01 +
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    Croatia_Dubrovnik_5_11-14_06_01

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    On the way to Dubrovnik

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    First evening, view from my hotel window. Read more: Feel Good Lost

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    Croatia_Dubrovnik_5_11-14_06_05

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    Moon rise. In nine months of traveling for some reason this is the only time I recall seeing the moon rise. Read more: Feel Good Lost

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    Read about Dubrovnik: Feel Good Lost

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    Croatia_Dubrovnik_5_11-14_06_21

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    Dubrovnik is very much a still functioning town, even in the old city. Read about Dubrovnik: Feel Good Lost

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    Some sort of traditional dance show we walked by. Best looking women in the world are in Croatia. If I may say so.

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    Santa's worst nightmare. Read about Dubrovnik: Feel Good Lost

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    My parents.

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    Read about Dubrovnik: Feel Good Lost

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    Read about Dubrovnik: Feel Good Lost

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    Met some great Canadian expats who opened a bar called fresh. Good times. Read about Dubrovnik: Feel Good Lost

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    I had to stay up until 2AM, but I was able to get a shot of the streets with no one around. The stones shiny from centuries of people walking over them. Read about Dubrovnik: Feel Good Lost

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    Dubrovnik is best at night. Read about Dubrovnik: Feel Good Lost

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    Always wanted to take one of these photos where the pool merges with the sea... Read about Dubrovnik: Feel Good Lost

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    Reminded me of a bridge in Bangkok. Read about Dubrovnik: Feel Good Lost

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    Walk Slowly

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    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

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    Photos from Durbar Square, Kathmandu, Nepal

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    Nepal-Katmandu_12_11-13_05_05

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    The Beatles were here. This is the temple where The Beatles were rather famously photographed. For more on Kathmandu, check out Durbar Square Kathmandu.

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    Photos from Floating Village Tonle Sap Cambodia

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    Life in the floating village is not all that different than a normal Cambodian village. except for the whole water thing. Read more over in an entry titled Beginning to See the Light.

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    Read more over in an entry titled Beginning to See the Light.

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    After Phnom Phen we headed west to see some of the floating villages along the edge of Tonle Sap, the large lake in central Cambodia. Read more in an entry titled Beginning to See the Light.

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    See more of Debi's silly hats

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    Local gossip circle.

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    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

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    Photos from Florence & the Museum of Zoology

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    Self portrait with Florence

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    Rowing

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    Half the fun of Florence is just sitting on the bridge, watching the water flow.

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    Ladies

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    In case you forgot or something

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

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    0.01 sec (1/100) sec at f/1.7, ISO 400

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    Hitting a high note

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    Or at least that's what it looks like he was doing.

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    Anatomy Room

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    Once you get through the old zoology specimens, La Specola has two rooms filled with wax anatomical models that date from the beginning of the 1700s.

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    Organs

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    Florence Farmers Market

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    So much good food, all in one spot. Amazing.

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    Early Morning

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    If you want to see Florence in the high season, but don't want to see tourists just get up before 7 AM and you'll have the streets to yourself.

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    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

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    Photos from Florida, Apalachicola Area

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    Milky Way

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    If the GF1 has a downfall it's long exposure photography.

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    Re-enactment camp

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    Tried to take the kids to the park in Apalachicola and stumbled upon a civil war re-enactment camp. Seriously.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

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    Walk Slowly

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    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

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    Photos from Fort Cochin India

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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_18 +
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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_18

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    If a picture is really worth a thousand words why do all these photo sharing websites have description fields? I prefer to do my writing on my own domain. Because I'm long-winded I guess. If your interested the piece that's mean to accompany the photos in this set is entitled Vasco de Gama Exhumed.

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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_20

    + + Map +

    If you browse through enough of my photos you'll notice that I seem to be fascinated with repeating patterns. I actually never realized that myself until I had all the images on here and started looking at them in succession. I dunno. I like to photograph patterns, no idea why.

    +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/500 sec at f/2.8, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_01 +
    +
    +

    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_01

    + + Map +

    Downtown Fort Cochin for my hostel window.

    +
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    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
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    + +
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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_02 +
    +
    +

    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_02

    + + Map +

    The first thing that really stood out as the jet lag was still wearing off, was the sheer amount of cable and wire running through Indian towns.

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    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_03 +
    +
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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_03

    + + Map +

    Fishing nets of Chinese design, which seem impossibly complicated. Apparently they are some sort of cantilevered device which require four or five people to operate. If you'd like to learn more, have look at the accompanying travelogue entry: Vasco de Gama Exhumed.

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    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_04 +
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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_04

    + + Map + +
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    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
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    + +
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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_05 +
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    +

    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_05

    + + Map + +
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    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_06 +
    +
    +

    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_06

    + + Map +

    My first glass of Kingfisher in India. Shortly followed by another.

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    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_07 +
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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_07

    + + Map + +
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    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_08 +
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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_08

    + + Map + +
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    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_09 +
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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_09

    + + Map +

    Things you don't normally see together.

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    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_10 +
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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_10

    + + Map + +
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    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
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    + +
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    +
    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_11 +
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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_11

    + + Map + +
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    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
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    +
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    + +
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    +
    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_12 +
    +
    +

    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_12

    + + Map +

    Wherever I go I seem to find myself in a graveyard at some point. And I don't even like goth music.

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    + + +
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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_13 +
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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_13

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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_14 +
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    +

    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_14

    + + Map +

    If you dislike birds (this means you Nancy), don't ever go to India. These crow things are aggressive and obnoxious. But I actually grew quite fond of them eventually.

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    sec at f/, ISO

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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_15 +
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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_15

    + + Map +

    The Portuguese have been here.

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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_16 +
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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_16

    + + Map + +
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    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
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    + +
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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_17 +
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    India_Fort Cochin_11_05_17

    + + Map + +
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    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
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    +
    +
    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/grand-teton-national-park/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/grand-teton-national-park/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5bf61fb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/grand-teton-national-park/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,748 @@ + + + + + Grand Teton National Park - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +

    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

    +
    +

    Photos from Grand Teton National Park

    +
    +
    +
    Clouds over Tetons +
    +
    +

    Clouds over Tetons

    + + Map +

    There was quite a storm when I first arrived. I saw quite a few rescue helicopters pluck climbers off the face of Middle Teton.

    +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

    +

    0.01 sec (1/100) sec at f/16.0, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    Storm Clouds, Field +
    +
    +

    Storm Clouds, Field

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

    +

    0.004 sec (1/250) sec at f/22.0, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Tetons from Oxbow Bend +
    +
    +

    Tetons from Oxbow Bend

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

    +

    0.005 sec (1/200) sec at f/8.0, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + + + +
    +
    +
    Along the Holly Lake Trail +
    +
    +

    Along the Holly Lake Trail

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

    +

    0.008 sec (1/125) sec at f/16.0, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Upper Paintbrush Canyon +
    +
    +

    Upper Paintbrush Canyon

    + + Map +

    On the trail to Holly Lake

    +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

    +

    0.006 sec (1/160) sec at f/16.0, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    The View Back Toward Jackson Lake +
    +
    +

    The View Back Toward Jackson Lake

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

    +

    0.002 sec (1/640) sec at f/5.6, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    Looking back from the mouth of Holly Lake +
    +
    +

    Looking back from the mouth of Holly Lake

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

    +

    0.001 sec (1/1250) sec at f/6.3, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    Marmot +
    +
    +

    Marmot

    + + Map +

    My favorite alpine creature. Marmots are just awesome.

    +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 45-200mm lens

    +

    0.001 sec (1/800) sec at f/6.3, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    Snake River Overlook +
    +
    +

    Snake River Overlook

    + + Map +

    Made famous by the Ansel Adams image

    +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

    +

    0.002 sec (1/640) sec at f/8.0, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
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    + + + +
    +
    +
    Blister +
    +
    +

    Blister

    + + Map +

    Note to self: stop and apply moleskin when you first feel it, not after it's already turned into this.

    +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

    +

    0.025 sec (1/40) sec at f/1.7, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/great-sand-dunes-national-park/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/great-sand-dunes-national-park/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8180f3c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/great-sand-dunes-national-park/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,368 @@ + + + + + Great Sand Dunes National Park - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +

    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

    +
    +

    Photos from Great Sand Dunes National Park

    +
    +
    +
    Sunset from BLM Land +
    +
    +

    Sunset from BLM Land

    + + Map +

    Just outside Great Sand Dunes National Park

    +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

    +

    0.001 sec (1/1000) sec at f/9.0, ISO 100

    + + +
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    +
    +
    + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    Great Sand Dunes Just Before Sunrise +
    +
    +

    Great Sand Dunes Just Before Sunrise

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 45-200mm lens

    +

    0.05 sec (1/20) sec at f/16.0, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/hall.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/hall.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c16c3d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/hall.html @@ -0,0 +1,324 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /photos/galleries/hall + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/photos/galleries/hall
    +
    +
    + +

    + Using the URLconf defined in config.base_urls, + Django tried these URL patterns, in this order: +

    +
      + +
    1. + + __debug__/ + + +
      2. + +
    2. + + tag-autocomplete/ + [name='tag-autocomplete'] + +
      3. + +
    3. + + ap-autocomplete/ + [name='ap-autocomplete'] + +
      4. + +
    4. + + ^admin/build/.* + + +
      5. + +
    5. + + admin/data/ + + +
      6. + +
    6. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/invoice/ + [name='download-invoice'] + +
      7. + +
    7. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/ + [name='monthly-invoice'] + +
      8. + +
    8. + + admin/ + + +
      9. + +
    9. + + luximages/insert/ + + +
      10. + +
    10. + + sitemap.xml + + +
      11. + +
    11. + + links/ + + +
      12. + +
    12. + + jrnl/ + + +
      13. + +
    13. + + projects/ + + +
      14. + +
    14. + + locations/ + + +
      15. + +
    15. + + expenses/ + + +
      16. + +
    16. + + photos/ + + + daily/<int:page> + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      17. + +
    17. + + photos/ + + + daily/ + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      18. + +
    18. + + photos/ + + + data/(<str:slug>/ + + +
      19. + +
    19. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/preview/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_image_preview'] + +
      20. + +
    20. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/tn/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_thumb_preview'] + +
      21. + +
    21. + + books/ + + +
      22. + +
    22. + + people/ + + +
      23. + +
    23. + + dialogues/ + + +
      24. + +
    24. + + field-notes/ + + +
      25. + +
    25. + + src/ + + +
      26. + +
    26. + + figments/ + + +
      27. + +
    27. + + resume/ + + +
      28. + +
    28. + + map + + +
      29. + +
    29. + + map/ + + +
      30. + +
    30. + + + [name='homepage'] + +
      31. + +
    31. + + comments/ + + +
      32. + +
    32. + + <slug> + + +
      33. + +
    33. + + <path>/<slug>/ + + +
      34. + +
    34. + + ^media\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      35. + +
    35. + + ^static\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      36. + +
    +

    + + The current path, photos/galleries/hall, didn't match any of these. +

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/halloween.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/halloween.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0f95cda --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/halloween.html @@ -0,0 +1,324 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /photos/galleries/halloween + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/photos/galleries/halloween
    +
    +
    + +

    + Using the URLconf defined in config.base_urls, + Django tried these URL patterns, in this order: +

    +
      + +
    1. + + __debug__/ + + +
      2. + +
    2. + + tag-autocomplete/ + [name='tag-autocomplete'] + +
      3. + +
    3. + + ap-autocomplete/ + [name='ap-autocomplete'] + +
      4. + +
    4. + + ^admin/build/.* + + +
      5. + +
    5. + + admin/data/ + + +
      6. + +
    6. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/invoice/ + [name='download-invoice'] + +
      7. + +
    7. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/ + [name='monthly-invoice'] + +
      8. + +
    8. + + admin/ + + +
      9. + +
    9. + + luximages/insert/ + + +
      10. + +
    10. + + sitemap.xml + + +
      11. + +
    11. + + links/ + + +
      12. + +
    12. + + jrnl/ + + +
      13. + +
    13. + + projects/ + + +
      14. + +
    14. + + locations/ + + +
      15. + +
    15. + + expenses/ + + +
      16. + +
    16. + + photos/ + + + daily/<int:page> + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      17. + +
    17. + + photos/ + + + daily/ + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      18. + +
    18. + + photos/ + + + data/(<str:slug>/ + + +
      19. + +
    19. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/preview/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_image_preview'] + +
      20. + +
    20. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/tn/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_thumb_preview'] + +
      21. + +
    21. + + books/ + + +
      22. + +
    22. + + people/ + + +
      23. + +
    23. + + dialogues/ + + +
      24. + +
    24. + + field-notes/ + + +
      25. + +
    25. + + src/ + + +
      26. + +
    26. + + figments/ + + +
      27. + +
    27. + + resume/ + + +
      28. + +
    28. + + map + + +
      29. + +
    29. + + map/ + + +
      30. + +
    30. + + + [name='homepage'] + +
      31. + +
    31. + + comments/ + + +
      32. + +
    32. + + <slug> + + +
      33. + +
    33. + + <path>/<slug>/ + + +
      34. + +
    34. + + ^media\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      35. + +
    35. + + ^static\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      36. + +
    +

    + + The current path, photos/galleries/halloween, didn't match any of these. +

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/hin-bun-river-trip/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/hin-bun-river-trip/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2d74296 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/hin-bun-river-trip/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,408 @@ + + + + + Hin Bun River Trip - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +

    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

    +
    +

    Photos from Hin Bun River Trip

    +
    +
    +
    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_01 +
    +
    +

    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_01

    + + Map +

    From Konglor cave we went back to Bin Ha Nin and then hired a boat for an all day river trip. It was hot. very hot. This was my view for most of the trip. It was also the first time I'd used the umbrella I bought way back in Thailand and then forgot about. Read more in the luxagraf entry entitled Everyday the Fourteenth.

    +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/640 sec at f/5, ISO 200

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_02 +
    +
    +

    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_02

    + + Map +

    And that was Ofir's view. Always be the first one in the boat. Read more in the luxagraf entry entitled Everyday the Fourteenth.

    +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/1500 sec at f/8, ISO 200

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_03 +
    +
    +

    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_03

    + + Map +

    Much better to be in the river than on it.

    +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/125 sec at f/8, ISO 200

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_04 +
    +
    +

    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_04

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/1500 sec at f/8, ISO 200

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_05 +
    +
    +

    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_05

    + + Map +

    Our boat driver. A man of few words. Read more in the luxagraf entry entitled Everyday the Fourteenth.

    +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/1500 sec at f/8, ISO 200

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_06 +
    +
    +

    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_06

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/1500 sec at f/8, ISO 200

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_07 +
    +
    +

    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_07

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/1500 sec at f/8, ISO 200

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_08 +
    +
    +

    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_08

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/1500 sec at f/8, ISO 200

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_09 +
    +
    +

    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_09

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/1500 sec at f/8, ISO 200

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_10 +
    +
    +

    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_10

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/50 sec at f/8, ISO 200

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_11 +
    +
    +

    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_11

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/60 sec at f/8, ISO 200

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_12 +
    +
    +

    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_12

    + + Map +

    Karst is rugged stuff. Read more in the luxagraf entry entitled Everyday the Fourteenth.

    +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/800 sec at f/8, ISO 200

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_13 +
    +
    +

    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_13

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/1500 sec at f/8, ISO 200

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_14 +
    +
    +

    Laos_Hin Bun River Trip_2_11_06_14

    + + Map +

    The boat dropped us off in some small town by the side of the road. We then flagged down a bus and continued on to Savanaket. Read more in the luxagraf entry entitled Everyday the Fourteenth.

    +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/320 sec at f/8, ISO 200

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Laos_Savannakhet_2_12_06_01 +
    +
    +

    Laos_Savannakhet_2_12_06_01

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/1500 sec at f/8, ISO 200

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/house2.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/house2.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..97b28be --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/house2.html @@ -0,0 +1,324 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /photos/galleries/house2 + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/photos/galleries/house2
    +
    +
    + +

    + Using the URLconf defined in config.base_urls, + Django tried these URL patterns, in this order: +

    +
      + +
    1. + + __debug__/ + + +
      2. + +
    2. + + tag-autocomplete/ + [name='tag-autocomplete'] + +
      3. + +
    3. + + ap-autocomplete/ + [name='ap-autocomplete'] + +
      4. + +
    4. + + ^admin/build/.* + + +
      5. + +
    5. + + admin/data/ + + +
      6. + +
    6. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/invoice/ + [name='download-invoice'] + +
      7. + +
    7. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/ + [name='monthly-invoice'] + +
      8. + +
    8. + + admin/ + + +
      9. + +
    9. + + luximages/insert/ + + +
      10. + +
    10. + + sitemap.xml + + +
      11. + +
    11. + + links/ + + +
      12. + +
    12. + + jrnl/ + + +
      13. + +
    13. + + projects/ + + +
      14. + +
    14. + + locations/ + + +
      15. + +
    15. + + expenses/ + + +
      16. + +
    16. + + photos/ + + + daily/<int:page> + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      17. + +
    17. + + photos/ + + + daily/ + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      18. + +
    18. + + photos/ + + + data/(<str:slug>/ + + +
      19. + +
    19. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/preview/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_image_preview'] + +
      20. + +
    20. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/tn/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_thumb_preview'] + +
      21. + +
    21. + + books/ + + +
      22. + +
    22. + + people/ + + +
      23. + +
    23. + + dialogues/ + + +
      24. + +
    24. + + field-notes/ + + +
      25. + +
    25. + + src/ + + +
      26. + +
    26. + + figments/ + + +
      27. + +
    27. + + resume/ + + +
      28. + +
    28. + + map + + +
      29. + +
    29. + + map/ + + +
      30. + +
    30. + + + [name='homepage'] + +
      31. + +
    31. + + comments/ + + +
      32. + +
    32. + + <slug> + + +
      33. + +
    33. + + <path>/<slug>/ + + +
      34. + +
    34. + + ^media\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      35. + +
    35. + + ^static\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      36. + +
    +

    + + The current path, photos/galleries/house2, didn't match any of these. +

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/house3.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/house3.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..210c0d2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/house3.html @@ -0,0 +1,324 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /photos/galleries/house3 + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/photos/galleries/house3
    +
    +
    + +

    + Using the URLconf defined in config.base_urls, + Django tried these URL patterns, in this order: +

    +
      + +
    1. + + __debug__/ + + +
      2. + +
    2. + + tag-autocomplete/ + [name='tag-autocomplete'] + +
      3. + +
    3. + + ap-autocomplete/ + [name='ap-autocomplete'] + +
      4. + +
    4. + + ^admin/build/.* + + +
      5. + +
    5. + + admin/data/ + + +
      6. + +
    6. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/invoice/ + [name='download-invoice'] + +
      7. + +
    7. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/ + [name='monthly-invoice'] + +
      8. + +
    8. + + admin/ + + +
      9. + +
    9. + + luximages/insert/ + + +
      10. + +
    10. + + sitemap.xml + + +
      11. + +
    11. + + links/ + + +
      12. + +
    12. + + jrnl/ + + +
      13. + +
    13. + + projects/ + + +
      14. + +
    14. + + locations/ + + +
      15. + +
    15. + + expenses/ + + +
      16. + +
    16. + + photos/ + + + daily/<int:page> + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      17. + +
    17. + + photos/ + + + daily/ + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      18. + +
    18. + + photos/ + + + data/(<str:slug>/ + + +
      19. + +
    19. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/preview/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_image_preview'] + +
      20. + +
    20. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/tn/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_thumb_preview'] + +
      21. + +
    21. + + books/ + + +
      22. + +
    22. + + people/ + + +
      23. + +
    23. + + dialogues/ + + +
      24. + +
    24. + + field-notes/ + + +
      25. + +
    25. + + src/ + + +
      26. + +
    26. + + figments/ + + +
      27. + +
    27. + + resume/ + + +
      28. + +
    28. + + map + + +
      29. + +
    29. + + map/ + + +
      30. + +
    30. + + + [name='homepage'] + +
      31. + +
    31. + + comments/ + + +
      32. + +
    32. + + <slug> + + +
      33. + +
    33. + + <path>/<slug>/ + + +
      34. + +
    34. + + ^media\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      35. + +
    35. + + ^static\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      36. + +
    +

    + + The current path, photos/galleries/house3, didn't match any of these. +

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/house4.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/house4.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..87648c2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/house4.html @@ -0,0 +1,324 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /photos/galleries/house4 + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/photos/galleries/house4
    +
    +
    + +

    + Using the URLconf defined in config.base_urls, + Django tried these URL patterns, in this order: +

    +
      + +
    1. + + __debug__/ + + +
      2. + +
    2. + + tag-autocomplete/ + [name='tag-autocomplete'] + +
      3. + +
    3. + + ap-autocomplete/ + [name='ap-autocomplete'] + +
      4. + +
    4. + + ^admin/build/.* + + +
      5. + +
    5. + + admin/data/ + + +
      6. + +
    6. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/invoice/ + [name='download-invoice'] + +
      7. + +
    7. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/ + [name='monthly-invoice'] + +
      8. + +
    8. + + admin/ + + +
      9. + +
    9. + + luximages/insert/ + + +
      10. + +
    10. + + sitemap.xml + + +
      11. + +
    11. + + links/ + + +
      12. + +
    12. + + jrnl/ + + +
      13. + +
    13. + + projects/ + + +
      14. + +
    14. + + locations/ + + +
      15. + +
    15. + + expenses/ + + +
      16. + +
    16. + + photos/ + + + daily/<int:page> + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      17. + +
    17. + + photos/ + + + daily/ + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      18. + +
    18. + + photos/ + + + data/(<str:slug>/ + + +
      19. + +
    19. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/preview/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_image_preview'] + +
      20. + +
    20. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/tn/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_thumb_preview'] + +
      21. + +
    21. + + books/ + + +
      22. + +
    22. + + people/ + + +
      23. + +
    23. + + dialogues/ + + +
      24. + +
    24. + + field-notes/ + + +
      25. + +
    25. + + src/ + + +
      26. + +
    26. + + figments/ + + +
      27. + +
    27. + + resume/ + + +
      28. + +
    28. + + map + + +
      29. + +
    29. + + map/ + + +
      30. + +
    30. + + + [name='homepage'] + +
      31. + +
    31. + + comments/ + + +
      32. + +
    32. + + <slug> + + +
      33. + +
    33. + + <path>/<slug>/ + + +
      34. + +
    34. + + ^media\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      35. + +
    35. + + ^static\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      36. + +
    +

    + + The current path, photos/galleries/house4, didn't match any of these. +

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/house5.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/house5.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5f0c035 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/house5.html @@ -0,0 +1,324 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /photos/galleries/house5 + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/photos/galleries/house5
    +
    +
    + +

    + Using the URLconf defined in config.base_urls, + Django tried these URL patterns, in this order: +

    +
      + +
    1. + + __debug__/ + + +
      2. + +
    2. + + tag-autocomplete/ + [name='tag-autocomplete'] + +
      3. + +
    3. + + ap-autocomplete/ + [name='ap-autocomplete'] + +
      4. + +
    4. + + ^admin/build/.* + + +
      5. + +
    5. + + admin/data/ + + +
      6. + +
    6. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/invoice/ + [name='download-invoice'] + +
      7. + +
    7. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/ + [name='monthly-invoice'] + +
      8. + +
    8. + + admin/ + + +
      9. + +
    9. + + luximages/insert/ + + +
      10. + +
    10. + + sitemap.xml + + +
      11. + +
    11. + + links/ + + +
      12. + +
    12. + + jrnl/ + + +
      13. + +
    13. + + projects/ + + +
      14. + +
    14. + + locations/ + + +
      15. + +
    15. + + expenses/ + + +
      16. + +
    16. + + photos/ + + + daily/<int:page> + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      17. + +
    17. + + photos/ + + + daily/ + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      18. + +
    18. + + photos/ + + + data/(<str:slug>/ + + +
      19. + +
    19. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/preview/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_image_preview'] + +
      20. + +
    20. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/tn/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_thumb_preview'] + +
      21. + +
    21. + + books/ + + +
      22. + +
    22. + + people/ + + +
      23. + +
    23. + + dialogues/ + + +
      24. + +
    24. + + field-notes/ + + +
      25. + +
    25. + + src/ + + +
      26. + +
    26. + + figments/ + + +
      27. + +
    27. + + resume/ + + +
      28. + +
    28. + + map + + +
      29. + +
    29. + + map/ + + +
      30. + +
    30. + + + [name='homepage'] + +
      31. + +
    31. + + comments/ + + +
      32. + +
    32. + + <slug> + + +
      33. + +
    33. + + <path>/<slug>/ + + +
      34. + +
    34. + + ^media\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      35. + +
    35. + + ^static\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      36. + +
    +

    + + The current path, photos/galleries/house5, didn't match any of these. +

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/jagdish-temple-bagore-ki-haveli-shilpogram/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/jagdish-temple-bagore-ki-haveli-shilpogram/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..66a52d5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/jagdish-temple-bagore-ki-haveli-shilpogram/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,988 @@ + + + + + Jagdish Temple, Bagore-ki-Haveli & Shilpogram - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +

    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

    +
    +

    Photos from Jagdish Temple, Bagore-ki-Haveli & Shilpogram

    +
    +
    +
    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_01 +
    +
    +

    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_01

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_02 +
    +
    +

    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_02

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_03 +
    +
    +

    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_03

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_04 +
    +
    +

    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_04

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_05 +
    +
    +

    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_05

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_06 +
    +
    +

    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_06

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_07 +
    +
    +

    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_07

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_08 +
    +
    +

    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_08

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_09 +
    +
    +

    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_09

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_10 +
    +
    +

    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_10

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_11 +
    +
    +

    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_11

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_12 +
    +
    +

    India-Udaipur Jagdish Temple_11_28_05_12

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    India-Udaipur Bagore-ki-Haveli_11_28_05_01 +
    +
    +

    India-Udaipur Bagore-ki-Haveli_11_28_05_01

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    India-Udaipur Bagore-ki-Haveli_11_28_05_03 +
    +
    +

    India-Udaipur Bagore-ki-Haveli_11_28_05_03

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    India-Udaipur Bagore-ki-Haveli_11_28_05_06 +
    +
    +

    India-Udaipur Bagore-ki-Haveli_11_28_05_06

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    India-Udaipur Bagore-ki-Haveli_11_28_05_07 +
    +
    +

    India-Udaipur Bagore-ki-Haveli_11_28_05_07

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    India-Udaipur Bagore-ki-Haveli_11_28_05_08 +
    +
    +

    India-Udaipur Bagore-ki-Haveli_11_28_05_08

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    India-Udaipur Bagore-ki-Haveli_11_28_05_09 +
    +
    +

    India-Udaipur Bagore-ki-Haveli_11_28_05_09

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    India-Udaipur Bagore-ki-Haveli_11_28_05_10 +
    +
    +

    India-Udaipur Bagore-ki-Haveli_11_28_05_10

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    India-Udaipur Bagore-ki-Haveli_11_28_05_11 +
    +
    +

    India-Udaipur Bagore-ki-Haveli_11_28_05_11

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    India-Udaipur Bagore-ki-Haveli_11_28_05_12 +
    +
    +

    India-Udaipur Bagore-ki-Haveli_11_28_05_12

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    India-Udaipur Bagore-ki-Haveli_11_28_05_13 +
    +
    +

    India-Udaipur Bagore-ki-Haveli_11_28_05_13

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    +

    sec at f/, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/jaisalmer-india/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/jaisalmer-india/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4e6bbc5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/jaisalmer-india/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,868 @@ + + + + + Jaisalmer, India - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Photos from Jaisalmer, India

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    The walled city of Jaisalmer. For more about Jasisalmer , be sure to read the entry on luxagraf entitled On a Camel With no Name

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    Inside the walls is a maze of narrow streets and houses. The walled city is still inhabited and looks much as I imagine it did 500 years ago. For more about Jasisalmer be sure to read the entry on luxagraf entitled On a Camel With no Name

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    The outer ramparts.

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    Sometimes called the golden city since everything is sandstone and seems to glow at sunset. For more about Jasisalmer , be sure to read the entry on luxagraf entitled On a Camel With no Name

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    Temples within the city.

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    Ah camel trekking. Really no way to travel. Avoid it if you can. For more about Jasisalmer and the camel trek, be sure to read the entry on luxagraf entitled On a Camel With no Name

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    Village children in the area look for candy handouts. For more about Jasisalmer and the camel trek, be sure to read the entry on luxagraf entitled On a Camel With no Name

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    A desert village. This is one of the poorest regions in India.

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    Lunch break.

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    The Great Thar Desert is one of the most desolate areas I've seen. Somewhat akin to Barstow, California, though considerably more interesting. For more about Jasisalmer and the camel trek, be sure to read the entry on luxagraf entitled On a Camel With no Name

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    Crazy animals For more about Jasisalmer and the camel trek, be sure to read the entry on luxagraf entitled On a Camel With no Name

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    My camel resting. For more about Jasisalmer and the camel trek, be sure to read the entry on luxagraf entitled On a Camel With no Name

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    Camp for the night. For more about Jasisalmer and the camel trek, be sure to read the entry on luxagraf entitled On a Camel With no Name

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    There were thousands of the little black beetles all over the dunes. Harmless but mildly annoying.

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    The dunes, or what passed for dunes For more about Jasisalmer and the camel trek, be sure to read the entry on luxagraf entitled On a Camel With no Name

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    Untrodden sand. For more about Jasisalmer and the camel trek, be sure to read the entry on luxagraf entitled On a Camel With no Name

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    It got quite cold once the sun disappeared.

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    Loading up in the morning. For more about Jasisalmer and the camel trek, be sure to read the entry on luxagraf entitled On a Camel With no Name

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    Back in Jaisalmer. For more about Jasisalmer and the camel trek, be sure to read the entry on luxagraf entitled On a Camel With no Name

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    The lake palace outside the walled city. Where the royals went in summer time. For more about Jasisalmer, be sure to read the entry on luxagraf entitled On a Camel With no Name

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    Although not really much of a fort, Jaisalmer does have impressive ramparts on one side. For more about Jasisalmer, be sure to read the entry on luxagraf entitled On a Camel With no Name

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    Royal room of some sort. The previous photo is a view from this location. For more about Jasisalmer, be sure to read the entry on luxagraf entitled On a Camel With no Name

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    The haveli/palace inside the walled city.

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    The outlying town of Jaisalmer

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    The golden city in the midday sun. Not quite as golden. For more about Jasisalmer, be sure to read the entry on luxagraf entitled On a Camel With no Name

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    private beach phi phi don. Read more: Going Down South.

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    wow. so this is how it's supposed to look... sheets, i vaguely remember those. Read more: Going Down South.

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    Boat trip to Phi Phi Leh. Swanky boat too, none of that five hundred people crowded on some piece of crap. Read more: Going Down South.

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    One of the many coves around Phi Phi Leh. If you're looking for the Thailand of travel brochures, Phi Phi Leh is where you want to head. Read more: Going Down South.

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    Water so clear you can see thrity, forty, sometimes even fifty or sixty feet down.

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    If there's something around to jump off, I will probably jump off it. Lifelong habit. read more: Going Down South.

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    So long swanky, it was nice knowing you... Read more: Going Down South.

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/konglor-cave-laos/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/konglor-cave-laos/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..efb1053 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/konglor-cave-laos/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,1108 @@ + + + + + Konglor Cave, Laos - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Photos from Konglor Cave, Laos

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    In the dry season the road to Konglor Cave is a dusty, rutted, bone jaring ride in the back of a truck. In the wet season it's largely impassable.

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    One of the many river crossings along the way.

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    This lone red tree was unlike any other I saw in Laos

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    The journey through the cave begins in small village and then you head upriver by boat to the cave

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    In some places the water is so shallow we had to get out of the boat. In others the water is so deep no one has found the bottom.

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    One the far side of the cave is an extremely isolated valley, the only way in or out is through the cave.

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    Dried rat anyone? We said no this time, but later...

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    Matt with some of the local children

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    When we came back out of the cave the sun was just setting...

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    When we came back out of the cave the sun was just setting...

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    The only lodging in the area is a homestay. I have no idea who made this sign but no one in the village spoke english. Matt and Jacqui masqueraded as man and wife and the family they stayed with spoke a little french. Ofir and I got by on smiles and hand gestures.

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    Dawn over the river.

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/lake-plitvice-croatia/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/lake-plitvice-croatia/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e55f639 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/lake-plitvice-croatia/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,1088 @@ + + + + + Lake Plitvice, Croatia - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

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    Photos from Lake Plitvice, Croatia

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    To see Plitvice you catch a train up to the upper lake and then hike down along the trails tracing you way along lakeshores, around waterfalls and through the woods. If you want to read more, have gander at Blue Milk

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    Some of the paths are actually built over the water.

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    My obsession with botany cropped up again in Croatia. If you want to read more, have gander at Blue Milk

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    If you want to read about Lake Plitvice have a look at the entry Blue Milk.

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    If you want to read about Lake Plitvice have a look at the entry Blue Milk.

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    If you want to read about Lake Plitvice have a look at the entry Blue Milk.

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    If you want to read about Lake Plitvice have a look at the entry Blue Milk.

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    If you want to read about Lake Plitvice have a look at the entry Blue Milk.

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    If you go the long way, from the Luang Prabang side you'll get to take one of the worst roads in Laos and you'll end up here at this tiny village where you will be the only white people for hundreds of miles. Get good with hand gestures or learn Lao.

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    Finally, something besides rice.

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    Ofir and Robin. It's about a two or three hour hike from the road into the hills where the treehouses are. You can read about the whole thing on luxagraf and find out how to contact the Gibbon project. The entry is called I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan.

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    Treehouse number one, the big one. You can read more about the Gibbon Experience in an entry is called I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan.

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    The view from treehouse one. You can read more about the Gibbon Experience in an entry called I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan.

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    Oh yes.

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    Everything should be connected by zip lines. You can read more about the Gibbon Experience in an entry called I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan.

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    Treehouse number 2 from the ground.

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    The Gibbon Experience requires reservations and only takes in twelve people at a time. For more info see the entry entitled I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan.

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    Tree house number one

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    resident monkey. He's part of a rehabilitation project.

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    This thing as it turns out is some sort of giant squirrel. The image was taken by holding my camera up to a spotting scope, which worked surprisingly well. You can read more about the Gibbon Experience in an entry on luxagraf entitled I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan.

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    Treehouse one from the ground.

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    The zip lines are very very high in some spots. Not for those afraid of heights

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    no hands.

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    Even monkey's love zip lines.

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    The view from treehouse three, which is mainly a hike, though there's a zip line to get into the actual treehouse. Hiking was a bit nerve wracking since there are a number of tigers in the area.

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    Sunset at treehouse three. I didn't actually stay there, but it did have the best sunset view. I don't know if it's done yet but they were in the process of building a fourth and fifth treehouses as well.

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    Traveling is hard. Very hard.

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    Leaving Thailand. Actually I've already left, this is looking back up the hill from Laos.

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    The fog on the Mekong lifting at dawn. For more about the Mekong head over to luxagraf.

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    It's a two day boat ride from Chang Khong Thailand to Luang Prabang with an overnight stop in Pak Beng. A whole lotta river. Which is why the accompanying piece on luxagraf borrows its title from Edward Abbey: Down The River.

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    uh. okay.

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    Yes, really a tiger, which are even bigger and scarier than you think they are.

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    Laos_Mekong - Luang Prabang1_12-16_06_36

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    The tree from which we spent the afternoon jumping into the water.

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    Robin, who I was traveling with at the time, and I had the bright idea to hike up to the top of the waterfall, where there was... pretty much nothing. You can read more Down The River on luxagraf.

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    Out of order.

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    Real green rice paddies, the first one I saw in Asia.

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    A cool temple in Luang Prabang. Read about Luang Prabang: Down The River.

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    The long and involved process of making sticky rice.

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    Walk Slowly

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    Photos from Laos - Vang Vieng

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    Somewhere between Luang Prabang and Vang Vieng.

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    The view from our guesthouse. read about it: The Lovely Universe.

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    you can't see it in this image, but every night at sundown a massive amount of bats would come out of the cliffs on that hill. It looked like smoke. And I should point out that my dutch friend Matt calls that a mountain. Sorry Matt, its a hill.

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    There were huts down by the river which is pretty much what we did, lie around and alternate between beer and fruit juice. Ah beer laos. read about it: The Lovely Universe.

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    Debi and Ofir.

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    At night everyone headed down to the "bars" by the river, which were basically shacks with coolers and fire pits. read about it: The Lovely Universe.

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    Jacqui.

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    Life is hard.

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    From the back left: Ofir, Matt, Keith, Jacqui, Debi, Matt, Georgia and me. read about it: The Lovely Universe.

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    Yet another perfect day.

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/lodore-canyon-river-trip/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/lodore-canyon-river-trip/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1cdb061 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/lodore-canyon-river-trip/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,828 @@ + + + + + Lodore Canyon River Trip - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Photos from Lodore Canyon River Trip

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    The Gates of Lodore Canyon +
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    The Gates of Lodore Canyon

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    Gates of Lodore +
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    Gates of Lodore

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    Loaded and ready, just waiting for Ranger Dave to finish his lecture.

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    Mike Rowing into Lodore

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    Looking Back

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    What the Gates look like from the other side.

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    Sunset on the Green River

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    The End to Triplet Rapid +
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    The End to Triplet Rapid

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    Powell loved names that involved the underworld. Hell's Half Mile, Lucifer, Satan's Gut, etc. Most aren't as bad as they sound. Some, on the other hand, are. Worth noting that Powell portaged most of them. This one he gave the relatively mild name of Triplet.

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    Thumbs Up

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    Didn't even notice Greg was doing that until I got back. Now guess, just try to guess who flipped and ended up swimming through Triplet moments after this photo was taken?

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    Rock Garden

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    It doesn't look like much, but it'll snag your boat if you aren't careful.

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    Red Rock of Lodore +
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    Red Rock of Lodore

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    Lodore Canyon changes as lot as you go through it, in the beginning everything is red.

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    Steamboat

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    Doesn't look like one, but it sure is a massive rock.

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    Sheer

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    Mike always touches Steamboat for luck. In this case I did it.

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    Steamboat, Duckies +
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    Steamboat, Duckies

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    To give you some idea of just how big it is...

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    0.008 sec (1/125) sec at f/13.0, ISO 100

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    Yampa Canyon +
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    Yampa Canyon

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    The Yampa is the last un-dammed tributary in the Colorado system.

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    Lunch at the Confluence +
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    Lunch at the Confluence

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    The Yampa and the Green meet.

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    Meeting +
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    Meeting

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    The water doesn't mix right off the bat. The Green River is also about 10-15 degrees cooler, which is very odd when you stand in the middle. Which of course we did.

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    Mike II +
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    Mike II

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    Everyone from Adventure Bound is named Mike. It's one of their things.

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    Sandstone

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    No longer the red rock of the upper canyon.

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    The Bull

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    Very large (might even be life size, dunno, couldn't get that close) pictograph in Island Park

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    Lodore Exit +
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    Lodore Exit

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    Leaving Ladore Canyon is just as dramatic as entering

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    Island Park

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    A very flat, shallow almost currentless section of the Green River.

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    Split Mountain +
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    Split Mountain

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    Through a strange quirk of geology the Green split a mountain in half rather than going around it.

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    Thet's apartment

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    Uh, stuff.

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    The Globe, much like it was in Shakespeare's day.

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    London_5_2-5_06_09

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    The Globe Theatre

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    Millenium Bridge

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    Cy Twombly in the Tate Modern. Read more: London Calling.

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    Far more impressive than my own collection of exotic knives, which thus far contains only two blades.

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    The entrance to the Monsoon Palace. Very few westerners seem to come up here. I met an American couple, but that was about it. If you'd like to read more, check out The Monsoon Palace.

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    The gateway to what I believe was the the bedroom area. If you're the reading type you might have a go at my writings about the The Monsoon Palace.

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    The back side of the palace. For more info see the accompanying blog post on my site, entitled The Monsoon Palace.

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    Sunset is the best time to head up to the Monsoon Palace. For more info check out the blog entry, The Monsoon Palace

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    The light in this particular room was remarkable, these images don't really do it justice. You might enjoy reading through The Monsoon Palace.

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    A great restaurant on the other side of the lake. Be sure to check out the writing: The Monsoon Palace

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    It's possible, for a small fortune to have dinner out at the lack palace. I didn't, but every night the boat takes small groups over. I'm a better writer than photographer so if you're interested head over to luxagraf

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    Very very long exposure.

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    As with most things you will want to do in Italy, the restored areas in the foreground were closed when we where there.

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    And roads with sidewalks which the romans flooded every morning to clear out the garbage. Which is more than present day Naples can manage.

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    The bodies at Pompeii left hollow outlines in the ash as they decayed over the years, pour in plaster, excavate around it and you have a statue of what the person looked like when they died. bones and all. creepy.

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    Probably ordered by number even. Sauces on the side.

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    when the streets were flooded you could still cross. Also kept chariots out of some areas.

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    Graffiti +
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    Graffiti

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    Post punk anarcho-communist spray paint will never die. Or words to that effect.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

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    0.001 sec (1/1600) sec at f/1.7, ISO 100

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    Burning +
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    Burning

    + + Map +

    There's tons of graffiti in Naples, much of it poorly translated Misfits lines.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

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    0.001 sec (1/1000) sec at f/1.7, ISO 100

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    Leg Strength +
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    Leg Strength

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    One of the many menu boards from the brothel in Pompeii

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

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    0.033 sec (1/30) sec at f/1.7, ISO 400

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    Cast Iron +
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    Cast Iron

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    Cast iron, the pan of choice since 2000BC or there abouts. Love that the Contorni-style, oval pan is apparently that old.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

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    0.02 sec (1/50) sec at f/1.7, ISO 400

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/nepal-sarangkot/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/nepal-sarangkot/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d36ba50 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/nepal-sarangkot/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,788 @@ + + + + + Nepal - Sarangkot - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +

    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

    +
    +

    Photos from Nepal - Sarangkot

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    +
    Nepal-Sarangkot_12_16_05_44 +
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    Nepal-Sarangkot_12_16_05_44

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    Annapurna I, I think.

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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    1/640 sec at f/4.9, ISO

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    Nepal-Sarangkot_12_16_05_49 +
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    Nepal-Sarangkot_12_16_05_49

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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    1/200 sec at f/4.9, ISO

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    Nepal-Sarangkot_12_16_05_52 +
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    Nepal-Sarangkot_12_16_05_52

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    Most of these are actually meant to be stitched together into a panorama, but somehow I never seem to get around to that. For more check out my personal site: Sunset Over The Himalayas

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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    1/200 sec at f/4.9, ISO

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    Nepal-Sarangkot_12_16_05_57 +
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    Nepal-Sarangkot_12_16_05_57

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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    1/160 sec at f/4.9, ISO

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    Nepal-Sarangkot_12_16_05_59 +
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    Nepal-Sarangkot_12_16_05_59

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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    1/160 sec at f/4.9, ISO

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    Nepal-Sarangkot_12_16_05_01 +
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    Nepal-Sarangkot_12_16_05_01

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    If you'd like to read about Sarangkot, check out my personal site: Sunset Over The Himalayas

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    Nepal-Sarangkot_12_16_05_02

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    Nepal-Sarangkot_12_16_05_04

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    Nepal-Sarangkot_12_16_05_05

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    Small villages and farmhouses on the way to Sarangkot.

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    Nepal-Sarangkot_12_16_05_07

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    Looking back toward Pokhara. If you'd like to read about Sarangkot, check out my personal site: Sunset Over The Himalayas

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    Nepal-Sarangkot_12_16_05_28

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    Nepal-Sarangkot_12_16_05_29

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    Nepal-Sarangkot_12_16_05_30

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    sec at f/, ISO

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    Nepal-Sarangkot_12_16_05_35

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    sec at f/, ISO

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/new-orleansgulf-port/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/new-orleansgulf-port/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ad760bd --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/new-orleansgulf-port/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,668 @@ + + + + + New Orleans/Gulf Port - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +

    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

    +
    +

    Photos from New Orleans/Gulf Port

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    +
    Rainbows Everywhere +
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    +

    Rainbows Everywhere

    + + Map +

    Saw over a dozen in the course of a few hours drive.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

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    1/4000 sec sec at f/1.7, ISO 100

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    Gulf Port Beaches +
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    Gulf Port Beaches

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    Soon there will oil all over this beach.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

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    0.003 sec (1/400) sec at f/16.0, ISO 100

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    Hurricane Remnants +
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    Hurricane Remnants

    + + Map +

    This is the storm that's pushing the BP oil spill ashore in the gulf coast area.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

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    0.013 sec (1/80) sec at f/16.0, ISO 100

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    Open Window +
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    Open Window

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    The view from the coffeeshop

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

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    0.008 sec (1/125) sec at f/16.0, ISO 100

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    Ignatius Reilly +
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    Ignatius Reilly

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    I always pictured Ignatius Reilly as a much more rotund man.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

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    0.067 sec (1/15) sec at f/1.7, ISO 100

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    Rain +
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    Rain

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    It seldom stopped for more than an hour or two

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

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    0.003 sec (1/400) sec at f/1.7, ISO 100

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    Pyramid Crypt +
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    Pyramid Crypt

    + + Map +

    If you're going to go over the top, make sure you go way, way over the top. St. Louis Cemetery no 1

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

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    0.004 sec (1/250) sec at f/16.0, ISO 100

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    Fist Pumping Nun +
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    Fist Pumping Nun

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    At least that's what it looks like from below. St. Louis Cemetery no 1

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

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    0.004 sec (1/250) sec at f/16.0, ISO 100

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    Downtown +
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    Downtown

    + + Map +

    New Orleans rising out of the graves. St. Louis Cemetery no 1

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

    +

    0.003 sec (1/400) sec at f/16.0, ISO 100

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/new-york/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/new-york/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0965f57 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/new-york/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,468 @@ + + + + + New York - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
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    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

    +
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    Photos from New York

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    New York-14Jun07-04 +
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    New York-14Jun07-04

    + + Map +

    We stayed with some friends in Brooklyn and they happen to have a very museum-like house with musical instruments and all sorts of other paraphernalia lying about -- like the nerd glasses in the next few image. Many thanks to The Ladybug Transistor and The Instruments for letting us have a place to stay.

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    New York-14Jun07-05 +
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    New York-14Jun07-05

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    Super nerd

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    New York-14Jun07-07 +
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    New York-14Jun07-07

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    coy nerd

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    5/1 sec at f/2.8, ISO 100

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    New York-14Jun07-08 +
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    New York-14Jun07-08

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    scary

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    2/1 sec at f/2.8, ISO 100

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    New York-14Jun07-13 +
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    New York-14Jun07-13

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    New York-15Jun07-17 +
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    New York-15Jun07-17

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    At the Met

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    New York-15Jun07-18 +
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    New York-15Jun07-18

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    The plague didn't say what happen to the body, but I love the floating head

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    1/30 sec at f/8, ISO 100

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    New York-15Jun07-19 +
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    New York-15Jun07-19

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    New York-15Jun07-20 +
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    New York-15Jun07-20

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    New York-15Jun07-21 +
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    New York-15Jun07-21

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    An ode to Pan, my patron god

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    1/13 sec at f/8, ISO 100

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    New York-15Jun07-22 +
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    New York-15Jun07-22

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    From the Book of the Dead

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    16/10 sec at f/2.8, ISO 100

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    New York-15Jun07-23 +
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    New York-15Jun07-23

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    From the Book of the Dead

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    13/10 sec at f/2.8, ISO 100

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    New York-16Jun07-26 +
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    New York-16Jun07-26

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    Back door guests are best

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    1/6 sec at f/2.8, ISO 100

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    New York-16Jun07-29 +
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    New York-16Jun07-29

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    New York architectural minutia never disappoints

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    1/200 sec at f/8, ISO 100

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    New York-16Jun07-31 +
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    New York-16Jun07-31

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    Shortly after a rainstorm. Prospect Park

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    1/320 sec at f/8, ISO 100

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    New York-16Jun07-32 +
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    New York-16Jun07-32

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    New York-16Jun07-33 +
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    New York-16Jun07-33

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    Pond scum as they say...

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    1/200 sec at f/4, ISO 100

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/nicaragua-granada/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/nicaragua-granada/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..548a455 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/nicaragua-granada/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,688 @@ + + + + + Nicaragua - Granada - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

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    + +

    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

    +
    +

    Photos from Nicaragua - Granada

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    Cathedral +
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    Cathedral

    + + Map +

    The first stop in Granada is generally the main church just off Parque Colon

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    1/25 sec at f/2.8, ISO 100

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    Statue of all Mothers +
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    Statue of all Mothers

    + + Map +

    Dunno why, but this caught my eye in the guidebook, so I took a picture

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    1/500 sec at f/5.6, ISO 100

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    Calle La Calzada +
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    Calle La Calzada

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    Just off the La Plazuela de los Leones...

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    1/1000 sec at f/5.6, ISO 100

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    Cathedral Skyline +
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    Cathedral Skyline

    + + Map +

    Looking back at the main building off of Parque Colon

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    1/1250 sec at f/5.6, ISO 100

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    Colorful Street +
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    Colorful Street

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    Granada is know for its Colonial architecture and colorful paint jobs.

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    Corner Buidling

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    Falling Down +
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    Falling Down

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    One of the (in my view anyway) cooler buildings in Granada. Not really sure were it was and it was in the process of being restored so you couldn't go in, but it looked like it would have fantastic inner courtyard.

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    The Belltower +
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    The Belltower

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    I believe this is the Iglesia de Guadalupe and dates from 1626. For a small fee you can go up in the tower and have a fantastic view of Granada.

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    Windows +
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    Windows

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    Yes, still obsessed with windows.

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    Granada From on High +
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    Granada From on High

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    The view from the belltower

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    Bell

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    Rooftops of Granada +
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    Rooftops of Granada

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    Cross

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    Bell

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    Facade

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    Religious Icons

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    This is another, very similar looking church down the street.

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    Belltower

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    Another belltower

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    Courtyard +
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    Courtyard

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    We stayed at the bearded monkey guesthouse, which was okay, good breakfast and nice courtyard made up for a sort of dingy room. If you go, stay in the dorm rooms they're much nicer than the individual rooms.

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    Hammock Chair

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    I should have bought a hammock chair, they're damn comfy.

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    Granada Afternoon +
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    Granada Afternoon

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    We were a bit bored in the even so we decided to go back up in the bell tower and watch the sunset

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    Blue

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    Bell

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    Rooftop Garden

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    I took this mainly because it reminded me of this image from Croatia. Same sort of thing half a world away.

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    Bell Sun +
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    Bell Sun

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    Side Street +
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    Side Street

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    After the sun went down we wandered home through the back alleys of Granada.

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    Laundry +
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    Laundry

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    Stilt Man +
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    Stilt Man

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    Dome

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/nicaragua-san-juan-del-sur/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/nicaragua-san-juan-del-sur/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2969704 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/nicaragua-san-juan-del-sur/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,588 @@ + + + + + Nicaragua - San Juan Del Sur - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

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    Photos from Nicaragua - San Juan Del Sur

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    Harbor View +
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    Harbor View

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    It was hot and we didn't feel like hunting for a guesthouse so we stopped in at one of the waterfront restaurants and had a bit of ceviche.

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    Playa Majagual +
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    Playa Majagual

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    A bit windy, but we had the beach to ourselves

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    Playa Majagual 2

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    Playa Majagual 3 +
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    Playa Majagual 3

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    Playa Majagual 4 +
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    Playa Majagual 4

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    Playa Majagual 5 +
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    Playa Majagual 5

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    Playa Majagual 6 +
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    Playa Majagual 6

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    San Juan Sunset +
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    San Juan Sunset

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    The pacific side of Nicaragua definitely wins on the sunsets.

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    Sunset, Boats +
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    Sunset, Boats

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    San Juan Del Sur Sunset +
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    San Juan Del Sur Sunset

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    Guesthouse +
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    Guesthouse

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    We ended up splashing out a bit in San Juan Del Sur. I'm all for cheap guesthouses, but when it's only $10 more to get out of dingy hole of a room, I'll take it. Hotel Colonial was reasonable and had and lovely courtyard.

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    Playa Maderas +
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    Playa Maderas

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    The pain in San Juan Del Sur is you have to take cabs to all the beaches (or rent a car) which makes it a bit expense. We spent about three hours here and didn't see another soul.

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    Playa Maderas 2 +
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    Playa Maderas 2

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    The only downside was the gusts of wind that effectively sandblasted you while you were lying on the beach. Free exfoliating.

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    San Juan Del Sur - Trees +
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    San Juan Del Sur - Trees

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    These photos, taken from a moving cab, don't really capture it, but the trees around San Juan Del Sur look like the stereotype tree that an artist would come up with if you just said "draw a tree."

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    Trees 2 +
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    Trees 2

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    Melissa and Kenso +
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    Melissa and Kenso

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    We actually met Melissa and Kenso in Granada, very briefly, but then they checked into the room next to us in San Juan Del Sur, so we all went out for a few drinks. I don't recall what they're doing in this image, but we had had a few.

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    Hammock

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    Doing what I do best -- nothing.

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    bird

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    Dunno what it is (some kind of Jay maybe?) but there were a lot of them around San Juan Del Sur

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    Hammock 2 +
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    Hammock 2

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    The middle of the day was quite warm, best spent relaxing and reading.

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    Church +
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    Church

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    Almost every town in Nicaragua is organized a round a central church; it's that Catholic domination thing.

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    Frederica's +
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    Frederica's

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    I don't know why exactly, but Corrinne wanted a shot of this sign. She likes the color apparently (which is roughly #9c7c15 in case anyone is curious)

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    San Juan Del Sur Harbor Front +
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    San Juan Del Sur Harbor Front

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    It's not the nicest beach in the area, but there is sometimes a decent break down where the river spills out.

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    Corrinne and I +
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    Corrinne and I

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    In one of the many restaurant/bars that line the harbor.

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    School Children +
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    School Children

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    Morning in San Juan Del Sur look a lot like they do... prety much everywhere I guess, but the paint jobs are way more creative in Nicaragua.

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/nicaragua-the-corn-islands/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/nicaragua-the-corn-islands/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a528218 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/nicaragua-the-corn-islands/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,1148 @@ + + + + + Nicaragua - The Corn Islands - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

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    Photos from Nicaragua - The Corn Islands

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    Big Corn Harbor +
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    Big Corn Harbor

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    The harbor on Big Corn Island where you catch the panga to Little Corn. The boats are timed with the flights so it isn't hard to skip Big Corn, which has some nice beaches, but felt decidedly less friendly.

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    Leaving Big Corn +
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    Leaving Big Corn

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    View From Our Porch +
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    View From Our Porch

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    We got very very lucky and managed to score a room at Carlito's Sunrise Paradise, which is probably the best place on the island.

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    Corrinne in the Hammock +
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    Corrinne in the Hammock

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    Porch Morning +
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    Porch Morning

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    The sun rose early. Very early and it was plenty warm by 7 AM.

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    Carlito's Sunrise Paradise +
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    Carlito's Sunrise Paradise

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    A few cabins, a few shaded tables and a main seating area. Basic, but more than enough. The clouds would roll through every so often but it never rained for more than five minutes and it was never overcast for more than ten.

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    Our Bungalow +
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    Our Bungalow

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    Corrinne relaxing on the porch.

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    1/100 sec at f/5.6, ISO 100

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    Little Corn's Endless Beach +
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    Little Corn's Endless Beach

    + + Map +

    With a couple of excptions -- the rocky areas at each of the island and the harbor on the other side -- this is basically what Little Corn looks like.

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    More Endless Beaches +
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    More Endless Beaches

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    Looking north, up toward where the good snorkeling was, or so I hear, since I was never able to motivate and try out that end of the island.

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    Relaxing +
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    Relaxing

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    The View From Our Bed +
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    The View From Our Bed

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    Mozzy netting and all.

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    Sunny Beaches +
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    Sunny Beaches

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    This is what Little Corn looked like 90% of the time, never mind the cloudy images I posted.

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    Snorkel Trips +
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    Snorkel Trips

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    I just couldn't be bothered to snorkel this time out. Kenso, Melissa and I did swim out the reef right in front of Carlito's place, but there wasn't much to see. Still everyone who went on the trips raved about them.

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    Local Puppy +
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    Local Puppy

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    Puppy

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    Looked a bit like some sort of horribly wrong pig/dog cross breed, but he was sweet.

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    Beach

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    Beach

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    Beach +
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    Beach

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    Corrinne Dan and Sasha +
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    Corrinne Dan and Sasha

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    We met a lot of great people on the islands.

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    1/200 sec at f/4, ISO 100

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    Friends +
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    Friends

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    Caroline, Sasha, Corrinne, Kenso and Mellisa

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    1/400 sec at f/4, ISO 100

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    Inland +
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    Inland

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    There are no motorized vehicles on Little Corn (and no electricity), getting around means walking through the maze of jungle paths

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    Night Shot

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    The beach at night. That's Casa Iguana, another guesthouse, glowing in the distance.

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    North End Little Corn Island +
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    North End Little Corn Island

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    One day I decided to walk around the island.

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    1/500 sec at f/8, ISO 100

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    Palms +
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    Palms

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    For some reason the tips of islands seem to be the most photogenic parts of an island

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    1/200 sec at f/8, ISO 100

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    North End 2

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    Palm, Sky +
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    Palm, Sky

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    The Rocky Shore +
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    The Rocky Shore

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    The north end of the island is bit rockier and has better reefs.

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    1/320 sec at f/8, ISO 100

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    Corn Islands-37 +
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    Corn Islands-37

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    Noni +
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    Noni

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    A curious fruit that apparently is quite expensive at your local hippie grocery store (used for Vim and Vigor, so I'm told)/

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    The Futbol Field

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    Where our Canadian and French friends went one day to play the locals. They came back covered ing blood and with a probably broken finger here and there, but claimed to have won both games.

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    The Friends of No One +
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    The Friends of No One

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    I spent a fair amount of time studying this sign... If you look closely you'll notice that the couples friends are... themselves repeated in slightly different poses. So either you drink Victoria and you see more of yourself (true, I can vouch for it) or you drink Victoria and you end up with no friends.

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    The alpha male of Carlito's.

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    Little Corn Island Little League Team +
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    Little Corn Island Little League Team

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    These kids and their coach came around looking for donations one day so I gave them a few dollars. Little League would have been way more fun if it had involved long boat rides before every game.

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    Sasha and the Coconut

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    On the Corn Islands you can say things like "Can I get a coke and machette?" and you'll get what you asked for. We discovered the day before that if you rinse coconut meat in the ocean (because, for instance, you dropped in in the sand) it gives it a very nice salty savory flavor.

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    Sasha Wins +
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    Sasha Wins

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    Coconut

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    Fresh Coconut Meat

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    Sunset on Little Corn

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    Corn Islands-50

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    Corn Islands-52 +
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    Corn Islands-52

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    Little Corn Sunset +
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    Little Corn Sunset

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    We were staying on the eastern shore and this was the only time we made it over to the west side to catch the sunset.

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    The Harbor

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    The west side of the island is where you arrive by boat and where the main village area is located.

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    Sunset Fishing Boats

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    Caroline Looking for Sea Glass +
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    Caroline Looking for Sea Glass

    + + Map +

    Corrinne has a fascination with sea glass (glass that's been polished smooth by years in the ocean) and she got Caroline and Dan looking for it too.

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    1/800 sec at f/4.5, ISO 100

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    Sunset 3

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    Sunset 2

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    The Sun, It Sinks +
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    The Sun, It Sinks

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    Colorful Sky

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    Sunset Boats

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    It was the off season for the lobster fishermen.

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    Casa Iguana

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    Our last night on Little Corn. Me, Amy, Corrinne, Caroline and Sasha's arm.

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    The Corn Dog Fruit +
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    The Corn Dog Fruit

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    I have no idea what these are, but they look like corn dogs.

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    Goodbyes

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    Ali, Caroline, Amy, Sasha's Mom, Sasha and Corrinne just before most of us (except Ali, he lives there, and Sasha's mom, she's building a house on Little Corn) got on the boat to go home. I hate goodbyes.

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    Walk Slowly

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    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

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    Photos from Nusa Lembongan

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    Sunset +
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    Sunset

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    Heading out to plant seaweed.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 45-200mm lens

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    Gathering +
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    Gathering

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    The older women and young boys troll the shallows gathering up dropped seaweed.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 45-200mm lens

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    Surf +
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    Surf

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    The break is a long, long way out, past the reef.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 45-200mm lens

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    Backside +
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    Backside

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    The backside of Lembongan is a totally different place -- windy, wild and rough.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

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    0.001 sec (1/1000) sec at f/4.5, ISO 100

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    Green sea +
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    Green sea

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    Such amazingly clear water.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Olympus 9-18mm lens

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    Self Portrait with Wind +
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    Self Portrait with Wind

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    Panasonic GF1 with Olympus 9-18mm lens

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    Dream Beach +
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    Dream Beach

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    Now what I would have named it given the wind, but it was beautiful.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Olympus 9-18mm lens

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    Moto +
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    Moto

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    Worst motorbike we rented in all of Indonesia. But it did get us around. For the most part.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Olympus 9-18mm lens

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    0.01 sec (1/100) sec at f/4.5, ISO 100

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    Boats +
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    Boats

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    The small gap of water between Lembongan and the much smaller Nusa Ceningan.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Olympus 9-18mm lens

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    Suspension +
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    Suspension

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    Standing on Nusa Ceningan, looking back at the suspension bridge that connects it to Lembongan.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Olympus 9-18mm lens

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    Electric Pole +
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    Electric Pole

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    Spent a good half hour watching a work crew attempt to move this massive concrete pole out of the road.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Olympus 9-18mm lens

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    Mt. Agung +
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    Mt. Agung

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    I think. The only time we got to see the top of Bali anyway.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 45-200mm lens

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    Kites +
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    Kites

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    The Balinese love them some kites.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 45-200mm lens

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    Gathering +
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    Gathering

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    A seaweed farmer gathering up lost chunks of seaweed.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 45-200mm lens

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    0.005 sec (1/200) sec at f/8.0, ISO 100

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    Walk Slowly

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    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

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    Photos from Okefenokee Swamp

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    Putting into the swamp

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    Gator Okefenokee

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    Matt

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    Okefenokee Bluff Lake Platform

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    Bluff Lake, Okefenokee Swamp

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    Paddling Bluff Lake

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    Sunset, Bluff Lake, Okefenokee Swamp

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    Lily Pads at Sunset

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    Mike Making Pancakes, Bluff Lake

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    Cypress and Spanish Moss

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    Misnamed. Looked starkly beautiful though.

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    Across the street from the apartment we rented

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    Great lunches, tons of choices.

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    Such a a great pose, but with an overwhelming feeling of impotency. Poor statue

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    Great paper model of middle ages paris in the Carnavalet Museum

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    I forget what these were or why they were, but a monkey the size of a rat? What's not to love? Carnavalet Museum

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    Two person shadow puppets... If you enjoy reading, there's also some travelogue essays on luxagraf that are meant to go along with these images. The one related (and I use that term loosely) to this photo is entitled Living in a Railway Car

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    Cherubs with scepters. And always the river. If you enjoy reading, there's also some travelogue essays on luxagraf that are meant to go along with these images. The one related (and I use that term loosely) to this photo is entitled Living in a Railway Car

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    Le Tour sans tree in all its phallic glory. If you enjoy reading, there's also some travelogue essays on luxagraf that are meant to go along with these images. The one related (and I use that term loosely) to this photo is entitled Living in a Railway Car

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    Le Tour. Diminished by tree. It happens to the best of us. If you enjoy reading, there's also some travelogue essays on luxagraf that are meant to go along with these images. The one related (and I use that term loosely) to this photo is entitled Living in a Railway Car

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    Near the Grande Palias... If you enjoy reading, there's also some travelogue essays on luxagraf that are meant to go along with these images. The one related (and I use that term loosely) to this photo is entitled Living in a Railway Car

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    The world's smallest apartment. Taken with a wide angle lens, so Laura is actually less than five feet from me. If you enjoy reading, there's also some travelogue essays on luxagraf that are meant to go along with these images. The one related (and I use that term loosely) to this photo is entitled Living in a Railway Car

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    The chimneys of Paris... If you enjoy reading, there's also some travelogue essays on luxagraf that are meant to go along with these images. The one related (and I use that term loosely) to this photo is entitled Living in a Railway Car

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    Notre Dame. House of many spires. And some stooped man like myself, If you enjoy reading, there's also some travelogue essays on luxagraf that are meant to go along with these images. The one related (and I use that term loosely) to this photo is entitled Living in a Railway Car

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    Laura navigating. If you enjoy reading, there's also some travelogue essays on luxagraf that are meant to go along with these images. The one related (and I use that term loosely) to this photo is entitled Living in a Railway Car

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    The Seine... rivers are the only way to travel. Of course I didn't learn that until I made it Laos. If you enjoy reading, there's also some travelogue essays on luxagraf that are meant to go along with these images. The one related (and I use that term loosely) to this photo is entitled Living in a Railway Car

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    Another view out the side window of the apartment. Windows with mirrors are even better than plain windows If you enjoy reading, there's also some travelogue essays on luxagraf that are meant to go along with these images. The one related (and I use that term loosely) to this photo is entitled Living in a Railway Car

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    Paris rooftops from Laura's apartment. If you enjoy reading, there's also some travelogue essays on luxagraf that are meant to go along with these images. The one related (and I use that term loosely) to this photo is entitled Living in a Railway Car

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    Windows are glorious, no matter how small. If you enjoy reading, there's also some travelogue essays on luxagraf that are meant to go along with these images. The one related (and I use that term loosely) to this photo is entitled Living in a Railway Car

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    The best chocolat chaud in Paris. At the corner of Rue Archives and, uh, whatever that street by the little park is.

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    This is as is. No photoshop. Really nice sunset at the place Concorde.

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    My favorite image from Paris. All natural luck, no photoshop involved.

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    Every fountain in Paris has some kids sailing the little wooden boats around in it. Every fountain in America is full of change. I feel like that might mean something, though it might not be as bad as you think.

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    For some reason far more compelling to me than the statues inside the Louvre. The sort of sight that makes me write rambling essays like The Houses We Live In

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    Armless woman over exposed. Am I the only one that sees Venus de Milo and for some reason thinks of Boxing Helena, that terrible movie with Julian Sands? I wish I could kill that association.

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    Ah yes the armless woman. You could enjoy The Houses We Live In if you're looking for a way to avoid work.

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    Imagination. Gives me shivers.

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    Cooler than my fireplace mantel.

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    It's hard to take clear images in the Louvre with guards hovering around all the time. And it's not like I'm using a flash, no paintings were harmed in the taking of these images.

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    Eerily modern in both style and depiction. This painting dates from the 14th century.

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    This one reminds me of Henry Darger. If anyone can tell the name/artist here, leave it in the comments -- I'd appreciate it.

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    Raphael.. Le Grande Saint Michel.

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    Victory... Unfortunately I jiggled the camera. Still seems that people like it. I guess it looks okay if you stick to the smaller sizes. If you're the type that likes to make your eyeballs bleed reading on the internet, you might enjoy the writing that goes with the images in this set, it's called, The Houses We Live In. Because let's face it I suck at titles.

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    The thing with juxtaposing the modern and the, uh, not modern, is that it somehow seems to cheapen both of them, which is why the pyramid just doesn't work for me. For more thoughts check out The Houses We Live In.

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    The Louvre. I was commenting that the glass pyramid looks pretty stupid when laura pointed out it was designed by an American. I might even discuss that in the little post about the Louvre on luxagraf.

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    Lying on my back looking up at la tour. For the reading inclined be sure to check out the luxagraf essay entitled The Houses We Live In. The rest of you, carry on beautiful people.

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/paris/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/paris/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..aa40bd8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/paris/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,668 @@ + + + + + Paris - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + Cadenza: "And now. Now I can see my reflection slighted in the window. I am haggard, tired, my …"> + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Photos from Paris

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    Somewhere in Germany I believe.

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    For more reflections on Paris, check out the luxagraf entry entitled Cadenza

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    For more reflections on Paris, check out the luxagraf entry entitled Cadenza

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    For more reflections on Paris, check out the luxagraf entry entitled Cadenza

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    For more reflections on Paris, check out the luxagraf entry entitled Cadenza

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    These are a series of remarkable sculptures I found off the Avenue des Champs-Elysées, but I have no idea who did them. There was a plaque commemorating Jean Moulin, hero of the French resistance in WWII, but that's about all I know. If you know better, let me know in the comments.

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    These are a series of remarkable sculptures I found off the Avenue des Champs-Elysées, but I have no idea who did them. There was a plaque commemorating Jean Moulin, hero of the French resistance in WWII, but that's about all I know. If you know better, let me know in the comments.

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    These are a series of remarkable sculptures I found off the Avenue des Champs-Elysées, but I have no idea who did them. There was a plaque commemorating Jean Moulin, hero of the French resistance in WWII, but that's about all I know. If you know better, let me know in the comments.

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    These are a series of remarkable sculptures I found off the Avenue des Champs-Elysées, but I have no idea who did them. There was a plaque commemorating Jean Moulin, hero of the French resistance in WWII, but that's about all I know. If you know better, let me know in the comments.

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    These are a series of remarkable sculptures I found off the Avenue des Champs-Elysées, but I have no idea who did them. There was a plaque commemorating Jean Moulin, hero of the French resistance in WWII, but that's about all I know. If you know better, let me know in the comments.

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    These are a series of remarkable sculptures I found off the Avenue des Champs-Elysées, but I have no idea who did them. There was a plaque commemorating Jean Moulin, hero of the French resistance in WWII, but that's about all I know. If you know better, let me know in the comments.

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    These are a series of remarkable sculptures I found off the Avenue des Champs-Elysées, but I have no idea who did them. There was a plaque commemorating Jean Moulin, hero of the French resistance in WWII, but that's about all I know. If you know better, let me know in the comments.

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    Jardin des Plantes

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/pokhara-nepal/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/pokhara-nepal/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..882696f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/pokhara-nepal/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,628 @@ + + + + + Pokhara, Nepal - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Photos from Pokhara, Nepal

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    One the way to Pokhara.

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    I also rented a bike one day and rode around the lake.

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    An old book in one of the synagogues. Technically there was no photography allowed in the synagogues, but yes, I did. Sorry if that offends anyone. If you'd like to read more about the Jewish Quarter in Prague see my related posting: Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds.

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    Torah. If you'd like to read more about the Jewish Quarter in Prague see my related posting: Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds.

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    Fantastic craftsmanship on the floor of one of the synagogues. If you'd like to read more about the Jewish Quarter in Prague see my related posting: Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds.

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    The names of the Czech citizens who died in the Holocaust, written on the walls of the Pinkas Synagogue. If you'd like to read about the Jewish Quarter in Prague see my related posting: Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds.

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    Old Jewish Cemetery home to the grave of Rabbi Loewe, who legend has it created the Golem to protect the Jews in the Prague ghetto. If you'd like to read about the Jewish Quarter in Prague see my related posting: Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds.

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    We randomly stumbled across this plaque, commemorating the discoverer of the Doppler effect, in a little side street.

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    bizarre and fitting monument for franz kafka. If you'd like to read about Kafka see my related posting: Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds.

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    The Old-New Jewish synagogue had some amazing old books on display.

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    Very strange sculpture supposedly "inspired" by the works of Kafka. Not far from the house were he lived.

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    This narrow street is where Kafka lived for a while.

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    Fred and Ginger. Frank Gehry's contribution to Prague.

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    Czech Republic_Prague_5_23-6_06_50

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/400 sec at f/8, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Czech Republic_Prague_5_23-6_06_51 +
    +
    +

    Czech Republic_Prague_5_23-6_06_51

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/1500 sec at f/8, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Czech Republic_Prague_5_23-6_06_52 +
    +
    +

    Czech Republic_Prague_5_23-6_06_52

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/320 sec at f/8, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Czech Republic_Prague_5_23-6_06_53 +
    +
    +

    Czech Republic_Prague_5_23-6_06_53

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/1500 sec at f/8, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Czech Republic_Prague_5_23-6_06_54 +
    +
    +

    Czech Republic_Prague_5_23-6_06_54

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/1500 sec at f/8, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Czech Republic_Prague_5_23-6_06_55 +
    +
    +

    Czech Republic_Prague_5_23-6_06_55

    + + Map +

    The Dvorak museum

    +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/25 sec at f/2.8, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Czech Republic_Prague_5_23-6_06_56 +
    +
    +

    Czech Republic_Prague_5_23-6_06_56

    + + Map +

    Dvorak was apparently a big fan of the Tarot.

    +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/80 sec at f/2.8, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Czech Republic_Prague_5_23-6_06_57 +
    +
    +

    Czech Republic_Prague_5_23-6_06_57

    + + Map +

    Dvorak's desk.

    +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/10 sec at f/2.8, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/private/christmas-2015.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/private/christmas-2015.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..551d3cc --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/private/christmas-2015.html @@ -0,0 +1,324 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /photos/galleries/private/christmas-2015 + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/photos/galleries/private/christmas-2015
    +
    +
    + +

    + Using the URLconf defined in config.base_urls, + Django tried these URL patterns, in this order: +

    +
      + +
    1. + + __debug__/ + + +
      2. + +
    2. + + tag-autocomplete/ + [name='tag-autocomplete'] + +
      3. + +
    3. + + ap-autocomplete/ + [name='ap-autocomplete'] + +
      4. + +
    4. + + ^admin/build/.* + + +
      5. + +
    5. + + admin/data/ + + +
      6. + +
    6. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/invoice/ + [name='download-invoice'] + +
      7. + +
    7. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/ + [name='monthly-invoice'] + +
      8. + +
    8. + + admin/ + + +
      9. + +
    9. + + luximages/insert/ + + +
      10. + +
    10. + + sitemap.xml + + +
      11. + +
    11. + + links/ + + +
      12. + +
    12. + + jrnl/ + + +
      13. + +
    13. + + projects/ + + +
      14. + +
    14. + + locations/ + + +
      15. + +
    15. + + expenses/ + + +
      16. + +
    16. + + photos/ + + + daily/<int:page> + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      17. + +
    17. + + photos/ + + + daily/ + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      18. + +
    18. + + photos/ + + + data/(<str:slug>/ + + +
      19. + +
    19. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/preview/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_image_preview'] + +
      20. + +
    20. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/tn/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_thumb_preview'] + +
      21. + +
    21. + + books/ + + +
      22. + +
    22. + + people/ + + +
      23. + +
    23. + + dialogues/ + + +
      24. + +
    24. + + field-notes/ + + +
      25. + +
    25. + + src/ + + +
      26. + +
    26. + + figments/ + + +
      27. + +
    27. + + resume/ + + +
      28. + +
    28. + + map + + +
      29. + +
    29. + + map/ + + +
      30. + +
    30. + + + [name='homepage'] + +
      31. + +
    31. + + comments/ + + +
      32. + +
    32. + + <slug> + + +
      33. + +
    33. + + <path>/<slug>/ + + +
      34. + +
    34. + + ^media\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      35. + +
    35. + + ^static\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      36. + +
    +

    + + The current path, photos/galleries/private/christmas-2015, didn't match any of these. +

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/private/christmas-tree.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/private/christmas-tree.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4349615 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/private/christmas-tree.html @@ -0,0 +1,324 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /photos/galleries/private/christmas-tree + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/photos/galleries/private/christmas-tree
    +
    +
    + +

    + Using the URLconf defined in config.base_urls, + Django tried these URL patterns, in this order: +

    +
      + +
    1. + + __debug__/ + + +
      2. + +
    2. + + tag-autocomplete/ + [name='tag-autocomplete'] + +
      3. + +
    3. + + ap-autocomplete/ + [name='ap-autocomplete'] + +
      4. + +
    4. + + ^admin/build/.* + + +
      5. + +
    5. + + admin/data/ + + +
      6. + +
    6. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/invoice/ + [name='download-invoice'] + +
      7. + +
    7. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/ + [name='monthly-invoice'] + +
      8. + +
    8. + + admin/ + + +
      9. + +
    9. + + luximages/insert/ + + +
      10. + +
    10. + + sitemap.xml + + +
      11. + +
    11. + + links/ + + +
      12. + +
    12. + + jrnl/ + + +
      13. + +
    13. + + projects/ + + +
      14. + +
    14. + + locations/ + + +
      15. + +
    15. + + expenses/ + + +
      16. + +
    16. + + photos/ + + + daily/<int:page> + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      17. + +
    17. + + photos/ + + + daily/ + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      18. + +
    18. + + photos/ + + + data/(<str:slug>/ + + +
      19. + +
    19. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/preview/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_image_preview'] + +
      20. + +
    20. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/tn/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_thumb_preview'] + +
      21. + +
    21. + + books/ + + +
      22. + +
    22. + + people/ + + +
      23. + +
    23. + + dialogues/ + + +
      24. + +
    24. + + field-notes/ + + +
      25. + +
    25. + + src/ + + +
      26. + +
    26. + + figments/ + + +
      27. + +
    27. + + resume/ + + +
      28. + +
    28. + + map + + +
      29. + +
    29. + + map/ + + +
      30. + +
    30. + + + [name='homepage'] + +
      31. + +
    31. + + comments/ + + +
      32. + +
    32. + + <slug> + + +
      33. + +
    33. + + <path>/<slug>/ + + +
      34. + +
    34. + + ^media\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      35. + +
    35. + + ^static\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      36. + +
    +

    + + The current path, photos/galleries/private/christmas-tree, didn't match any of these. +

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/private/elliotts-first-birthday.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/private/elliotts-first-birthday.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2591e40 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/private/elliotts-first-birthday.html @@ -0,0 +1,324 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /photos/galleries/private/elliotts-first-birthday + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/photos/galleries/private/elliotts-first-birthday
    +
    +
    + +

    + Using the URLconf defined in config.base_urls, + Django tried these URL patterns, in this order: +

    +
      + +
    1. + + __debug__/ + + +
      2. + +
    2. + + tag-autocomplete/ + [name='tag-autocomplete'] + +
      3. + +
    3. + + ap-autocomplete/ + [name='ap-autocomplete'] + +
      4. + +
    4. + + ^admin/build/.* + + +
      5. + +
    5. + + admin/data/ + + +
      6. + +
    6. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/invoice/ + [name='download-invoice'] + +
      7. + +
    7. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/ + [name='monthly-invoice'] + +
      8. + +
    8. + + admin/ + + +
      9. + +
    9. + + luximages/insert/ + + +
      10. + +
    10. + + sitemap.xml + + +
      11. + +
    11. + + links/ + + +
      12. + +
    12. + + jrnl/ + + +
      13. + +
    13. + + projects/ + + +
      14. + +
    14. + + locations/ + + +
      15. + +
    15. + + expenses/ + + +
      16. + +
    16. + + photos/ + + + daily/<int:page> + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      17. + +
    17. + + photos/ + + + daily/ + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      18. + +
    18. + + photos/ + + + data/(<str:slug>/ + + +
      19. + +
    19. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/preview/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_image_preview'] + +
      20. + +
    20. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/tn/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_thumb_preview'] + +
      21. + +
    21. + + books/ + + +
      22. + +
    22. + + people/ + + +
      23. + +
    23. + + dialogues/ + + +
      24. + +
    24. + + field-notes/ + + +
      25. + +
    25. + + src/ + + +
      26. + +
    26. + + figments/ + + +
      27. + +
    27. + + resume/ + + +
      28. + +
    28. + + map + + +
      29. + +
    29. + + map/ + + +
      30. + +
    30. + + + [name='homepage'] + +
      31. + +
    31. + + comments/ + + +
      32. + +
    32. + + <slug> + + +
      33. + +
    33. + + <path>/<slug>/ + + +
      34. + +
    34. + + ^media\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      35. + +
    35. + + ^static\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      36. + +
    +

    + + The current path, photos/galleries/private/elliotts-first-birthday, didn't match any of these. +

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/private/like-swimming.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/private/like-swimming.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..70662c1 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/private/like-swimming.html @@ -0,0 +1,324 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /photos/galleries/private/like-swimming + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/photos/galleries/private/like-swimming
    +
    +
    + +

    + Using the URLconf defined in config.base_urls, + Django tried these URL patterns, in this order: +

    +
      + +
    1. + + __debug__/ + + +
      2. + +
    2. + + tag-autocomplete/ + [name='tag-autocomplete'] + +
      3. + +
    3. + + ap-autocomplete/ + [name='ap-autocomplete'] + +
      4. + +
    4. + + ^admin/build/.* + + +
      5. + +
    5. + + admin/data/ + + +
      6. + +
    6. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/invoice/ + [name='download-invoice'] + +
      7. + +
    7. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/ + [name='monthly-invoice'] + +
      8. + +
    8. + + admin/ + + +
      9. + +
    9. + + luximages/insert/ + + +
      10. + +
    10. + + sitemap.xml + + +
      11. + +
    11. + + links/ + + +
      12. + +
    12. + + jrnl/ + + +
      13. + +
    13. + + projects/ + + +
      14. + +
    14. + + locations/ + + +
      15. + +
    15. + + expenses/ + + +
      16. + +
    16. + + photos/ + + + daily/<int:page> + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      17. + +
    17. + + photos/ + + + daily/ + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      18. + +
    18. + + photos/ + + + data/(<str:slug>/ + + +
      19. + +
    19. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/preview/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_image_preview'] + +
      20. + +
    20. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/tn/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_thumb_preview'] + +
      21. + +
    21. + + books/ + + +
      22. + +
    22. + + people/ + + +
      23. + +
    23. + + dialogues/ + + +
      24. + +
    24. + + field-notes/ + + +
      25. + +
    25. + + src/ + + +
      26. + +
    26. + + figments/ + + +
      27. + +
    27. + + resume/ + + +
      28. + +
    28. + + map + + +
      29. + +
    29. + + map/ + + +
      30. + +
    30. + + + [name='homepage'] + +
      31. + +
    31. + + comments/ + + +
      32. + +
    32. + + <slug> + + +
      33. + +
    33. + + <path>/<slug>/ + + +
      34. + +
    34. + + ^media\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      35. + +
    35. + + ^static\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      36. + +
    +

    + + The current path, photos/galleries/private/like-swimming, didn't match any of these. +

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/private/testing-fujifilm-x-pro2.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/private/testing-fujifilm-x-pro2.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0d2545a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/private/testing-fujifilm-x-pro2.html @@ -0,0 +1,324 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /photos/galleries/private/testing-fujifilm-x-pro2 + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/photos/galleries/private/testing-fujifilm-x-pro2
    +
    +
    + +

    + Using the URLconf defined in config.base_urls, + Django tried these URL patterns, in this order: +

    +
      + +
    1. + + __debug__/ + + +
      2. + +
    2. + + tag-autocomplete/ + [name='tag-autocomplete'] + +
      3. + +
    3. + + ap-autocomplete/ + [name='ap-autocomplete'] + +
      4. + +
    4. + + ^admin/build/.* + + +
      5. + +
    5. + + admin/data/ + + +
      6. + +
    6. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/invoice/ + [name='download-invoice'] + +
      7. + +
    7. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/ + [name='monthly-invoice'] + +
      8. + +
    8. + + admin/ + + +
      9. + +
    9. + + luximages/insert/ + + +
      10. + +
    10. + + sitemap.xml + + +
      11. + +
    11. + + links/ + + +
      12. + +
    12. + + jrnl/ + + +
      13. + +
    13. + + projects/ + + +
      14. + +
    14. + + locations/ + + +
      15. + +
    15. + + expenses/ + + +
      16. + +
    16. + + photos/ + + + daily/<int:page> + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      17. + +
    17. + + photos/ + + + daily/ + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      18. + +
    18. + + photos/ + + + data/(<str:slug>/ + + +
      19. + +
    19. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/preview/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_image_preview'] + +
      20. + +
    20. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/tn/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_thumb_preview'] + +
      21. + +
    21. + + books/ + + +
      22. + +
    22. + + people/ + + +
      23. + +
    23. + + dialogues/ + + +
      24. + +
    24. + + field-notes/ + + +
      25. + +
    25. + + src/ + + +
      26. + +
    26. + + figments/ + + +
      27. + +
    27. + + resume/ + + +
      28. + +
    28. + + map + + +
      29. + +
    29. + + map/ + + +
      30. + +
    30. + + + [name='homepage'] + +
      31. + +
    31. + + comments/ + + +
      32. + +
    32. + + <slug> + + +
      33. + +
    33. + + <path>/<slug>/ + + +
      34. + +
    34. + + ^media\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      35. + +
    35. + + ^static\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      36. + +
    +

    + + The current path, photos/galleries/private/testing-fujifilm-x-pro2, didn't match any of these. +

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/private/testing-panasonic-gx8.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/private/testing-panasonic-gx8.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a617341 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/private/testing-panasonic-gx8.html @@ -0,0 +1,324 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /photos/galleries/private/testing-panasonic-gx8 + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/photos/galleries/private/testing-panasonic-gx8
    +
    +
    + +

    + Using the URLconf defined in config.base_urls, + Django tried these URL patterns, in this order: +

    +
      + +
    1. + + __debug__/ + + +
      2. + +
    2. + + tag-autocomplete/ + [name='tag-autocomplete'] + +
      3. + +
    3. + + ap-autocomplete/ + [name='ap-autocomplete'] + +
      4. + +
    4. + + ^admin/build/.* + + +
      5. + +
    5. + + admin/data/ + + +
      6. + +
    6. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/invoice/ + [name='download-invoice'] + +
      7. + +
    7. + + admin/income/invoice/monthlyview/<str:slug>/ + [name='monthly-invoice'] + +
      8. + +
    8. + + admin/ + + +
      9. + +
    9. + + luximages/insert/ + + +
      10. + +
    10. + + sitemap.xml + + +
      11. + +
    11. + + links/ + + +
      12. + +
    12. + + jrnl/ + + +
      13. + +
    13. + + projects/ + + +
      14. + +
    14. + + locations/ + + +
      15. + +
    15. + + expenses/ + + +
      16. + +
    16. + + photos/ + + + daily/<int:page> + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      17. + +
    17. + + photos/ + + + daily/ + [name='daily_photo_list'] + +
      18. + +
    18. + + photos/ + + + data/(<str:slug>/ + + +
      19. + +
    19. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/preview/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_image_preview'] + +
      20. + +
    20. + + photos/ + + + data/admin/tn/(?P<pk>\d+)/$ + [name='admin_thumb_preview'] + +
      21. + +
    21. + + books/ + + +
      22. + +
    22. + + people/ + + +
      23. + +
    23. + + dialogues/ + + +
      24. + +
    24. + + field-notes/ + + +
      25. + +
    25. + + src/ + + +
      26. + +
    26. + + figments/ + + +
      27. + +
    27. + + resume/ + + +
      28. + +
    28. + + map + + +
      29. + +
    29. + + map/ + + +
      30. + +
    30. + + + [name='homepage'] + +
      31. + +
    31. + + comments/ + + +
      32. + +
    32. + + <slug> + + +
      33. + +
    33. + + <path>/<slug>/ + + +
      34. + +
    34. + + ^media\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      35. + +
    35. + + ^static\/(?P<path>.*)$ + + +
      36. + +
    +

    + + The current path, photos/galleries/private/testing-panasonic-gx8, didn't match any of these. +

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/rocky-mountain-national-park/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/rocky-mountain-national-park/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..50fa3eb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/rocky-mountain-national-park/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,428 @@ + + + + + Rocky Mountain National Park - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +

    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

    +
    +

    Photos from Rocky Mountain National Park

    +
    +
    +
    Colorado River +
    +
    +

    Colorado River

    + + Map +

    I tried to hike to the head waters, but the weather did not cooperate. This was about as close as I got.

    +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

    +

    0.001 sec (1/800) sec at f/6.3, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + + + +
    +
    +
    Rocky Mountains +
    +
    +

    Rocky Mountains

    + + Map +

    Looking north from Trail Ridge Road.

    +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

    +

    1/2500 sec sec at f/4.0, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Alpine Meadow +
    +
    +

    Alpine Meadow

    + + Map +

    Just out back of the Apline Ranger Station.

    +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

    +

    0.002 sec (1/500) sec at f/11.0, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Moose +
    +
    +

    Moose

    + + Map +

    At Timber Creak Campground.

    +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 45-200mm lens

    +

    0.005 sec (1/200) sec at f/7.1, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    View from Trail Ridge Drive +
    +
    +

    View from Trail Ridge Drive

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

    +

    0.001 sec (1/800) sec at f/11.0, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + + + +
    +
    +
    Long's Peak +
    +
    +

    Long's Peak

    + + Map +

    Highest point in Colorado.

    +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

    +

    0.005 sec (1/200) sec at f/11.0, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + + + +
    +
    +
    Storm +
    +
    +

    Storm

    + + Map +

    There were a lot of storms while I was in the park.

    +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 45-200mm lens

    +

    0.004 sec (1/250) sec at f/9.0, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/rome/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/rome/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..16f1ec4 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/rome/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,568 @@ + + + + + Rome - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +

    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

    +
    +

    Photos from Rome

    +
    +
    +
    Self Portrait with fountain +
    +
    +

    Self Portrait with fountain

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Olympus 9-18mm lens

    +

    0.002 sec (1/500) sec at f/4.0, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    Trevi Fountain Crowds +
    +
    +

    Trevi Fountain Crowds

    + + Map +

    That Fellini film you like? Yeah, it's nothing like that.

    +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Olympus 9-18mm lens

    +

    0.003 sec (1/400) sec at f/4.0, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + + + +
    +
    +
    Colosseum Arch +
    +
    +

    Colosseum Arch

    + + Map +

    I don't do 5 hour lines, which means we didn't go into the Colosseum proper. I figure this is what the Colosseum looked like to the vast majority of ancient romans anyway.

    +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

    +

    0.001 sec (1/800) sec at f/5.6, ISO 320

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    Piazza +
    +
    +

    Piazza

    + + Map +

    One of the main piazzas in the trastevere area

    +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Olympus 9-18mm lens

    +

    0.001 sec (1/1250) sec at f/4.0, ISO 100

    + + +
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    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    Monotheon +
    +
    +

    Monotheon

    + + Map +

    The Pantheon is a catholic church these days, so, I guess it's the monotheon, not entirely sure how that works...

    +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Olympus 9-18mm lens

    +

    0.013 sec (1/80) sec at f/18.0, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Big Phallic Statue +
    +
    +

    Big Phallic Statue

    + + Map +

    There are a number of these rome. No really idea which one this was.

    +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Olympus 9-18mm lens

    +

    0.006 sec (1/160) sec at f/18.0, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    The Vatican +
    +
    +

    The Vatican

    + + Map +

    Let's face it I have zero interest in the Vatican. I only went because it's technically a separate country, so I wanted to set foot. And reportedly the postal service is much better.

    +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

    +

    0.003 sec (1/320) sec at f/16.0, ISO 100

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    Cooking +
    +
    +

    Cooking

    + + Map +

    The best ingredients in the world are in Italy. At least from what I've seen of the world.

    +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

    +

    0.033 sec (1/30) sec at f/1.7, ISO 400

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    +
    +
    Apartment +
    +
    +

    Apartment

    + + Map +

    Lovely place. E-mail me if you'd like details.

    +
    +
    +

    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

    +

    0.005 sec (1/200) sec at f/1.7, ISO 160

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/s21-killing-fields-phnom-phen-cambodia/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/s21-killing-fields-phnom-phen-cambodia/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e84b777 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/s21-killing-fields-phnom-phen-cambodia/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,708 @@ + + + + + S21, Killing Fields Phnom Phen Cambodia - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +

    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

    +
    +

    Photos from S21, Killing Fields Phnom Phen Cambodia

    +
    +
    +
    IMG_4270 +
    +
    +

    IMG_4270

    + + Map +

    view larger and read the text.

    +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/320 sec at f/2.8, ISO

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_01 +
    +
    +

    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_01

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/250 sec at f/5, ISO 50

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + +
    +
    +
    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_02 +
    +
    +

    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_02

    + + Map + +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/160 sec at f/5, ISO 50

    + + +
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    + +
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    +
    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_03 +
    +
    +

    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_03

    + + Map + +
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    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/320 sec at f/5, ISO 50

    + + +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_04 +
    +
    +

    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_04

    + + Map +

    It had rained heavily the night before I went out to the killing fields so many of the mass graves were full of water

    +
    +
    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/250 sec at f/5, ISO 50

    + + +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_05 +
    +
    +

    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_05

    + + Map + +
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    +

    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/125 sec at f/5, ISO 50

    + + +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_06 +
    +
    +

    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_06

    + + Map +

    The memorial building. Filled simply with skulls and the clothing of the victims. Read more on luxagraf

    +
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    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/640 sec at f/5, ISO 50

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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_07 +
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    +

    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_07

    + + Map +

    One of the many mass graves. Read more on luxagraf

    +
    +
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    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/160 sec at f/5, ISO 50

    + + +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_08 +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_08

    + + Map +

    This tree was used to kill children.

    +
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    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/250 sec at f/5, ISO 50

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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_09 +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_09

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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    1/320 sec at f/5, ISO 50

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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_10 +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_10

    + + Map +

    This is the tree where children were executed.

    +
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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    1/200 sec at f/5, ISO 50

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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_11 +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_11

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    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/400 sec at f/5, ISO 50

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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_12 +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_12

    + + Map + +
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    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/1500 sec at f/5, ISO 50

    + + +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_13 +
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    +

    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_13

    + + Map + +
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    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/1500 sec at f/5, ISO 50

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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_14 +
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    +

    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_14

    + + Map +

    The Killing Fields outside Phnom Phen. Read more on luxagraf

    +
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    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/1500 sec at f/5, ISO 50

    + + +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_15 +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_15

    + + Map + +
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    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/100 sec at f/5, ISO 50

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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_16 +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_16

    + + Map +

    To me this was the most disturbing thing. Read more on luxagraf

    +
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    Canon PowerShot S45

    +

    1/80 sec at f/5, ISO 50

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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_17 +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_17

    + + Map +

    Monument at the killing fields. You can't really see them but the entire thing is filled with skulls

    +
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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    1/200 sec at f/5, ISO 50

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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_18 +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_18

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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    1/125 sec at f/5, ISO 50

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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_19 +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_19

    + + Map +

    Read more on luxagraf

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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    1/100 sec at f/5, ISO 50

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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_20 +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_20

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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    1/500 sec at f/5, ISO 50

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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_21 +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_21

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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    1/15 sec at f/5, ISO 50

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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_22 +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_22

    + + Map +

    Torture chamber S21

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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    1/40 sec at f/2.8, ISO 50

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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_23 +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_23

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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    1/400 sec at f/2.8, ISO 50

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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_24 +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_24

    + + Map +

    Room after room at S21 are filled with these bulletin boards with photographs of those murdered by the Khmer Rouge Read more on luxagraf

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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    1/15 sec at f/2.8, ISO 50

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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_25 +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_25

    + + Map +

    I'll never be able to forget this girls face.

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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    1/30 sec at f/2.8, ISO 50

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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_26 +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_26

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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_27 +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_27

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    Some of the victims of the Khmer Rouge. Read more on luxagraf

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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_28 +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_28

    + + Map +

    Photograph of exhumed mass graves at S21. S21 was originally a school, the Khmer Rouge turned into a prison and torture area. After the Vietnamese liberated Cambodia it became up monument and museum.

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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_29 +
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    Cambodia_Phnom Penh_3_11-14_06_29

    + + Map +

    Paperwork on prisoners held at S21. The Khmer Rouge, like the Nazis, were meticulous in their campaign of death. Read more on luxagraf

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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/sailing-2007/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/sailing-2007/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f3dd7ae --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/sailing-2007/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,428 @@ + + + + + Sailing -- 2007 - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +

    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

    +
    +

    Photos from Sailing -- 2007

    +
    +
    +
    Sailing-10Jul07-01 +
    +
    +

    Sailing-10Jul07-01

    + + Map +

    My third cousins Dick and Bill checking out the Holoholo, as I believe the boat was called.

    +
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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    1/80 sec at f/4, ISO 200

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    Sailing-10Jul07-02 +
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    Sailing-10Jul07-02

    + + Map +

    The cockpit

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

    +

    1/640 sec at f/7.1, ISO 100

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    Sailing-10Jul07-03 +
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    Sailing-10Jul07-03

    + + Map + +
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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

    +

    1/1000 sec at f/7.1, ISO 100

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    Sailing-10Jul07-04 +
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    Sailing-10Jul07-04

    + + Map +

    It looked quite foreboding when we left the harbor, but hey, at least there's wind.

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    1/1600 sec at f/7.1, ISO 100

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    Sailing-10Jul07-05 +
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    Sailing-10Jul07-05

    + + Map +

    Shipping vessels are big, fast and scary.

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    1/1000 sec at f/8, ISO 100

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    Sailing-11Jul07-08 +
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    Sailing-11Jul07-08

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    Panasonic DMC-LX2

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    Sailing-11Jul07-09 +
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    Ideally this would be stitched together with the bast some, but it just didn't work.

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    Blue Whales are unusual this far south, but sure enough. It's a very very large animal. The only time I've seen something bigger than the boat (and it's 42ft boat)

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    An astrological clock. Quite complex.

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    Amazing wood inlays.

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    Even the doorknobs were intricately detailed. Back when attention to detail was still part of culture.

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    The restaurant where Goethe's Faust meets with Mephisto (supposedly).

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    Sunset in the hill country. No photoshop manipulation necessary, that's actually what it looked like. Read more at luxagraf: Safe as Milk.

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    Random pit stop outside of Sekong. So this is what David Byrne was talking about. Read more at luxagraf: Safe as Milk.

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    Debi. Truly disturbed to be in a brothel, even though it wasn't much of a brothel.

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    The English emerging from the jungle.

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    Supposedly there are fish in this pond that have penchant for biting off the tip of the male member as the guidebook so delicately put it, or as Matt said "blimey, they bite your dick off?". Luckily we didn't encounter any. you can read about it in more detail on luxagraf: Safe as Milk.

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    Parrot.

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    The United States dropped more bombs on Laos than were dropped in the whole of WWII. Even worse we left a bunch of broken ones lying all over the place.

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    A few of the unexploded bombs that have been pulled out of the Laos countryside. Unfortunately thousands more remain. Safe as Milk.

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    One would think, if one were to illegally bomb a country, that one would not print the place of origin on the side of the bomb. Incontrovertible proof -- not only are we assholes, we're stupid too. Safe as Milk.

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    I don't remember the name of this town.

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    Chickens have it rough in Asia

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    You might think this truck is full. but you'd be wrong, about five more people climbed in before it pulled out.

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    A truck crash blocking the road to Sen Monoron

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    The way around the crash

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    Our transport having narrowly avoided tipping over in the river.

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/swayambhunath-pashupatinath-kathmandu-nepal/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/swayambhunath-pashupatinath-kathmandu-nepal/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..72c5bdf --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/swayambhunath-pashupatinath-kathmandu-nepal/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,808 @@ + + + + + Swayambhunath / Pashupatinath, Kathmandu, Nepal - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    You can read more, if you're interested, on luxagraf.

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    No idea what that little demon head is, pretty great carving though. You can read more, if you're interested, on luxagraf.

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    Trinkets. You can read more, if you're interested, on luxagraf.

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    You never actually see the body, it's wrapped in cloth and covered in dry grass. For more on my thoughts about Pashupatinath, have read through the eponymous entry on luxagraf.

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    Cleaning the ghats For more on my thoughts about Pashupatinath, have read through the eponymous entry on luxagraf.

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    A Linga (used for worship of Shiva) situated within a yoni, representing the harmony between man and woman and everything else. For more on my thoughts about Pashupatinath, have read through the eponymous entry on luxagraf.

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    More Shiva Lingas. For more on my thoughts about Pashupatinath, have read through the eponymous entry on luxagraf.

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    That's the temple at Pashupatinath, but only Hindus are allowed inside. For more on my thoughts about Pashupatinath, have read through the eponymous entry on luxagraf.

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    Sadhus. From Wikipedia: In Hinduism, sadhu is a common term for an ascetic or practitioner of yoga (yogi) who has given up pursuit of the first three Hindu goals of life: kama (enjoyment), artha (practical objectives) and even dharma (duty). The sadhu is solely dedicated to achieving moksha (liberation) through meditation and contemplation of God

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    Most Hindu temples have some depiction of Shiva with his many wives, these are at Pashupatinath. Somewhat less depressing than the endless depictions of torment often found in western churches. For more on my thoughts about Pashupatinath, have read through the eponymous entry on luxagraf.

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    Most Hindu temples have some depiction of Shiva with his many wives, these are at Pashupatinath. Somewhat less depressing than the endless depictions of torment often found in western churches. For more on my thoughts about Pashupatinath, have read through the eponymous entry on luxagraf.

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    Most Hindu temples have some depiction of Shiva with his many wives, these are at Pashupatinath. Somewhat less depressing than the endless depictions of torment often found in western churches. For more on my thoughts about Pashupatinath, have read through the eponymous entry on luxagraf.

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    Prayer flags at the monkey temple

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    Tat Lo Falls. Excellent cliff jumping area just to the right of this photo.

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    This is was the first time I'd ever used the digital zoom feature on my camera. You always read about how digital zoom sucks so I just ignored it, but I have to say I don't think the result is half bad.

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    We spent Valentine's Day out at a small town by Tat Lo Falls in South Central Laos.

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    Birds are considered lucky in Buddhism, which is perhaps not so lucky for the birds. Also see the blog entry: You and I Are Disappearing

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    Before he reached enlightenment, the Buddha explored a number of supposed paths to bliss, one of which was asceticism, which is depicted here. This seems to be the only known carving of Buddha during the ascetic phase. Probably better that way since he looks a bit creepy. You can read more at luxagraf: You and I Are Disappearing

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    A small lake in Umong complex where I attended a monk's talk, which if I remember right occurs twice a week. I got lucky and happened to be there on the right day. I wrote about the experience on luxagraf

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    This is the Europe we Americans love to find. Reminds me a French noir movie. Also see the writing: Ghost

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    Another village. Also see the writing: Ghost

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    Somewhere north of Trogir. The Dalmatian Coast is stunning. Also see the writing: Ghost

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    The Macaques that live in the Sacred Monkey Forest in Ubud live the high life with a continual parade of tourists handing them bananas.

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    This monkey spent some time acting out the beginning of 2001, then gave up and tried to just pour. no luck

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    Our balcony at the Pramesti guesthouse

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    Pretty much impossible to look good when you're wearing a helmet.

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    Boys waiting to take their places in the parade back to Ubud.

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    And those that carry the alters and offerings. Everyone has a job in the procession.

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    The sacred and the profane; goes together like ketchup and mustard.

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    Lots and lost of makeup for the ceremoney. Curious how they would have created this look a hundred years ago.

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    From here we broke off and found a nice rooftop restaurant to have a beer.

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    Three stories up, looking out toward the heart of the village.

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    Photos from Vienna, Austria

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    Austria_Vienna_5_27_06_01

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    Hapsburg castle, now a museum. For more of my take on Vienna see the entry Unreflected

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    For more of my take on Vienna see the entry Unreflected

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    My favorite painting. Self Portrait in a Convex Mirror by Parmigianino. For on Parmigianino see the entry Unreflected

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    Austria_Vienna_5_27_06_06

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    Also by Parmigianino

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    detail of the previous. A bit creepy.

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    Austria_Vienna_5_27_06_08 +
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    Austria_Vienna_5_27_06_08

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    All of these paintings are from the kunsthistorisches museum in Vienna. For more of my take on Vienna see the entry Unreflected

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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    Austria_Vienna_5_27_06_09 +
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    Austria_Vienna_5_27_06_09

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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    1/6 sec at f/2.8, ISO 200

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    Austria_Vienna_5_27_06_10 +
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    Austria_Vienna_5_27_06_10

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    Paradise, or Allegory of Vanity by Hieronymus Bosch. For more of my take on Bosch see the entry Unreflected

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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    1/6 sec at f/2.8, ISO 200

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    Austria_Vienna_5_27_06_11 +
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    Austria_Vienna_5_27_06_11

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    Winter by Giuseppe Archimboldo

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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    1/4 sec at f/2.8, ISO 200

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    Austria_Vienna_5_27_06_12 +
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    Austria_Vienna_5_27_06_12

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    Fire by Giuseppe Arcimboldo

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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    1/4 sec at f/2.8, ISO 200

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    Austria_Vienna_5_27_06_14 +
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    Austria_Vienna_5_27_06_14

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    For more of my take on Vienna see the entry Unreflected

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    Canon PowerShot S45

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    1/1000 sec at f/5, ISO 200

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/yellowstone-national-park/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/yellowstone-national-park/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b4174a8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/galleries/yellowstone-national-park/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,1148 @@ + + + + + Yellowstone National Park - Luxagraf, Photos + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Use left/right arrow keys to navigate through photos

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    Photos from Yellowstone National Park

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    Color +
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    Color

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    Somewhere near Old Faithful

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

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    0.001 sec (1/800) sec at f/8.0, ISO 100

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    Old Faithful +
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    Old Faithful

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    If you watch Ken Burn's National Parks series, you'll know one of the reasons for creating Yellowstone was to make sure it didn't "turn into another Niagra Falls." Sorry Nps, but I think you pretty much failed there.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

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    0.001 sec (1/1250) sec at f/8.0, ISO 100

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    Something is alive ahead +
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    Something is alive ahead

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    Doesn't matter what it is -- elk, moose, coyote, grizzly -- there will be a traffic jam.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 45-200mm lens

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    0.008 sec (1/125) sec at f/8.0, ISO 100

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    Elk +
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    Elk

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    Not what was at the traffic jam in the previous photo, but naturally this one had stopped traffic too.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 45-200mm lens

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    0.002 sec (1/640) sec at f/5.6, ISO 100

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    So Inviting +
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    So Inviting

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    But so boiling. Damn.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

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    0.001 sec (1/1250) sec at f/8.0, ISO 100

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    Geyser +
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    Geyser

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    Don't remember the name of this one...

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

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    0.003 sec (1/400) sec at f/14.0, ISO 100

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    Turquoise Pool +
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    Turquoise Pool

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

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    0.006 sec (1/160) sec at f/14.0, ISO 100

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    Grand Prismatic Spring +
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    Grand Prismatic Spring

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    Stunning colors at Grand Prismatic.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

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    0.006 sec (1/160) sec at f/16.0, ISO 100

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    Algae +
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    Algae

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    The rivers are so warm they're full of giant algae plumes

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

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    0.003 sec (1/320) sec at f/3.8, ISO 100

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    Runoff +
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    Runoff

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    Never stuck my foot in near the geysers, but even miles down stream Firehole river is well into the 70s.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

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    1/4000 sec sec at f/3.5, ISO 100

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    Life +
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    Life

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    There's sulfuric acid pouring in that river and yet somehow normal plants find a toe hold.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

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    0.003 sec (1/400) sec at f/3.5, ISO 100

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    Rainbow Colors +
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    Rainbow Colors

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    Each color is created by a different type of microorganism.

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    0.003 sec (1/320) sec at f/8.0, ISO 100

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    Miniature Grand Canyon +
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    Miniature Grand Canyon

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    Underwater Grand Canyon. Maybe the Mariana Trench would be the better comparison.

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    0.003 sec (1/320) sec at f/8.0, ISO 100

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    Swimming Pools on the Moon +
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    Swimming Pools on the Moon

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    Well, except for that pine tree branch.

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    0.002 sec (1/500) sec at f/8.0, ISO 100

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    Small Geyser +
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    Small Geyser

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    Toward the back of the Norris Geyser Basin

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    0.001 sec (1/1000) sec at f/8.0, ISO 100

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    Congress Pool +
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    Congress Pool

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    My favorite name in Yellowstone, this ugly, stinking, roiling grey cesspool is named Congress Pool.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

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    0.001 sec (1/1000) sec at f/8.0, ISO 100

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    Osprey with Chicks +
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    Osprey with Chicks

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    Stretching the limits of my zoom lens, not perfect, but not too bad.

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    0.001 sec (1/1250) sec at f/5.6, ISO 100

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    Buffalo +
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    Buffalo

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    We bonded. Or he looked at me, contemplated charging, decided he was too lazy and went back to eating. Which is Bison for bonding.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 45-200mm lens

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    0.001 sec (1/800) sec at f/5.6, ISO 100

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    Grizzly with cubs +
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    Grizzly with cubs

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    At least half a mile away, the way I like my grizzly beers. Especially mother's with cubs. I mean, the scientific name is Ursus arctos horribilis. Horribilis.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 45-200mm lens

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    0.001 sec (1/800) sec at f/5.6, ISO 100

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    Tetons from Yellowstone +
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    Tetons from Yellowstone

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    They say you can see the Tetons from up to 150 miles in every direction.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 45-200mm lens

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    0.002 sec (1/500) sec at f/5.6, ISO 100

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    Mule Deer +
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    Mule Deer

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    Taken in very low light, mainly so I could play with the new color noise tools in Lightroom 3. They actually work quite well.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 45-200mm lens

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    0.05 sec (1/20) sec at f/5.1, ISO 800

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    Yellowstone River and Falls +
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    Yellowstone River and Falls

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    sec at f/2.8, ISO

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    Rangers +
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    Rangers

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    Chicks dig the uniform (taken at the Museum of the Ranger)

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 20mm prime lens

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    0.1 sec (1/10) sec at f/1.7, ISO 400

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    Mammoth Springs +
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    Mammoth Springs

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    Not so springy right now...

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

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    0.003 sec (1/400) sec at f/11.0, ISO 100

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    Big Sky Country +
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    Big Sky Country

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    Somewhere out there is Montana.

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 14-45mm lens

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    0.002 sec (1/500) sec at f/11.0, ISO 100

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    Rough Break +
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    Rough Break

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    Man, and just when things were going so well...

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    Panasonic GF1 with Lumix 45-200mm lens

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    0.004 sec (1/250) sec at f/10.0, ISO 100

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    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/photos/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cfb66ed --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/photos/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,326 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Photo Galleries: Images from Around the World Page 1 + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    Walk Slowly

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    Photographs from Around the World

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    • +
      + Florida, Apalachicola Area +
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      Florida, Apalachicola Area

      +

      Photos from three trips, spanning three years.

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      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Nusa Lembongan +
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      Nusa Lembongan

      +

      Just of the coast of Bali, Nusa Lembongan is a much more laid back island with some of the best snorkeling in the world.

      +
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      +
      • +
    • +
      + Ubud, Bali +
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      Ubud, Bali

      +

      We spent a week in Ubud, relaxing, watching the monkeys, riding motorbikes and, thanks to some nice locals, visiting a temple ceremony in Tegallantang.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Rome +
      +

      Rome

      +

      Rome is big, ancient and crowded, but it’s also home to some of the best food you’ll ever have (or cook for yourself).

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Florence & the Museum of Zoology +
      +

      Florence & the Museum of Zoology

      +

      Florence is gorgeous, if crowded. And “La Specola”, the Museum of Zoology, is, perhaps not for everyone, but remarkable nonetheless.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Naples & Pompeii +
      +

      Naples & Pompeii

      +

      Pompeii is the main reason we came to Italy. And while Naples is a bit dirty and covered in graffiti, it ended up being my favorite spot in Italy.

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      +
      • +
    • +
      + Paris 2011 +
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      Paris 2011

      +

      One week in Paris. Never enough.

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      +
      • +
    • +
      + Rocky Mountain National Park +
      +

      Rocky Mountain National Park

      +

      Four days in the Rockies…

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Lodore Canyon River Trip +
      +

      Lodore Canyon River Trip

      +

      My friend Mike is guide for the Adventure Bound rafting company in Colorado and brought me along on a trip down the Green River through Lodore Canyon in Dinosaur National …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Dinosaur National Monument +
      +

      Dinosaur National Monument

      +

      I made a quick trip down to take a look at Echo Park in Dinosaur National Monument. Brutal road, but a great, isolated campground at the end of it.

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      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Yellowstone National Park +
      +

      Yellowstone National Park

      +

      From Grand Teton I headed north to the very crowded, but beautiful, Yellowstone National Park.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Grand Teton National Park +
      +

      Grand Teton National Park

      +

      Some images of the Tetons and my overnight backpacking trip up to Holly Lake.

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      +
      • +
    • +
      + Great Sand Dunes National Park +
      +

      Great Sand Dunes National Park

      +

      The tallest sand dunes in North America.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Comanche National Grasslands +
      +

      Comanche National Grasslands

      +

      The little known, little visited chunk of land in south eastern Colorado. Highly recommended if you’re in the area. Dirt roads, few signs, bring a map.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + New Orleans/Gulf Port +
      +

      New Orleans/Gulf Port

      +

      The beginning of a six week road trip around the United States.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Los Angeles '10 +
      +

      Los Angeles '10

      +

      I’d never been on the subway system in Los Angeles so we went down to Union Station and then walked around downtown LA.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Death Valley +
      +

      Death Valley

      +

      Neither a valley (it’s technically a basin), nor particularly deadly (only one person died to give it its name), but very beautiful and well worth a trip.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Okefenokee Swamp +
      +

      Okefenokee Swamp

      +

      A three-day canoe trip through the Okefenokee Swamp in southern Georgia.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + California '09 +
      +

      California '09

      +

      Started in Northern California and then flew down to the LA area for a sailing trip over to Catalina Island.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Las Penitas Beach, Nicaragua +
      +

      Las Penitas Beach, Nicaragua

      +

      Just south of Leon. Lovely Beaches, but nowhere decent to stay. Do it as a day trip; just grab the bus from the small market on the edge of Leon …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Leon, Nicaragua +
      +

      Leon, Nicaragua

      +

      Leon is beautiful, a city of poets and painters, philosophers and political revolutionaries. By far my favorite city in Nicaragua.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Corn Islands, Nicaragua (Again) +
      +

      Corn Islands, Nicaragua (Again)

      +

      For our honeymoon we went back to Little Corn Island. Unfortunately it rained most of the time we were there, but we enjoyed ourselves anyway.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Nicaragua - The Corn Islands +
      +

      Nicaragua - The Corn Islands

      +

      The Corn Islands are off the Eastern shore of Nicaragua and while they have very little in common with the mainland, they were definitely my favorite spot on this trip. …

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    • +
      + Nicaragua - San Juan Del Sur +
      +

      Nicaragua - San Juan Del Sur

      +

      From Granada we decided to check out the Pacific side for a few days down in San Juan Del Sur.

      +
      +
      +
      • +
    +
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    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/projects/data/natparks/118.json b/bak/oldluxpages/projects/data/natparks/118.json new file mode 100644 index 0000000..859ed86 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/projects/data/natparks/118.json @@ -0,0 +1 @@ +{ "type": "MultiPolygon", "coordinates": [ [ [ [ -83.286099698305449, 35.517892147319181 ], [ -83.286783737023299, 35.517895132725506 ], [ -83.291579008438376, 35.517916030422626 ], [ -83.291705015562783, 35.517916027742658 ], [ -83.291715991757911, 35.516145053934366 ], [ -83.291715990337224, 35.516042055471317 ], [ -83.293817110222875, 35.516107009749291 ], [ -83.293927116493819, 35.516110007361462 ], [ -83.294083087840121, 35.513368044842601 ], [ -83.288638776975773, 35.513240162973084 ], [ -83.28887170361061, 35.507027251006662 ], [ -83.28962375119049, 35.5073612298767 ], [ -83.290620811963393, 35.507640204323238 ], [ -83.291024835004549, 35.507639195674386 ], [ -83.29135685244519, 35.507530190181903 ], [ -83.291962887940215, 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Til You're Dead + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/projects/gifs/hey-ladies/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/projects/gifs/hey-ladies/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..753f636 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/projects/gifs/hey-ladies/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,80 @@ + + + + + Hey Ladies + + + + + + +Hey Ladies + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/projects/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/projects/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2e6e3fc --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/projects/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,168 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Projects + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +
    +

    Luxagraf has become a bit like an iceberg over the years. I keep adding things to it, but never actually make them public. So I decided to try making some of it more public.

    +

    This will lead you to some of the previously submerged stuff that doesn't always neatly fit in with the travel narrative portion of luxagraf.

    +
    +
      +
    • + + Photo Galleries + +
      +

      Photo Galleries

      +

      Once upon a time I posted photographs in galleries mostly separate from the writing posts. This was back when Flickr was a heavily used service with a wonderful API that made it easy for me to upload things via Flickr and pull them in here. I don’t do that anymore, but I’ve preserved all the old galleries if you’d like to see some photos from around the world in 2005-2010.

      + +
      +
      • +
    • + + Figments of Imagination + +
      +

      Figments of Imagination

      +

      I dislike the term “fiction” because it implies that there is a non-fiction and I categorically deny that such a thing can exist. So I call these stories “less true stories mostly made up” and hope for the best, where “the best” is that you enjoy them.

      + +
      +
      • +
    • + + luxagraf:src + +
      +

      luxagraf:src

      +

      For a while I had another blog at the URL longhandpixels.net. I made a few half-hearted attempts to make money with it, which I refuse to do here. I felt uncomfortable with the marketing that required and a little bit dirty about the whole thing. I don’t want to spend my life writing things that will draw in people to buy my book. Honestly, I don’t care about selling the book. Long story short; I shut down longhandpixels and created luxagraf:src.

      + +
      +
      • +
    • + + Books + +
      +

      Books

      +

      I wear glasses because as a child I would stay up late, covers pulled over my head, reading by the dim light of a dying flashlight. At least that’s what an eye doctor told me when I was younger. Probably a load of crap, but I still love reading and I still often do it by poor light far later in the night than is reasonable.

      + +

      I’ve always taken notes while reading so I thought might as well put them online. So here you have it, books I’ve read and things I’ve thought about them.

      + +
      +
      • +
    • + + The National Parks Project + +
      +

      The National Parks Project

      +

      “If you go off into a far, far forest and get very quiet, you’ll come to understand that you’re connected with everything.” – Alan Watts

      + +

      Being connected is part of travel. If you aren’t connected to everything, then why would you go? Some of my first travels were trips to America’s National Parks — Sequoia, Zion, Yosemite, Canyonlands — I am connected to these places. This a partial retracing those connections as well as an attempt to find more.

      + +
      +
      • +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/projects/national-parks/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/projects/national-parks/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2515852 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/projects/national-parks/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,280 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Projects | National Parks + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    The National Parks Project

    + +
    +

    Yellowstone National Park

    +
    + Yellowstone National Park +
    +

    Geothermal Kaleidoscopes

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    +

    Grand Teton National Park

    +
    + Grand Teton National Park +
    +

    High Mountain Wilderness

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    +

    Great Sand Dunes National Park

    +
    + Great Sand Dunes National Park +
    +

    Sand, Lots and Lots of Sand

    + + +
    +
    +
    + +
    +

    Great Smoky Mountains National Park

    +
    + Great Smoky Mountains National Park +
    +

    History Amidst the Swirling Fog

    + + +
    +
    +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/recommendations.html b/bak/oldluxpages/recommendations.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..73f88a7 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/recommendations.html @@ -0,0 +1,85 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Product recommendations + + + + + + + + + + +
    + + +
    +
    +
    +

    Stuff I recommend

    + +

    Generally speaking you should, whenever you're faced with the choice to buy something or not, opt for not.

    +

    That said, it is necessary to buy some stuff from time to time, which is why I put together this page to recommend a few products I use myself.

    +

    Well, I also put together this page to help generate a little money too, as these are all affliate links which earn a few dollars toward my hosting costs and other bills.

    + + +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/services/content-marketing.html b/bak/oldluxpages/services/content-marketing.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..aac7f28 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/services/content-marketing.html @@ -0,0 +1,106 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Content Marketing Services + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Content Marketing Services

    +
    +

    Welcome to the Future

    +

    In the future there is no bullshit. Just content.

    +

    It’s what your customers want, it’s how they find you and how they become your customers.

    +

    Advertising is dead. built in ad-blockers mean your customers will never see that campaign you just spent a fortune on.

    +

    SEO is a waste of time. Google is much smarter and five steps ahead of that SEO expert you just hired.

    +

    You need real content, written by real experts.

    +

    Blah blah blah

    +

    Customer testimonials

    +

    Hit up some customers for quotes.

    +

    Case Study

    +

    Sifter portfolio stuff goes here.

    +

    http://sifterapp.com/

    +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/services/content-marketing.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/services/content-marketing.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..aac7f28 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/services/content-marketing.txt @@ -0,0 +1,106 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Content Marketing Services + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Content Marketing Services

    +
    +

    Welcome to the Future

    +

    In the future there is no bullshit. Just content.

    +

    It’s what your customers want, it’s how they find you and how they become your customers.

    +

    Advertising is dead. built in ad-blockers mean your customers will never see that campaign you just spent a fortune on.

    +

    SEO is a waste of time. Google is much smarter and five steps ahead of that SEO expert you just hired.

    +

    You need real content, written by real experts.

    +

    Blah blah blah

    +

    Customer testimonials

    +

    Hit up some customers for quotes.

    +

    Case Study

    +

    Sifter portfolio stuff goes here.

    +

    http://sifterapp.com/

    +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..18af9a9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,710 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Plants and Animals seen by AnonymousUser -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Plants and Animals seen by AnonymousUser

    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Red-winged Blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Escambia Bay, Florida, U.S. + + 30.516491690182512 + -87.00555080670235 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Yellow-bellied Sapsucker (Sphyrapicus varius)

    + +

    + Loc: + Escambia Bay, Florida, U.S. + + 30.516491690182512 + -87.00555080670235 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Osprey (Pandion haliaetus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.322127143910663 + -87.27126116052375 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Great Blue Heron (Ardea herodias)

    + +

    + Loc: + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.322127143910663 + -87.27126116052375 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Laughing Gull (Leucophaeus atricilla)

    + +

    + Loc: + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.322127143910663 + -87.27126116052375 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    American Crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos)

    + +

    + Loc: + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.322127143910663 + -87.27126116052375 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Northern Mockingbird (Mimus polyglottos)

    + +

    + Loc: + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.322127143910663 + -87.27126116052375 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Northern Cardinal (Cardinalis cardinalis)

    + +

    + Loc: + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.322127143910663 + -87.27126116052375 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Red-winged Blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.322127143910663 + -87.27126116052375 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Willet (Tringa semipalmata)

    + +

    + Loc: + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.322127143910663 + -87.27126116052375 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Osprey (Pandion haliaetus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.322127143910663 + -87.27126116052375 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Bald Eagle (Haliaeetus leucocephalus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.322127143910663 + -87.27126116052375 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Vesper Sparrow (Pooecetes gramineus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.322127143910663 + -87.27126116052375 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Inca Dove (Columbina inca)

    + +

    + Loc: + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.887600987579358 + -90.16324037765428 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Red-winged Blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus)

    + +

    + Loc: + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.887600987579358 + -90.16324037765428 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Fish Crow (Corvus ossifragus)

    + +

    + Loc: + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.887600987579358 + -90.16324037765428 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Great Blue Heron (Ardea herodias)

    + +

    + Loc: + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.887600987579358 + -90.16324037765428 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    White Ibis (Eudocimus albus)

    + +

    + Loc: + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.887600987579358 + -90.16324037765428 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Downy Woodpecker (Picoides pubescens)

    + +

    + Loc: + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.887600987579358 + -90.16324037765428 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Yellow-rumped Warbler (Setophaga coronata)

    + +

    + Loc: + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.887600987579358 + -90.16324037765428 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Northern Mockingbird (Mimus polyglottos)

    + +

    + Loc: + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.887600987579358 + -90.16324037765428 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Northern Cardinal (Cardinalis cardinalis)

    + +

    + Loc: + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.887600987579358 + -90.16324037765428 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    White Ibis (Eudocimus albus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Near Abbeville, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.863040814791688 + -92.14955562777182 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Blue Jay (Cyanocitta cristata)

    + +

    + Loc: + Near Abbeville, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.863040814791688 + -92.14955562777182 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/2/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/2/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b2653cd --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/2/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,711 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Plants and Animals seen by AnonymousUser -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Plants and Animals seen by AnonymousUser

    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Carolina Wren (Thryothorus ludovicianus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Near Abbeville, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.863040814791688 + -92.14955562777182 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Cedar Waxwing (Bombycilla cedrorum)

    + +

    + Loc: + Near Abbeville, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.863040814791688 + -92.14955562777182 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Wilson’s Warbler (Cardellina pusilla)

    + +

    + Loc: + Near Abbeville, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.863040814791688 + -92.14955562777182 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Northern Cardinal (Cardinalis cardinalis)

    + +

    + Loc: + Near Abbeville, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.863040814791688 + -92.14955562777182 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    American Robin (Turdus migratorius)

    + +

    + Loc: + Near Abbeville, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.863040814791688 + -92.14955562777182 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Boat-tailed Grackle (Quiscalus major)

    + +

    + Loc: + Rutherford Beach, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.75885345432957 + -93.12424892596967 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Brown Pelican (Pelecanus occidentalis)

    + +

    + Loc: + Rutherford Beach, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.75885345432957 + -93.12424892596967 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    American White Pelican (Pelecanus erythrorhynchos)

    + +

    + Loc: + Rutherford Beach, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.75885345432957 + -93.12424892596967 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Crested Caracara (Caracara cheriway)

    + +

    + Loc: + Rutherford Beach, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.75885345432957 + -93.12424892596967 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Cattle Egret (Bubulcus ibis)

    + +

    + Loc: + Rutherford Beach, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.75885345432957 + -93.12424892596967 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Canada Goose (Branta canadensis)

    + +

    + Loc: + Rutherford Beach, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.75885345432957 + -93.12424892596967 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Northern Shoveler (Anas clypeata)

    + +

    + Loc: + Rutherford Beach, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.75885345432957 + -93.12424892596967 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    White Ibis (Eudocimus albus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Rutherford Beach, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.75885345432957 + -93.12424892596967 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Roseate Spoonbill (Platalea ajaja)

    + +

    + Loc: + Rutherford Beach, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.75885345432957 + -93.12424892596967 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    American Coot (Fulica americana)

    + +

    + Loc: + Rutherford Beach, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.75885345432957 + -93.12424892596967 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Belted Kingfisher (Megaceryle alcyon)

    + +

    + Loc: + Rutherford Beach, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.75885345432957 + -93.12424892596967 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Snowy Egret (Egretta thula)

    + +

    + Loc: + Rutherford Beach, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.75885345432957 + -93.12424892596967 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Great Egret (Ardea alba)

    + +

    + Loc: + Rutherford Beach, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.75885345432957 + -93.12424892596967 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Green Heron (Butorides virescens)

    + +

    + Loc: + Rutherford Beach, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.75885345432957 + -93.12424892596967 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Great Blue Heron (Ardea herodias)

    + +

    + Loc: + Rutherford Beach, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.75885345432957 + -93.12424892596967 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Wilson’s Snipe (Gallinago delicata)

    + +

    + Loc: + Rutherford Beach, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.75885345432957 + -93.12424892596967 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Red-winged Blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Rutherford Beach, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.75885345432957 + -93.12424892596967 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Eastern Meadowlark (Sturnella magna)

    + +

    + Loc: + Rutherford Beach, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.75885345432957 + -93.12424892596967 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Double-crested Cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Rutherford Beach, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.75885345432957 + -93.12424892596967 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/3/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/3/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..efb40bf --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/3/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,711 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Plants and Animals seen by AnonymousUser -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Plants and Animals seen by AnonymousUser

    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Neotropic Cormorant (Phalacrocorax brasilianus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Rutherford Beach, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.75885345432957 + -93.12424892596967 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Laughing Gull (Leucophaeus atricilla)

    + +

    + Loc: + Padre Island National Seashore, Texas, U.S. + + 27.43100300595592 + -97.29617828481346 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    House Wren (Troglodytes aedon)

    + +

    + Loc: + Padre Island National Seashore, Texas, U.S. + + 27.43100300595592 + -97.29617828481346 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Ring-billed Gull (Larus delawarensis)

    + +

    + Loc: + Padre Island National Seashore, Texas, U.S. + + 27.43100300595592 + -97.29617828481346 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Great Blue Heron (Ardea herodias)

    + +

    + Loc: + Padre Island National Seashore, Texas, U.S. + + 27.43100300595592 + -97.29617828481346 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Brown Pelican (Pelecanus occidentalis)

    + +

    + Loc: + Padre Island National Seashore, Texas, U.S. + + 27.43100300595592 + -97.29617828481346 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    American White Pelican (Pelecanus erythrorhynchos)

    + +

    + Loc: + Padre Island National Seashore, Texas, U.S. + + 27.43100300595592 + -97.29617828481346 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Blue-winged Teal (Anas discors)

    + +

    + Loc: + Padre Island National Seashore, Texas, U.S. + + 27.43100300595592 + -97.29617828481346 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    American Kestrel (Falco sparverius)

    + +

    + Loc: + Padre Island National Seashore, Texas, U.S. + + 27.43100300595592 + -97.29617828481346 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Snowy Egret (Egretta thula)

    + +

    + Loc: + Padre Island National Seashore, Texas, U.S. + + 27.43100300595592 + -97.29617828481346 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Long-billed Curlew (Numenius americanus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Padre Island National Seashore, Texas, U.S. + + 27.43100300595592 + -97.29617828481346 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Great-tailed Grackle (Quiscalus mexicanus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Padre Island National Seashore, Texas, U.S. + + 27.43100300595592 + -97.29617828481346 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Ruddy Turnstone (Arenaria interpres)

    + +

    + Loc: + Padre Island National Seashore, Texas, U.S. + + 27.43100300595592 + -97.29617828481346 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Sanderling (Calidris alba)

    + +

    + Loc: + Padre Island National Seashore, Texas, U.S. + + 27.43100300595592 + -97.29617828481346 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Pyrrhuloxia (Cardinalis sinuatus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Leasburg Dam State Park, New Mexico, U.S. + + 32.49107556515931 + -106.9210063836655 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Song Sparrow (Melospiza melodia)

    + +

    + Loc: + Leasburg Dam State Park, New Mexico, U.S. + + 32.49107556515931 + -106.9210063836655 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Killdeer (Charadrius vociferus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Leasburg Dam State Park, New Mexico, U.S. + + 32.49107556515931 + -106.9210063836655 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Crissal Thrasher (Toxostoma crissale)

    + +

    + Loc: + Leasburg Dam State Park, New Mexico, U.S. + + 32.49107556515931 + -106.9210063836655 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Black Phoebe (Sayornis nigricans)

    + +

    + Loc: + Leasburg Dam State Park, New Mexico, U.S. + + 32.49107556515931 + -106.9210063836655 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Yellow-rumped Warbler (Setophaga coronata)

    + +

    + Loc: + Leasburg Dam State Park, New Mexico, U.S. + + 32.49107556515931 + -106.9210063836655 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Mourning Dove (Zenaida macroura)

    + +

    + Loc: + Leasburg Dam State Park, New Mexico, U.S. + + 32.49107556515931 + -106.9210063836655 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Phainopepla (Phainopepla nitens)

    + +

    + Loc: + Leasburg Dam State Park, New Mexico, U.S. + + 32.49107556515931 + -106.9210063836655 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    White-crowned Sparrow (Zonotrichia leucophrys)

    + +

    + Loc: + Leasburg Dam State Park, New Mexico, U.S. + + 32.49107556515931 + -106.9210063836655 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Rock Wren (Salpinctes obsoletus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Dragoon Mountains, Arizona, U.S. + + 31.84290225718966 + -109.9159931557856 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/4/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/4/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..eaa2bc1 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/4/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,711 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Plants and Animals seen by AnonymousUser -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Plants and Animals seen by AnonymousUser

    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Spotted Towhee (Pipilo maculatus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Dragoon Mountains, Arizona, U.S. + + 31.84290225718966 + -109.9159931557856 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Dark-eyed Junco (Junco hyemalis)

    + +

    + Loc: + Dragoon Mountains, Arizona, U.S. + + 31.84290225718966 + -109.9159931557856 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Townsend’s Warbler (Setophaga townsendi)

    + +

    + Loc: + Dragoon Mountains, Arizona, U.S. + + 31.84290225718966 + -109.9159931557856 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Ruby-crowned Kinglet (Regulus calendula)

    + +

    + Loc: + Dragoon Mountains, Arizona, U.S. + + 31.84290225718966 + -109.9159931557856 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Bridled Titmouse (Baeolophus wollweberi)

    + +

    + Loc: + Dragoon Mountains, Arizona, U.S. + + 31.84290225718966 + -109.9159931557856 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Mexican Jay (Aphelocoma wollweberi)

    + +

    + Loc: + Dragoon Mountains, Arizona, U.S. + + 31.84290225718966 + -109.9159931557856 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Greater Roadrunner (Geococcyx californianus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Catalina State Park, Arizona, U.S. + + 32.42877531398127 + -110.9224867240599 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Phainopepla (Phainopepla nitens)

    + +

    + Loc: + Catalina State Park, Arizona, U.S. + + 32.42877531398127 + -110.9224867240599 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Double-crested Cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Mendocino Coast, California, U.S. + + 39.48904654739868 + -123.800351559933 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Chestnut-backed Chickadee (Poecile rufescens)

    + +

    + Loc: + Mendocino Coast, California, U.S. + + 39.48904654739868 + -123.800351559933 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Rufous Hummingbird (Selasphorus rufus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Abajo (Blue) Mountains, Utah, U.S. + + 37.88517536744108 + -109.4620346444963 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Townsend’s Warbler (Setophaga townsendi)

    + +

    + Loc: + Abajo (Blue) Mountains, Utah, U.S. + + 37.88517536744108 + -109.4620346444963 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    American Coot (Fulica americana)

    + +

    + Loc: + Abajo (Blue) Mountains, Utah, U.S. + + 37.88517536744108 + -109.4620346444963 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Northern Flicker (Colaptes auratus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Abajo (Blue) Mountains, Utah, U.S. + + 37.88517536744108 + -109.4620346444963 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Steller’s Jay (Cyanocitta stelleri)

    + +

    + Loc: + Abajo (Blue) Mountains, Utah, U.S. + + 37.88517536744108 + -109.4620346444963 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Black-capped Chickadee (Poecile atricapillus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Abajo (Blue) Mountains, Utah, U.S. + + 37.88517536744108 + -109.4620346444963 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    American Robin (Turdus migratorius)

    + +

    + Loc: + Abajo (Blue) Mountains, Utah, U.S. + + 37.88517536744108 + -109.4620346444963 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Wilson’s Warbler (Cardellina pusilla)

    + +

    + Loc: + Abajo (Blue) Mountains, Utah, U.S. + + 37.88517536744108 + -109.4620346444963 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Wild Turkey (Meleagris gallopavo)

    + +

    + Loc: + Abajo (Blue) Mountains, Utah, U.S. + + 37.88517536744108 + -109.4620346444963 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Mountain Chickadee (Poecile gambeli)

    + +

    + Loc: + Ridgway State Park, Colorado, U.S. + + 38.21782547062139 + -107.7372669597828 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    White-breasted Nuthatch (Sitta carolinensis)

    + +

    + Loc: + Ridgway State Park, Colorado, U.S. + + 38.21782547062139 + -107.7372669597828 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Clark’s Nutcracker (Nucifraga columbiana)

    + +

    + Loc: + Ridgway State Park, Colorado, U.S. + + 38.21782547062139 + -107.7372669597828 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Juniper Titmouse (Baeolophus ridgwayi)

    + +

    + Loc: + Ridgway State Park, Colorado, U.S. + + 38.21782547062139 + -107.7372669597828 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Black-billed Magpie (Pica hudsonia)

    + +

    + Loc: + Ridgway State Park, Colorado, U.S. + + 38.21681395176804 + -107.7386402508023 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/5/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/5/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2d689c0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/5/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,584 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Plants and Animals seen by AnonymousUser -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Plants and Animals seen by AnonymousUser

    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Chipping Sparrow (Spizella passerina)

    + +

    + Loc: + Ridgway State Park, Colorado, U.S. + + 38.21681395176804 + -107.7386402508023 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Mountain Bluebird (Sialia currucoides)

    + +

    + Loc: + Ridgway State Park, Colorado, U.S. + + 38.21681395176803 + -107.7386402508022 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    American Robin (Turdus migratorius)

    + +

    + Loc: + Durango, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.33790717796913 + -107.9163097759596 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    House Wren (Troglodytes aedon)

    + +

    + Loc: + Durango, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.33790717796913 + -107.9163097759596 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Northern Flicker (Colaptes auratus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Durango, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.33790717796913 + -107.9163097759596 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Western Tanager (Piranga ludoviciana)

    + +

    + Loc: + Mancos Camp, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.34176614103468 + -108.189744891734 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Black-chinned Hummingbird (Archilochus alexandri)

    + +

    + Loc: + Durango, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.33790717796913 + -107.9163097759596 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Common Nighthawk (Chordeiles minor)

    + +

    + Loc: + Mancos Camp, Colorado, U.S. + + 37.34176614103468 + -108.189744891734 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Brown-headed Cowbird (Molothrus ater)

    + +

    + Loc: + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95785236636359 + -83.40819353408268 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Chipping Sparrow (Spizella passerina)

    + +

    + Loc: + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95792800799224 + -83.40860122985255 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Hooded Warbler (Setophaga citrina)

    + +

    + Loc: + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.98372677778418 + -83.3858990127521 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Eastern Bluebird (Sialia sialis)

    + +

    + Loc: + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95819343426575 + -83.40811739662607 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Red-headed Woodpecker (Melanerpes erythrocephalus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Lake Oconee, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.41774313998028 + -83.24366579752923 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Brown Pelican (Pelecanus occidentalis)

    + +

    + Loc: + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.6600847959972 + -84.86711035449284 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Ruddy Turnstone (Arenaria interpres)

    + +

    + Loc: + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.65989833370391 + -84.86702452380466 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Willet (Tringa semipalmata)

    + +

    + Loc: + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.65973692700207 + -84.86674557406661 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Sanderling (Calidris alba)

    + +

    + Loc: + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.65989833370469 + -84.86732493121369 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Laughing Gull (Leucophaeus atricilla)

    + +

    + Loc: + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + 29.6589769574921 + -84.86935371683055 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Blue Jay (Cyanocitta cristata)

    + +

    + Loc: + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + 33.95768773434918 + -83.40819353408268 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-coot.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-coot.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9120179 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-coot.html @@ -0,0 +1,125 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    American Coot

    +

    Fulica americana

    +

    Family Rallidae (Rails, Gallinules, and Coots )

    + None + +

    Seen at Rutherford Beach, Louisiana in Feb 2018 Abajo (Blue) Mountains, Utah in Sep 2017

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-coot.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-coot.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1154b04 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-coot.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/american-coot.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/american-coot.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-crow.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-crow.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..efa5cbe --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-crow.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    American Crow

    +

    Corvus brachyrhynchos

    +

    Family Corvidae (Jays and Crows )

    + None + +

    Seen at Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida in Mar 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-crow.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-crow.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..42ceefb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-crow.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/american-crow.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/american-crow.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-kestrel.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-kestrel.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..57327c5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-kestrel.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    American Kestrel

    +

    Falco sparverius

    +

    Family Falconidae (Caracaras and Falcons )

    + None + +

    Seen at Padre Island National Seashore, Texas in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-kestrel.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-kestrel.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fdfffcb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-kestrel.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/american-kestrel.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/american-kestrel.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-robin.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-robin.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0a2f18a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-robin.html @@ -0,0 +1,127 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    American Robin

    +

    Turdus migratorius

    +

    Family Turdidae (Thrushes )

    + None + +

    Seen at Near Abbeville, Louisiana in Feb 2018 Abajo (Blue) Mountains, Utah in Sep 2017 Durango, Colorado in Jul 2017

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-robin.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-robin.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3c0b595 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-robin.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/american-robin.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/american-robin.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-white-pelican.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-white-pelican.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0d397d2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-white-pelican.html @@ -0,0 +1,125 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    American White Pelican

    +

    Pelecanus erythrorhynchos

    +

    Family Pelecanidae (Pelicans )

    + None + +

    Seen at Rutherford Beach, Louisiana in Feb 2018 Padre Island National Seashore, Texas in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-white-pelican.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-white-pelican.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1274ca3 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/american-white-pelican.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/american-white-pelican.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/american-white-pelican.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/bald-eagle.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/bald-eagle.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6b47825 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/bald-eagle.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Bald Eagle

    +

    Haliaeetus leucocephalus

    +

    Family Accipitridae (Hawks, Kites, Eagles, and Allies )

    + None + +

    Seen at Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida in Mar 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/bald-eagle.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/bald-eagle.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..16b6f79 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/bald-eagle.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/bald-eagle.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/bald-eagle.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/belted-kingfisher.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/belted-kingfisher.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c781db6 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/belted-kingfisher.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Belted Kingfisher

    +

    Megaceryle alcyon

    +

    Family Alcedinidae (Kingfishers )

    + None + +

    Seen at Rutherford Beach, Louisiana in Feb 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/belted-kingfisher.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/belted-kingfisher.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..523fe3b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/belted-kingfisher.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/belted-kingfisher.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/belted-kingfisher.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-billed-magpie.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-billed-magpie.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5f9e11d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-billed-magpie.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Black-billed Magpie

    +

    Pica hudsonia

    +

    Family Corvidae (Jays and Crows )

    + None + +

    Seen at Ridgway State Park, Colorado in Aug 2017

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-billed-magpie.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-billed-magpie.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a4a6bda --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-billed-magpie.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/black-billed-magpie.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/black-billed-magpie.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-capped-chickadee.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-capped-chickadee.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f6f13cb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-capped-chickadee.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Black-capped Chickadee

    +

    Poecile atricapillus

    +

    Family Paridae (Chickadees and Titmice )

    + None + +

    Seen at Abajo (Blue) Mountains, Utah in Sep 2017

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-capped-chickadee.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-capped-chickadee.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..79a4adf --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-capped-chickadee.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/black-capped-chickadee.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/black-capped-chickadee.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-chinned-hummingbird.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-chinned-hummingbird.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9394f34 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-chinned-hummingbird.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Black-chinned Hummingbird

    +

    Archilochus alexandri

    +

    Family Trochilidae (Hummingbirds )

    + None + +

    Seen at Durango, Colorado in Jul 2017

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-chinned-hummingbird.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-chinned-hummingbird.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d063c0a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-chinned-hummingbird.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/black-chinned-hummingbird.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/black-chinned-hummingbird.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-phoebe.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-phoebe.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..adcf9ec --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-phoebe.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Black Phoebe

    +

    Sayornis nigricans

    +

    Family Tyrannidae (Tyrant Flycatchers )

    + None + +

    Seen at Leasburg Dam State Park, New Mexico in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-phoebe.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-phoebe.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9980c14 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/black-phoebe.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/black-phoebe.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/black-phoebe.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/blue-jay.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/blue-jay.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0aefb0e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/blue-jay.html @@ -0,0 +1,125 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Blue Jay

    +

    Cyanocitta cristata

    +

    Family Corvidae (Jays and Crows )

    + None + +

    Seen at Near Abbeville, Louisiana in Feb 2018 Athens, Georgia in May 2014

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/blue-jay.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/blue-jay.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..36ef612 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/blue-jay.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/blue-jay.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/blue-jay.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/blue-winged-teal.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/blue-winged-teal.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..770a275 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/blue-winged-teal.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Blue-winged Teal

    +

    Anas discors

    +

    Family Anatidae (Ducks, Geese, and Swans )

    + None + +

    Seen at Padre Island National Seashore, Texas in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/blue-winged-teal.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/blue-winged-teal.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ca2091b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/blue-winged-teal.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/blue-winged-teal.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/blue-winged-teal.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/boat-tailed-grackle.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/boat-tailed-grackle.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4cbeb4a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/boat-tailed-grackle.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Boat-tailed Grackle

    +

    Quiscalus major

    +

    Family Icteridae (Blackbirds )

    + None + +

    Seen at Rutherford Beach, Louisiana in Feb 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/boat-tailed-grackle.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/boat-tailed-grackle.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2e9cbc2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/boat-tailed-grackle.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/boat-tailed-grackle.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/boat-tailed-grackle.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/bridled-titmouse.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/bridled-titmouse.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4e09d7e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/bridled-titmouse.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Bridled Titmouse

    +

    Baeolophus wollweberi

    +

    Family Paridae (Chickadees and Titmice )

    + None + +

    Seen at Dragoon Mountains, Arizona in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/bridled-titmouse.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/bridled-titmouse.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d70881a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/bridled-titmouse.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/bridled-titmouse.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/bridled-titmouse.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/brown-headed-cowbird.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/brown-headed-cowbird.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..53cf1d7 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/brown-headed-cowbird.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Brown-headed Cowbird

    +

    Molothrus ater

    +

    Family Icteridae (Blackbirds )

    + None + +

    Seen at Athens, Georgia in Mar 2016

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/brown-headed-cowbird.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/brown-headed-cowbird.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1179d72 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/brown-headed-cowbird.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/brown-headed-cowbird.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/brown-headed-cowbird.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/brown-pelican.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/brown-pelican.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..755bcac --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/brown-pelican.html @@ -0,0 +1,127 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Brown Pelican

    +

    Pelecanus occidentalis

    +

    Family Pelecanidae (Pelicans )

    + None + +

    Seen at Rutherford Beach, Louisiana in Feb 2018 Padre Island National Seashore, Texas in Jan 2018 St. George Island, Florida in May 2015

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/brown-pelican.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/brown-pelican.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ce072c2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/brown-pelican.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/brown-pelican.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/brown-pelican.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/canada-goose.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/canada-goose.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..af4b479 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/canada-goose.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Canada Goose

    +

    Branta canadensis

    +

    Family Anatidae (Ducks, Geese, and Swans )

    + None + +

    Seen at Rutherford Beach, Louisiana in Feb 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/canada-goose.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/canada-goose.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..566eca9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/canada-goose.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/canada-goose.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/canada-goose.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/carolina-wren.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/carolina-wren.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..12a8e6d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/carolina-wren.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Carolina Wren

    +

    Thryothorus ludovicianus

    +

    Family Troglodytidae (Wrens )

    + None + +

    Seen at Near Abbeville, Louisiana in Feb 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/carolina-wren.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/carolina-wren.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..63c996e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/carolina-wren.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/carolina-wren.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/carolina-wren.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/cattle-egret.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/cattle-egret.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e99f51d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/cattle-egret.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Cattle Egret

    +

    Bubulcus ibis

    +

    Family Ardeidae (Bitterns, Herons, and Allies )

    + None + +

    Seen at Rutherford Beach, Louisiana in Feb 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/cattle-egret.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/cattle-egret.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..81bb562 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/cattle-egret.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/cattle-egret.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/cattle-egret.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/cedar-waxwing.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/cedar-waxwing.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f406010 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/cedar-waxwing.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Cedar Waxwing

    +

    Bombycilla cedrorum

    +

    Family Bombycillidae (Waxwings )

    + None + +

    Seen at Near Abbeville, Louisiana in Feb 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/cedar-waxwing.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/cedar-waxwing.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f9232b3 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/cedar-waxwing.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/cedar-waxwing.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/cedar-waxwing.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/chestnut-backed-chickadee.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/chestnut-backed-chickadee.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c70c76e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/chestnut-backed-chickadee.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Chestnut-backed Chickadee

    +

    Poecile rufescens

    +

    Family Paridae (Chickadees and Titmice )

    + None + +

    Seen at Mendocino Coast, California in Nov 2017

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/chestnut-backed-chickadee.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/chestnut-backed-chickadee.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9db6f03 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/chestnut-backed-chickadee.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/chestnut-backed-chickadee.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/chestnut-backed-chickadee.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/chipping-sparrow.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/chipping-sparrow.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2fd9704 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/chipping-sparrow.html @@ -0,0 +1,125 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Chipping Sparrow

    +

    Spizella passerina

    +

    Family Emberizidae (Emberizids )

    + None + +

    Seen at Ridgway State Park, Colorado in Aug 2017 Athens, Georgia in Mar 2016

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/chipping-sparrow.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/chipping-sparrow.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..12781ad --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/chipping-sparrow.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/chipping-sparrow.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/chipping-sparrow.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/clarks-nutcracker.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/clarks-nutcracker.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dc6bd37 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/clarks-nutcracker.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Clark's Nutcracker

    +

    Nucifraga columbiana

    +

    Family Corvidae (Jays and Crows )

    + None + +

    Seen at Ridgway State Park, Colorado in Aug 2017

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/clarks-nutcracker.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/clarks-nutcracker.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b0188ef --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/clarks-nutcracker.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/clarks-nutcracker.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/clarks-nutcracker.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/common-nighthawk.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/common-nighthawk.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cfdd881 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/common-nighthawk.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Common Nighthawk

    +

    Chordeiles minor

    +

    Family Caprimulgidae (Goatsuckers )

    + None + +

    Seen at Mancos Camp, Colorado in Jul 2017

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/common-nighthawk.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/common-nighthawk.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cbf521c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/common-nighthawk.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/common-nighthawk.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/common-nighthawk.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/crested-caracara.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/crested-caracara.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f87734c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/crested-caracara.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Crested Caracara

    +

    Caracara cheriway

    +

    Family Falconidae (Caracaras and Falcons )

    + None + +

    Seen at Rutherford Beach, Louisiana in Feb 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/crested-caracara.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/crested-caracara.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c7bd051 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/crested-caracara.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/crested-caracara.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/crested-caracara.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/crissal-thrasher.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/crissal-thrasher.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bbedb0d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/crissal-thrasher.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Crissal Thrasher

    +

    Toxostoma crissale

    +

    Family Mimidae (Mockingbirds and Thrashers )

    + None + +

    Seen at Leasburg Dam State Park, New Mexico in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/crissal-thrasher.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/crissal-thrasher.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6fb1471 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/crissal-thrasher.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/crissal-thrasher.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/crissal-thrasher.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/dark-eyed-junco.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/dark-eyed-junco.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9abc000 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/dark-eyed-junco.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Dark-eyed Junco

    +

    Junco hyemalis

    +

    Family Emberizidae (Emberizids )

    + None + +

    Seen at Dragoon Mountains, Arizona in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/dark-eyed-junco.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/dark-eyed-junco.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1669a81 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/dark-eyed-junco.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/dark-eyed-junco.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/dark-eyed-junco.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/double-crested-cormorant.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/double-crested-cormorant.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0db15c0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/double-crested-cormorant.html @@ -0,0 +1,125 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Double-crested Cormorant

    +

    Phalacrocorax auritus

    +

    Family Phalacrocoracidae (Cormorants )

    + None + +

    Seen at Rutherford Beach, Louisiana in Feb 2018 Mendocino Coast, California in Nov 2017

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/double-crested-cormorant.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/double-crested-cormorant.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7176599 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/double-crested-cormorant.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/double-crested-cormorant.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/double-crested-cormorant.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/downy-woodpecker.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/downy-woodpecker.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b2064af --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/downy-woodpecker.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Downy Woodpecker

    +

    Picoides pubescens

    +

    Family Picidae (Woodpeckers and Allies )

    + None + +

    Seen at New Orleans, Louisiana in Feb 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/downy-woodpecker.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/downy-woodpecker.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6cdbae2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/downy-woodpecker.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/downy-woodpecker.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/downy-woodpecker.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/eastern-bluebird.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/eastern-bluebird.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bf6c159 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/eastern-bluebird.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Eastern Bluebird

    +

    Sialia sialis

    +

    Family Turdidae (Thrushes )

    + None + +

    Seen at Athens, Georgia in Jun 2015

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/eastern-bluebird.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/eastern-bluebird.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b100f30 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/eastern-bluebird.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/eastern-bluebird.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/eastern-bluebird.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/eastern-meadowlark.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/eastern-meadowlark.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0d888fc --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/eastern-meadowlark.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Eastern Meadowlark

    +

    Sturnella magna

    +

    Family Icteridae (Blackbirds )

    + None + +

    Seen at Rutherford Beach, Louisiana in Feb 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/eastern-meadowlark.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/eastern-meadowlark.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4525de6 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/eastern-meadowlark.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/eastern-meadowlark.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/eastern-meadowlark.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/fish-crow.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/fish-crow.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2b9264b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/fish-crow.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Fish Crow

    +

    Corvus ossifragus

    +

    Family Corvidae (Jays and Crows )

    + None + +

    Seen at New Orleans, Louisiana in Feb 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/fish-crow.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/fish-crow.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b7f5277 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/fish-crow.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/fish-crow.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/fish-crow.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/great-blue-heron.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/great-blue-heron.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c2300f3 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/great-blue-heron.html @@ -0,0 +1,129 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Great Blue Heron

    +

    Ardea herodias

    +

    Family Ardeidae (Bitterns, Herons, and Allies )

    + None + +

    Seen at Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida in Mar 2018 New Orleans, Louisiana in Feb 2018 Rutherford Beach, Louisiana in Feb 2018 Padre Island National Seashore, Texas in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/great-blue-heron.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/great-blue-heron.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cef9f8b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/great-blue-heron.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/great-blue-heron.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/great-blue-heron.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/great-egret.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/great-egret.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..43ee2df --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/great-egret.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Great Egret

    +

    Ardea alba

    +

    Family Ardeidae (Bitterns, Herons, and Allies )

    + None + +

    Seen at Rutherford Beach, Louisiana in Feb 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/great-egret.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/great-egret.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cdb3aa8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/great-egret.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/great-egret.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/great-egret.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/great-tailed-grackle.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/great-tailed-grackle.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..246f6b6 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/great-tailed-grackle.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Great-tailed Grackle

    +

    Quiscalus mexicanus

    +

    Family Icteridae (Blackbirds )

    + None + +

    Seen at Padre Island National Seashore, Texas in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/great-tailed-grackle.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/great-tailed-grackle.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8eb0b20 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/great-tailed-grackle.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/great-tailed-grackle.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/great-tailed-grackle.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/greater-roadrunner.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/greater-roadrunner.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7661f62 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/greater-roadrunner.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Greater Roadrunner

    +

    Geococcyx californianus

    +

    Family Cuculidae (Cuckoos, Roadrunners, and Anis )

    + None + +

    Seen at Catalina State Park, Arizona in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/greater-roadrunner.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/greater-roadrunner.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..57b58a2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/greater-roadrunner.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/greater-roadrunner.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/greater-roadrunner.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/green-heron.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/green-heron.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5d34a00 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/green-heron.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Green Heron

    +

    Butorides virescens

    +

    Family Ardeidae (Bitterns, Herons, and Allies )

    + None + +

    Seen at Rutherford Beach, Louisiana in Feb 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/green-heron.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/green-heron.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..24d37d6 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/green-heron.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/green-heron.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/green-heron.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/hooded-warbler.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/hooded-warbler.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2bde2fc --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/hooded-warbler.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Hooded Warbler

    +

    Setophaga citrina

    +

    Family Parulidae (Wood-Warblers )

    + None + +

    Seen at Athens, Georgia in Jun 2015

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/hooded-warbler.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/hooded-warbler.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..79ef939 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/hooded-warbler.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/hooded-warbler.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/hooded-warbler.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/house-wren.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/house-wren.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d79838b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/house-wren.html @@ -0,0 +1,125 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    House Wren

    +

    Troglodytes aedon

    +

    Family Troglodytidae (Wrens )

    + None + +

    Seen at Padre Island National Seashore, Texas in Jan 2018 Durango, Colorado in Jul 2017

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/house-wren.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/house-wren.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f0e93c1 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/house-wren.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/house-wren.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/house-wren.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/inca-dove.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/inca-dove.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e12c75a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/inca-dove.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Inca Dove

    +

    Columbina inca

    +

    Family Columbidae (Pigeons and Doves )

    + None + +

    Seen at New Orleans, Louisiana in Feb 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/inca-dove.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/inca-dove.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2e8429d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/inca-dove.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/inca-dove.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/inca-dove.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..18af9a9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,710 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Plants and Animals seen by AnonymousUser -- Page + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Plants and Animals seen by AnonymousUser

    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Red-winged Blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Escambia Bay, Florida, U.S. + + 30.516491690182512 + -87.00555080670235 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Yellow-bellied Sapsucker (Sphyrapicus varius)

    + +

    + Loc: + Escambia Bay, Florida, U.S. + + 30.516491690182512 + -87.00555080670235 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Osprey (Pandion haliaetus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.322127143910663 + -87.27126116052375 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Great Blue Heron (Ardea herodias)

    + +

    + Loc: + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.322127143910663 + -87.27126116052375 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Laughing Gull (Leucophaeus atricilla)

    + +

    + Loc: + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.322127143910663 + -87.27126116052375 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    American Crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos)

    + +

    + Loc: + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.322127143910663 + -87.27126116052375 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Northern Mockingbird (Mimus polyglottos)

    + +

    + Loc: + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.322127143910663 + -87.27126116052375 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Northern Cardinal (Cardinalis cardinalis)

    + +

    + Loc: + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.322127143910663 + -87.27126116052375 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Red-winged Blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.322127143910663 + -87.27126116052375 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Willet (Tringa semipalmata)

    + +

    + Loc: + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.322127143910663 + -87.27126116052375 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Osprey (Pandion haliaetus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.322127143910663 + -87.27126116052375 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Bald Eagle (Haliaeetus leucocephalus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.322127143910663 + -87.27126116052375 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Vesper Sparrow (Pooecetes gramineus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida, U.S. + + 30.322127143910663 + -87.27126116052375 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Inca Dove (Columbina inca)

    + +

    + Loc: + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.887600987579358 + -90.16324037765428 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Red-winged Blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus)

    + +

    + Loc: + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.887600987579358 + -90.16324037765428 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Fish Crow (Corvus ossifragus)

    + +

    + Loc: + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.887600987579358 + -90.16324037765428 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Great Blue Heron (Ardea herodias)

    + +

    + Loc: + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.887600987579358 + -90.16324037765428 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    White Ibis (Eudocimus albus)

    + +

    + Loc: + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.887600987579358 + -90.16324037765428 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Downy Woodpecker (Picoides pubescens)

    + +

    + Loc: + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.887600987579358 + -90.16324037765428 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Yellow-rumped Warbler (Setophaga coronata)

    + +

    + Loc: + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.887600987579358 + -90.16324037765428 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Northern Mockingbird (Mimus polyglottos)

    + +

    + Loc: + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.887600987579358 + -90.16324037765428 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Northern Cardinal (Cardinalis cardinalis)

    + +

    + Loc: + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.887600987579358 + -90.16324037765428 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    White Ibis (Eudocimus albus)

    + +

    + Loc: + Near Abbeville, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.863040814791688 + -92.14955562777182 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    +
    + + +
    + + + + +
    +
    +

    Blue Jay (Cyanocitta cristata)

    + +

    + Loc: + Near Abbeville, Louisiana, U.S. + + 29.863040814791688 + -92.14955562777182 + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/juniper-titmouse.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/juniper-titmouse.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8964dbb --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/juniper-titmouse.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Juniper Titmouse

    +

    Baeolophus ridgwayi

    +

    Family Paridae (Chickadees and Titmice )

    + None + +

    Seen at Ridgway State Park, Colorado in Aug 2017

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/juniper-titmouse.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/juniper-titmouse.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6ad8a23 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/juniper-titmouse.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/juniper-titmouse.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/juniper-titmouse.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/killdeer.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/killdeer.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d0f5b45 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/killdeer.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Killdeer

    +

    Charadrius vociferus

    +

    Family Charadriidae (Lapwings and Plovers )

    + None + +

    Seen at Leasburg Dam State Park, New Mexico in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/killdeer.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/killdeer.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3d5f658 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/killdeer.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/killdeer.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/killdeer.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/laughing-gull.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/laughing-gull.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..eff38f3 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/laughing-gull.html @@ -0,0 +1,127 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Laughing Gull

    +

    Leucophaeus atricilla

    +

    Family Laridae (Gulls, Terns, and Skimmers )

    + None + +

    Seen at Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida in Mar 2018 Padre Island National Seashore, Texas in Jan 2018 St. George Island, Florida in May 2015

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/laughing-gull.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/laughing-gull.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a0a1f29 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/laughing-gull.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/laughing-gull.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/laughing-gull.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/long-billed-curlew.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/long-billed-curlew.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1895ce3 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/long-billed-curlew.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Long-billed Curlew

    +

    Numenius americanus

    +

    Family Scolopacidae (Sandpipers, Phalaropes, and Allies )

    + None + +

    Seen at Padre Island National Seashore, Texas in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/long-billed-curlew.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/long-billed-curlew.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1564358 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/long-billed-curlew.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/long-billed-curlew.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/long-billed-curlew.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mexican-jay.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mexican-jay.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f764a56 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mexican-jay.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Mexican Jay

    +

    Aphelocoma wollweberi

    +

    Family Corvidae (Jays and Crows )

    + None + +

    Seen at Dragoon Mountains, Arizona in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mexican-jay.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mexican-jay.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9ca33c2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mexican-jay.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/mexican-jay.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/mexican-jay.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mountain-bluebird.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mountain-bluebird.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..aba0502 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mountain-bluebird.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Mountain Bluebird

    +

    Sialia currucoides

    +

    Family Turdidae (Thrushes )

    + None + +

    Seen at Ridgway State Park, Colorado in Aug 2017

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mountain-bluebird.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mountain-bluebird.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..68849c1 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mountain-bluebird.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/mountain-bluebird.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/mountain-bluebird.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mountain-chickadee.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mountain-chickadee.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2d4c220 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mountain-chickadee.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Mountain Chickadee

    +

    Poecile gambeli

    +

    Family Paridae (Chickadees and Titmice )

    + None + +

    Seen at Ridgway State Park, Colorado in Aug 2017

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mountain-chickadee.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mountain-chickadee.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..66ae10f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mountain-chickadee.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/mountain-chickadee.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/mountain-chickadee.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mourning-dove.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mourning-dove.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a5090ce --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mourning-dove.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Mourning Dove

    +

    Zenaida macroura

    +

    Family Columbidae (Pigeons and Doves )

    + None + +

    Seen at Leasburg Dam State Park, New Mexico in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mourning-dove.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mourning-dove.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..afd22ed --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/mourning-dove.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/mourning-dove.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/mourning-dove.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/neotropic-cormorant.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/neotropic-cormorant.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..49ae66c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/neotropic-cormorant.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Neotropic Cormorant

    +

    Phalacrocorax brasilianus

    +

    Family Phalacrocoracidae (Cormorants )

    + None + +

    Seen at Rutherford Beach, Louisiana in Feb 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/neotropic-cormorant.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/neotropic-cormorant.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2553a2a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/neotropic-cormorant.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/neotropic-cormorant.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/neotropic-cormorant.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-cardinal.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-cardinal.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ec7f1ce --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-cardinal.html @@ -0,0 +1,129 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Northern Cardinal

    +

    Cardinalis cardinalis

    +

    Family Cardinalidae (Cardinals, Piranga Tanagers and Allies )

    +

    Male Northern Cardinal photographed by Andrew Morffew, Flickr

    +

    Cardinals are everywhere and yet it’s impossible to get bored with them. They’re so brilliantly red in a way that you would think would be rare, indeed is rare, aside from the cardinal.

    +

    Female Northern Cardinal photographed by Brian Ralphs

    + +

    Seen at Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida in Mar 2018 New Orleans, Louisiana in Feb 2018 Near Abbeville, Louisiana in Feb 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-cardinal.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-cardinal.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f8ae617 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-cardinal.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/northern-cardinal.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/northern-cardinal.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-flicker.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-flicker.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2282de9 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-flicker.html @@ -0,0 +1,125 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Northern Flicker

    +

    Colaptes auratus

    +

    Family Picidae (Woodpeckers and Allies )

    + None + +

    Seen at Abajo (Blue) Mountains, Utah in Sep 2017 Durango, Colorado in Jul 2017

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-flicker.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-flicker.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2cee8ef --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-flicker.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/northern-flicker.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/northern-flicker.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-mockingbird.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-mockingbird.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dfee9ad --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-mockingbird.html @@ -0,0 +1,125 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Northern Mockingbird

    +

    Mimus polyglottos

    +

    Family Mimidae (Mockingbirds and Thrashers )

    + None + +

    Seen at Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida in Mar 2018 New Orleans, Louisiana in Feb 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-mockingbird.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-mockingbird.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0461a59 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-mockingbird.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/northern-mockingbird.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/northern-mockingbird.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-shoveler.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-shoveler.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5f3f7b8 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-shoveler.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Northern Shoveler

    +

    Anas clypeata

    +

    Family Anatidae (Ducks, Geese, and Swans )

    + None + +

    Seen at Rutherford Beach, Louisiana in Feb 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-shoveler.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-shoveler.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..39ceedc --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/northern-shoveler.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/northern-shoveler.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/northern-shoveler.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/osprey.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/osprey.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..62b86a0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/osprey.html @@ -0,0 +1,125 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Osprey

    +

    Pandion haliaetus

    +

    Family Pandionidae (Ospreys )

    + None + +

    Seen at Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida in Mar 2018 Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida in Mar 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/osprey.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/osprey.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..92e21ff --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/osprey.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/osprey.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/osprey.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/phainopepla.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/phainopepla.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f80265b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/phainopepla.html @@ -0,0 +1,125 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Phainopepla

    +

    Phainopepla nitens

    +

    Family Ptilogonatidae (Silky-flycatchers )

    + None + +

    Seen at Leasburg Dam State Park, New Mexico in Jan 2018 Catalina State Park, Arizona in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/phainopepla.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/phainopepla.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c1b7f53 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/phainopepla.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/phainopepla.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/phainopepla.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/pyrrhuloxia.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/pyrrhuloxia.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c59c34c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/pyrrhuloxia.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Pyrrhuloxia

    +

    Cardinalis sinuatus

    +

    Family Cardinalidae (Cardinals, Piranga Tanagers and Allies )

    + None + +

    Seen at Leasburg Dam State Park, New Mexico in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/pyrrhuloxia.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/pyrrhuloxia.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0d68fa5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/pyrrhuloxia.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/pyrrhuloxia.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/pyrrhuloxia.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/red-headed-woodpecker.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/red-headed-woodpecker.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ffaf691 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/red-headed-woodpecker.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Red-headed Woodpecker

    +

    Melanerpes erythrocephalus

    +

    Family Picidae (Woodpeckers and Allies )

    + None + +

    Seen at Lake Oconee, Georgia in Jun 2015

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/red-headed-woodpecker.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/red-headed-woodpecker.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dc4e239 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/red-headed-woodpecker.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/red-headed-woodpecker.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/red-headed-woodpecker.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/red-winged-blackbird.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/red-winged-blackbird.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5ce93e1 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/red-winged-blackbird.html @@ -0,0 +1,129 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Red-winged Blackbird

    +

    Agelaius phoeniceus

    +

    Family Icteridae (Blackbirds )

    + None + +

    Seen at Escambia Bay, Florida in Mar 2018 Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida in Mar 2018 New Orleans, Louisiana in Feb 2018 Rutherford Beach, Louisiana in Feb 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/red-winged-blackbird.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/red-winged-blackbird.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dd635ed --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/red-winged-blackbird.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/red-winged-blackbird.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/red-winged-blackbird.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/ring-billed-gull.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/ring-billed-gull.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c08d876 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/ring-billed-gull.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Ring-billed Gull

    +

    Larus delawarensis

    +

    Family Laridae (Gulls, Terns, and Skimmers )

    + None + +

    Seen at Padre Island National Seashore, Texas in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/ring-billed-gull.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/ring-billed-gull.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..700828f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/ring-billed-gull.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/ring-billed-gull.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/ring-billed-gull.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/rock-wren.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/rock-wren.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4cf8469 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/rock-wren.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Rock Wren

    +

    Salpinctes obsoletus

    +

    Family Troglodytidae (Wrens )

    + None + +

    Seen at Dragoon Mountains, Arizona in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/rock-wren.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/rock-wren.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f2810d7 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/rock-wren.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/rock-wren.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/rock-wren.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/roseate-spoonbill.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/roseate-spoonbill.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1090219 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/roseate-spoonbill.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Roseate Spoonbill

    +

    Platalea ajaja

    +

    Family Threskiornithidae (Ibises and Spoonbills )

    + None + +

    Seen at Rutherford Beach, Louisiana in Feb 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/roseate-spoonbill.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/roseate-spoonbill.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6fad363 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/roseate-spoonbill.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/roseate-spoonbill.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/roseate-spoonbill.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/ruby-crowned-kinglet.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/ruby-crowned-kinglet.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ba6dc88 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/ruby-crowned-kinglet.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Ruby-crowned Kinglet

    +

    Regulus calendula

    +

    Family Regulidae (Kinglets )

    + None + +

    Seen at Dragoon Mountains, Arizona in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/ruby-crowned-kinglet.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/ruby-crowned-kinglet.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c234f72 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/ruby-crowned-kinglet.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/ruby-crowned-kinglet.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/ruby-crowned-kinglet.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/ruddy-turnstone.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/ruddy-turnstone.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5706870 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/ruddy-turnstone.html @@ -0,0 +1,125 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Ruddy Turnstone

    +

    Arenaria interpres

    +

    Family Scolopacidae (Sandpipers, Phalaropes, and Allies )

    + None + +

    Seen at Padre Island National Seashore, Texas in Jan 2018 St. George Island, Florida in May 2015

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/ruddy-turnstone.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/ruddy-turnstone.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..00e16ba --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/ruddy-turnstone.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/ruddy-turnstone.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/ruddy-turnstone.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/rufous-hummingbird.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/rufous-hummingbird.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9480204 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/rufous-hummingbird.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Rufous Hummingbird

    +

    Selasphorus rufus

    +

    Family Trochilidae (Hummingbirds )

    + None + +

    Seen at Abajo (Blue) Mountains, Utah in Sep 2017

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/rufous-hummingbird.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/rufous-hummingbird.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..afceebd --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/rufous-hummingbird.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/rufous-hummingbird.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/rufous-hummingbird.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/sanderling.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/sanderling.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..28aef69 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/sanderling.html @@ -0,0 +1,125 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Sanderling

    +

    Calidris alba

    +

    Family Scolopacidae (Sandpipers, Phalaropes, and Allies )

    + None + +

    Seen at Padre Island National Seashore, Texas in Jan 2018 St. George Island, Florida in May 2015

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/sanderling.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/sanderling.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c145af4 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/sanderling.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/sanderling.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/sanderling.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/snowy-egret.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/snowy-egret.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2d3f08e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/snowy-egret.html @@ -0,0 +1,125 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Snowy Egret

    +

    Egretta thula

    +

    Family Ardeidae (Bitterns, Herons, and Allies )

    + None + +

    Seen at Rutherford Beach, Louisiana in Feb 2018 Padre Island National Seashore, Texas in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/snowy-egret.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/snowy-egret.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6da9c87 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/snowy-egret.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/snowy-egret.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/snowy-egret.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/song-sparrow.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/song-sparrow.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b3a5ed5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/song-sparrow.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Song Sparrow

    +

    Melospiza melodia

    +

    Family Emberizidae (Emberizids )

    + None + +

    Seen at Leasburg Dam State Park, New Mexico in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/song-sparrow.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/song-sparrow.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..03065d0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/song-sparrow.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/song-sparrow.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/song-sparrow.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/spotted-towhee.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/spotted-towhee.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..09982b7 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/spotted-towhee.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Spotted Towhee

    +

    Pipilo maculatus

    +

    Family Emberizidae (Emberizids )

    + None + +

    Seen at Dragoon Mountains, Arizona in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/spotted-towhee.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/spotted-towhee.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2e4d94d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/spotted-towhee.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/spotted-towhee.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/spotted-towhee.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/stellers-jay.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/stellers-jay.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4026e43 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/stellers-jay.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Steller's Jay

    +

    Cyanocitta stelleri

    +

    Family Corvidae (Jays and Crows )

    + None + +

    Seen at Abajo (Blue) Mountains, Utah in Sep 2017

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/stellers-jay.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/stellers-jay.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b2da28c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/stellers-jay.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/stellers-jay.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/stellers-jay.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/townsends-warbler.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/townsends-warbler.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c0c0b3f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/townsends-warbler.html @@ -0,0 +1,125 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Townsend's Warbler

    +

    Setophaga townsendi

    +

    Family Parulidae (Wood-Warblers )

    + None + +

    Seen at Dragoon Mountains, Arizona in Jan 2018 Abajo (Blue) Mountains, Utah in Sep 2017

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/townsends-warbler.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/townsends-warbler.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..57f6a6b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/townsends-warbler.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/townsends-warbler.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/townsends-warbler.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/vesper-sparrow.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/vesper-sparrow.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e230f5f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/vesper-sparrow.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Vesper Sparrow

    +

    Pooecetes gramineus

    +

    Family Emberizidae (Emberizids )

    + None + +

    Seen at Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida in Mar 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/vesper-sparrow.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/vesper-sparrow.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2fed303 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/vesper-sparrow.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/vesper-sparrow.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/vesper-sparrow.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/western-tanager.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/western-tanager.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e8d65a0 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/western-tanager.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Western Tanager

    +

    Piranga ludoviciana

    +

    Family Cardinalidae (Cardinals, Piranga Tanagers and Allies )

    + None + +

    Seen at Mancos Camp, Colorado in Jul 2017

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/western-tanager.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/western-tanager.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7d1a47e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/western-tanager.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/western-tanager.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/western-tanager.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/white-breasted-nuthatch.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/white-breasted-nuthatch.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cc8150c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/white-breasted-nuthatch.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    White-breasted Nuthatch

    +

    Sitta carolinensis

    +

    Family Sittidae (Nuthatches )

    + None + +

    Seen at Ridgway State Park, Colorado in Aug 2017

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/white-breasted-nuthatch.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/white-breasted-nuthatch.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..42baa63 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/white-breasted-nuthatch.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/white-breasted-nuthatch.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/white-breasted-nuthatch.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/white-crowned-sparrow.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/white-crowned-sparrow.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0c71fa7 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/white-crowned-sparrow.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    White-crowned Sparrow

    +

    Zonotrichia leucophrys

    +

    Family Emberizidae (Emberizids )

    + None + +

    Seen at Leasburg Dam State Park, New Mexico in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/white-crowned-sparrow.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/white-crowned-sparrow.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b4e40f6 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/white-crowned-sparrow.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/white-crowned-sparrow.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/white-crowned-sparrow.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/white-ibis.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/white-ibis.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..98b839a --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/white-ibis.html @@ -0,0 +1,127 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    White Ibis

    +

    Eudocimus albus

    +

    Family Threskiornithidae (Ibises and Spoonbills )

    + None + +

    Seen at New Orleans, Louisiana in Feb 2018 Near Abbeville, Louisiana in Feb 2018 Rutherford Beach, Louisiana in Feb 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/white-ibis.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/white-ibis.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..edaa7c2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/white-ibis.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/white-ibis.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/white-ibis.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/wild-turkey.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/wild-turkey.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5ef7800 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/wild-turkey.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Wild Turkey

    +

    Meleagris gallopavo

    +

    Family Phasianidae (Partridges, Grouse, Turkeys, and Old World Quail )

    + None + +

    Seen at Abajo (Blue) Mountains, Utah in Sep 2017

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/wild-turkey.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/wild-turkey.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1294f5e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/wild-turkey.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/wild-turkey.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/wild-turkey.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/willet.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/willet.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..89de86e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/willet.html @@ -0,0 +1,125 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Willet

    +

    Tringa semipalmata

    +

    Family Scolopacidae (Sandpipers, Phalaropes, and Allies )

    + None + +

    Seen at Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida in Mar 2018 St. George Island, Florida in May 2015

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/willet.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/willet.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2fe9319 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/willet.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/willet.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/willet.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/wilsons-snipe.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/wilsons-snipe.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..783ebf6 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/wilsons-snipe.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Wilson's Snipe

    +

    Gallinago delicata

    +

    Family Scolopacidae (Sandpipers, Phalaropes, and Allies )

    + None + +

    Seen at Rutherford Beach, Louisiana in Feb 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/wilsons-snipe.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/wilsons-snipe.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e5a17c6 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/wilsons-snipe.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/wilsons-snipe.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/wilsons-snipe.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/wilsons-warbler.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/wilsons-warbler.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..792a6ba --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/wilsons-warbler.html @@ -0,0 +1,125 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Wilson's Warbler

    +

    Cardellina pusilla

    +

    Family Parulidae (Wood-Warblers )

    + None + +

    Seen at Near Abbeville, Louisiana in Feb 2018 Abajo (Blue) Mountains, Utah in Sep 2017

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/wilsons-warbler.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/wilsons-warbler.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0099168 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/wilsons-warbler.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/wilsons-warbler.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/wilsons-warbler.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/yellow-bellied-sapsucker.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/yellow-bellied-sapsucker.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4452481 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/yellow-bellied-sapsucker.html @@ -0,0 +1,123 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Yellow-bellied Sapsucker

    +

    Sphyrapicus varius

    +

    Family Picidae (Woodpeckers and Allies )

    + None + +

    Seen at Escambia Bay, Florida in Mar 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/yellow-bellied-sapsucker.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/yellow-bellied-sapsucker.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ce6f527 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/yellow-bellied-sapsucker.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/yellow-bellied-sapsucker.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/yellow-bellied-sapsucker.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/yellow-rumped-warbler.html b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/yellow-rumped-warbler.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5395c6e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/yellow-rumped-warbler.html @@ -0,0 +1,125 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf - Topografical Writings + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + + + +
    +
    +

    Yellow-rumped Warbler

    +

    Setophaga coronata

    +

    Family Parulidae (Wood-Warblers )

    + None + +

    Seen at New Orleans, Louisiana in Feb 2018 Leasburg Dam State Park, New Mexico in Jan 2018

    + +
    +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/yellow-rumped-warbler.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/yellow-rumped-warbler.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6b5a25f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/sightings/yellow-rumped-warbler.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /sightings/yellow-rumped-warbler.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/sightings/yellow-rumped-warbler.txt
    Raised by:sightings.views.SightingDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No Animal/Plant found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/tools.html b/bak/oldluxpages/tools.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6578d92 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/tools.html @@ -0,0 +1,119 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Tools + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Tools

    +
    I've always been fascinated by tools, how they help us create, how they give permission, how they get in the way. I've written a lot of reviews for Wired, but word and time limits don't allow for some of the more in depth essays you'll find below.
    + +
    + + + +
    + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/tools/install-gitea-nginx-postgresql-ubuntu-1804.html b/bak/oldluxpages/tools/install-gitea-nginx-postgresql-ubuntu-1804.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..796c48b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/tools/install-gitea-nginx-postgresql-ubuntu-1804.html @@ -0,0 +1,369 @@ + + + + + Install Gitea With Nginx, Postgresql On Ubuntu 18.04 - Luxagraf, Writing + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +
    +
    +

    Install Gitea with Nginx, Postgresql on Ubuntu 18.04

    +

    How to set up Gitea, a nice, open source, self-hosted alternative to GitHub and GitLab.

    +

    Originally Published By:

    + + +
    +
    +

    I’ve never liked hosting my git repos on someone else’s servers. GitHub especially is not a company I’d do business with, ever. I do have a repo or two hosted over at GitLab because those are projects I want to be easily available to anyone. But I store almost everything in git — notes, my whole documents folder, all my code projects, all my writing, pretty much everything is in git — but I like to keep all that private and on my own server.

    +

    For years I used Gitlist because it was clean, simple, and did 95 percent of what I needed in a web-based interface for my repos. But Gitlist is abandonware at this point and broken if you’re using PHP 7.2. There are few forks that patch it, but it’s copyrighted to the original dev and I don’t want to depend on illegitimate forks for something so critical to my workflow. Then there’s self-hosted Gitlab, which I like, but the system requirements are ridiculous.

    +

    Some searching eventually led me to Gitea, which is lightweight, written in Go and has everything I need.

    +

    Here’s a quick guide to getting Gitea up and running on your Ubuntu 18.04 — or similar — VPS.

    +

    Set up Gitea

    +

    The first thing we’re going to do is isolate Gitea from the rest of our server, running it under a different user seems to be the standard practice. Installing Gitea via the Arch User Repository will create a git user, so that’s what I used on Ubuntu 18.04 as well.

    +

    Here’s a shell command to create a user named git:

    +
    sudo adduser --system --shell /bin/bash --group --disabled-password --home /home/git git
    + + +

    This is pretty much a standard adduser command such as you’d use when setting up a new VPS, the only difference is that we’ve added the --disable-password flag so you can’t actually log in with it. While we will use this user to authenticate over SSH, we’ll do so with a key, not a password.

    +

    Now we need to grab the latest Gitea binary. At the time of writing that’s version 1.5.2, but be sure to check the Gitea downloads page for the latest version and adjust the commands below to work with that version number. Let’s download the Gitea binary and then we’ll verify the signing key. Verifying keys is very important when working with binaries since you can’t see the code behind them1.

    +
    wget -O gitea https://dl.gitea.io/gitea/1.5.2/gitea-1.5.2-linux-amd64
+gpg --keyserver pgp.mit.edu --recv 0x2D9AE806EC1592E2
+wget https://dl.gitea.io/gitea/1.5.2/gitea-1.5.2-linux-amd64.asc
+gpg --verify gitea-1.5.2-linux-amd64.asc gitea
    + + +

    A couple of notes here, GPG should say the keys match, but then it should also warn that “this key is not certified with a trusted signature!” That means, essentially, that this binary could have been signed by anybody. All we know for sure is that wasn’t tampered with in transit1.

    +

    Now let’s make the binary executable and test it to make sure it’s working:

    +
    chmod +x gitea
+./gitea web
    + + +

    You can stop Gitea with Ctrl+C. Let’s move the binary to a more traditional location:

    +
    sudo cp gitea /usr/local/bin/gitea
    + + +

    The next thing we’re going to do is create all the directories we need.

    +
    sudo mkdir -p /var/lib/gitea/{custom,data,indexers,public,log}
+sudo chown git:git /var/lib/gitea/{data,indexers,log}
+sudo chmod 750 /var/lib/gitea/{data,indexers,log}
+sudo mkdir /etc/gitea
+sudo chown root:git /etc/gitea
+sudo chmod 770 /etc/gitea
    + + +

    That last line should make you nervous, that’s too permissive for a public directory, but don’t worry, as soon as we’re done setting up Gitea we’ll change the permissions on that directory and the config file inside it.

    +

    Before we do that though let’s create a systemd service file to start and stop Gitea. The Gitea project has a service file that will work well for our purposes, so let’s grab it, make a couple changes and then we’ll add it to our system:

    +
    wget https://raw.githubusercontent.com/go-gitea/gitea/master/contrib/systemd/gitea.service
    + + +

    Now open that file and uncomment the line After=postgresql.service so that Gitea starts after postgresql is running. The resulting config file should look like this:

    +
    [Unit]
+Description=Gitea (Git with a cup of tea)
+After=syslog.target
+After=network.target
+#After=mysqld.service
+After=postgresql.service
+#After=memcached.service
+#After=redis.service
+
+[Service]
+# Modify these two values and uncomment them if you have
+# repos with lots of files and get an HTTP error 500 because
+# of that
+###
+#LimitMEMLOCK=infinity
+#LimitNOFILE=65535
+RestartSec=2s
+Type=simple
+User=git
+Group=git
+WorkingDirectory=/var/lib/gitea/
+ExecStart=/usr/local/bin/gitea web -c /etc/gitea/app.ini
+Restart=always
+Environment=USER=git HOME=/home/git GITEA_WORK_DIR=/var/lib/gitea
+# If you want to bind Gitea to a port below 1024 uncomment
+# the two values below
+###
+#CapabilityBoundingSet=CAP_NET_BIND_SERVICE
+#AmbientCapabilities=CAP_NET_BIND_SERVICE
+
+[Install]
+WantedBy=multi-user.target
    + + +

    Now we need to move the service file to somewhere systemd expects it and then start and enable the service so Gitea will launch automatically when the server boots.

    +
    sudo cp gitea.service /etc/systemd/system/
+sudo systemctl enable gitea
+sudo systemctl start gitea
    + + +

    There you have it, Gitea is installed, running and will automatically start whenever we restart the server. Now we need to set up Postgresql and then Nginx to serve up our Gitea site to the world. Or at least to us.

    +

    Setup a Postgresql and Nginx

    +

    Gitea needs a database to store all our data in; I use PostgreSQL. You can also use MySQL, but you’re on your own there. Install PostgreSQL if you haven’t already:

    +
    sudo apt install postgresql
    + + +

    Now let’s create a new user and database for Gitea:

    +
    sudo su postgres
+createuser gitea
+createdb gitea -O gitea
    + + +

    Exit the postgres user shell by hitting Ctrl+D.

    +

    Now let’s set up Nginx to serve our Gitea site.

    +
    sudo apt update
+sudo apt install nginx
    + + +

    For the next part you’ll need a domain name. I use a subdomain, git.mydomain.com, but for simplicity sake I’ll refer to mydomain.com for the rest of this tutorial. Replace mydomain.com in all the instructions below with your actual domain name.

    +

    We need to create a config file for our domain. By default Nginx will look for config files in /etc/nginx/sites-enabled/, so the config file we’ll create is:

    +
    nano /etc/nginx/sites-enabled/mydomain.com.conf
    + + +

    Here’s what that file looks like:

    +
    server {
+    listen 80;
+    listen [::]:80;
+    server_name <mydomain.com>;
+
+
+    location / {
+        proxy_pass http://localhost:3000;
+    }
+
+    proxy_set_header X-Real-IP $remote_addr;
+}
    + + +

    The main line here is the proxy_pass bit, which takes all requests and sends it to gitea, which is listening on localhost:3000 by default. You can change that if you have something else that conflicts with it, but you’ll need to change it here and in the service file that we used to start Gitea.

    +

    The last step is to add an SSL cert to our site so we can clone over https (and SSH if you keep reading). I have another tutorial on setting up Certbot for Nginx on Ubuntu. You can use that to get Certbot installed and auto-renewing certs. Then all you need to do is run:

    +
    sudo certbot --nginx
    + + +

    Select your Gitea domain, follow the prompts and when you’re done you’ll be ready to set up Gitea.

    +

    Setting up Gitea

    +

    Point your browser to https://mydomain.com/install and go through the Gitea setup process. That screen looks like this, and you can use these values, except for the domain name (and be sure to enter the password you used when we created the gitea user for postgresql).

    +

    One note, if you intend your Gitea instance to be for you alone, I strongly recommend you check the “disable self registration” box, which will stop anyone else from being able to sign up. But, turning off registration means you’ll need to create an administrator account at the bottom of the page.

    +
    + + Gitea installation screen photographed by luxagraf + +
    + +

    Okay, now that we’ve got Gitea initialized it’s time to go back and change the permissions on those directories that we set up earlier.

    +
    sudo chmod 750 /etc/gitea
+sudo chmod 644 /etc/gitea/app.ini
    + + +

    Now you’re ready to create your first repo in Gitea. Click the little button next to the repositories menu on the right side of your Gitea dashboard and that’ll walk you through creating your first repo. Once that’s done you can clone that repo with:

    +
    git clone https://mydomain.com/giteausername/reponame.git
    + + +

    Now if you have an existing repo that you want to push to your new Gitea repo, just edit the .git/config files to make your Gitea repo the new url, e.g.:

    +
    [remote "origin"]
+    url = https://mydomain.com/giteausername/reponame.git
+    fetch = +refs/heads/*:refs/remotes/origin/*
    + + +

    Now do this:

    +
    git push origin master
    + + +

    Setting up SSH

    +

    Working with git over https is pretty good, but I prefer the more secure method of SSH with a key. To get that working we’ll need to add our SSH key to Gitea. That means you’ll need a GPG key. If you don’t have one already, open the terminal on your local machine and issue this command:

    +
    ssh-keygen -o -a 100 -t ed25519
    + + +

    That will create a key named id_ed25519 in the directory .ssh/. If you want to know where that command comes from, read this article.

    +

    Now we need to add that key to Gitea. First open the file .ssh/id_ed25519.pub and copy the contents to your clipboard. Now in the Gitea web interface, click on the user menu at the upper right and select “settings”. Then across the top you’ll see a bunch of tabs. Click the one that reads “SSH / GPG Keys”. Click the add key button, give your key a name and paste in the contents of the key.

    +

    Note: depending on how your VPS was set up, you may need to add the git user to your sshd config. Open /etc/ssh/sshd_config and look for a line that reads something like this:

    +
    AllowUsers myuser myotheruser git
    + + +

    Add git to the list of allowed users so you’ll be able to authenticate with the git user over ssh. Now test SSH cloning with this line, substituting your SSH clone url:

    +
    git clone ssh://git@mydomain/giteausername/reponame.git
    + + +

    Assuming that works then you’re all set, Gitea is working and you can create all the repos you need. If you have any problems you can drop a comment in the form below and I’ll do my best to help you out.

    +

    If you want to add some other niceties, the Gitea docs have a good guide to setting up Fail2Ban for Gitea and then there’s a whole section on backing up Gitea that’s well worth a read.

    +
    +
    +
      +
    1. +

      You can compile Gitea yourself if you like, there are instructions on the Gitea site, but be forewarned its uses quite a bit of RAM to build. ↩↩

      +
      2. +
    +
    +
    +
    +

    Afterward

    + +
    + +
    + + +
    + +

    Sorry, comments have been disabled for this post.

    + + + + +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/tools/install-gitea-nginx-postgresql-ubuntu-1804.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/tools/install-gitea-nginx-postgresql-ubuntu-1804.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7ce040d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/tools/install-gitea-nginx-postgresql-ubuntu-1804.txt @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at /tools/install-gitea-nginx-postgresql-ubuntu-1804.txt + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/tools/install-gitea-nginx-postgresql-ubuntu-1804.txt
    Raised by:essays.views.EntryDetailView
    +
    +
    + +

    No essay found matching the query

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/work.html b/bak/oldluxpages/work.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..294cae6 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/work.html @@ -0,0 +1,59 @@ + + + + + Page not found at work// + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/work/
    Raised by:resume.views.PageView
    +
    +
    + +

    {'path': 'work//'}

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/workindex.html b/bak/oldluxpages/workindex.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7bb78fa --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/workindex.html @@ -0,0 +1,54 @@ + + + + + Page not found at work/index/ + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/workindex/
    +
    +
    + +

    {'path': 'work/index/'}

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/workresume.html b/bak/oldluxpages/workresume.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..633061c --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/workresume.html @@ -0,0 +1,54 @@ + + + + + Page not found at work/resume/ + + + + +
    +

    Page not found (404)

    + + + + + + + + + + +
    Request Method:GET
    Request URL:http://testserver/workresume/
    +
    +
    + +

    {'path': 'work/resume/'}

    + +
    + +
    +

    + You're seeing this error because you have DEBUG = True in + your Django settings file. Change that to False, and Django + will display a standard 404 page. +

    +
    + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3beacfa --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,517 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Around the World + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing Archive

    +
    +
    + Oysterman Wanted +
    +

    Oysterman Wanted

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + + – + + The world of oystermen and local fishing industry is doomed. Even the people resisting the transition know they’re no longer fighting for their way of life. They’re just fighting to keep the thinnest resemblance of what they’ve always known around until they leave this world. They’re fighting to keep from having to watch the death of everything they know. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + All the Pretty Beaches +
    +

    All the Pretty Beaches

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + + – + + St. George is just off the Gulf Coast of northwest Florida, only about 7 hours from where I live. There are better places if you're looking to dive or snorkel. Ditto if it's nightlife you're after. But if you're looking for a seemingly endless amount of gorgeous white sand beaches you'll share with only a few migratory birds, St. George is the place to be. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Consider the Apalachicola Oyster +
    +

    Consider the Apalachicola Oyster

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Apalachicola, Florida, U.S. + + + – + + If you know the name Apalachicola at all it’s likely because of its eponymous oysters. Very few things, let alone culinary things, are as attached to place as oysters. In fact, once you get beyond the Rockefeller, ordering “oysters” is akin to walking in a bar and ordering “a beer.” But unlike beer, oysters don’t have brands, they have places — Pemaquid, Wellfleet, Blue Point, Apalachicola. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Things Behind the Sun +
    +

    Things Behind the Sun

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + My grandparents left the home they lived in for 60 years today. I don't know how much of my life was spent in that house, probably well over a year if you added up all the holidays and family gatherings. And now I'm thousands of miles away and someone is clearing out the house. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Street Food in Athens Georgia +
    +

    Street Food in Athens Georgia

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + Cheap food, made fresh, in front of you. Served hot, wrapped in newspaper. Street food is the people's food, it removes the mystery of the kitchen, lays the process bare. It's also the staple diet of people around the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Worst Place on Earth +
    +

    The Worst Place on Earth

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Gili Trawangan, Indonesia + + + – + + They aren't really the worst place on Earth (everyone knows that's Yuma, AZ), but the Gili Islands would top my list of places you should never go to. In the end they're not even a real place, just a collection of paradise fantasies culled from decades of hippie travelers, scuba divers, honeymooners, and the rich, lost children of the West. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Best Snorkeling in the World +
    +

    The Best Snorkeling in the World

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Nusa Lembongan, Bali, Indonesia + + + – + + Drift snorkeling is like watching fish float by the window of an underwater train. And Indonesia has more marine life than anywhere I've ever been. Fish I have previously seen perhaps two or three at a time are swimming in massive schools. The blue depths are filled with dozens of Moorish Idols, schools of deep purple tangs, so dark they look black until you get up close, parrotfish in clusters, munching on the coral, bright, powder blue tangs, yellow-masked angelfish, countless butterfly fish, wrasses, triggerfish, pufferfish and even bright blue starfish that crawl slowly over the reef. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Balinese Temple Ceremony +
    +

    The Balinese Temple Ceremony

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Ubud, Bali, Indonesia + + + – + + While Balinese temples look partly like Hindu temples in India, there are other elements that come from older religions. Bali is what happens when Hindu beliefs collide with animism. The Balinese seem to embrace the basic tenants of traditional Hinduism, but then add plenty of their own animist flourishes to the mix -- like frequent and elaborate temple ceremonies. We were lucky enough to be invited to a temple ceremony in Tegallantang, Bali. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Motor City is Burning +
    +

    Motor City is Burning

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Ubud, Bali, Indonesia + + + – + + Awesome as it was to be back on the Asian version of a motorbike, it wasn't quite the relaxing riding I did in Laos and elsewhere. You can never recapture the magic, and I wasn't trying.... Okay, maybe I was, but it didn't work. regrettably Honda seems to have phased out the Dream in the last five years, replacing it with something called the Nitro, which just doesn't have the same ring to it. But the bike is irrelevant, was always irrelevant. I missed my friends. It just wasn't the same by myself. Debi, Matt, where are you? There are roads to be ridden, locals with ten people on a bike to be humbled by. Six fingered men to be seen, by some. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Cooking in Rome +
    +

    Cooking in Rome

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Rome, Italy + + + – + + In the end Italy and I didn't really get along, but the food redeemed it for me. The restaurants are good, but if you really want to experience the glory of Italian food you need to head to the market, grab some utterly amazing raw ingredients and whip up something yourself. This is what food is supposed to be, simple, fresh and great. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Natural Science +
    +

    Natural Science

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Firenze (Florence), Italy + + + – + + There's no way around it; Florence is crowded. It may well be that Naples is the only Italian city that isn't overrun with tourists in the summer, but after three days of hardly seeing another traveler, I wasn't prepared for the crowds. Luckily it isn't hard to avoid the tourist hordes, just get up early and then when everyone else is starting to stir, head for obscure museums like La Specola, part of the Museo di Storia Naturale di Firenze. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Forever Today +
    +

    Forever Today

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Pompeii, Italy + + + – + + Pompeii feels both very old and not that different from the modern cities that surround it now. The gap between then and now feels small because when you wander around places like Pompeii you realize that human beings have changed very little over vast expanses of time. Pompeii had the same elements of cities today, a central square, markets, temples, government offices, even fast food. Not much has changed over the years, though togas aren’t much in vogue these days. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The New Pollution +
    +

    The New Pollution

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Napoli (Naples), Italy + + + – + + Naples Italy is a big, crowded, graffiti-filled city. It's an intimidating place that is by turns a bit like Philadelphia, a bit Mumbai, a bit some post-apocalyptic video game and, in the end, something else entirely. Still, given the tourist epidemic that sweeps Italy every summer, Naples is a place worth appreciating for what it is not, even if what is isn't, perhaps, enough to ever bring you back. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Language of Cities +
    +

    The Language of Cities

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Paris is angry. Cities can get angry. This isn't the first time it's happened to me. New York threw me out once. Los Angeles and I left on mutually hostile terms, though we've since made up. Cities have personalities just like people, and to really be part of a city your personalities have to mesh, you have to find each other on your own terms everyday. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + From Here We Go Sublime +
    +

    From Here We Go Sublime

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Just arrived Dulles-Reykjavik-Paris, 26-hour trip, no sleep. I see things. I see a grizzly looking Spaniard selling old railway lanterns at the flea market, I see muslim men playing basketball in skull caps, I see a Michael Faraday experiment with bulbs and wires enclosed in glass that turns out to be just an elevator. I see a stout Frenchwoman closing the gates of Pere Lachaise, no more dead, we've had enough of you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + We Used to Wait For It +
    +

    We Used to Wait For It

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + When we first came here, there was nothing. Downtown Los Angeles was an empty husk of a place fifteen years ago. Now it's reborn, alive and kicking. Yet there is something in the older buildings, something in the old walls, something lost in the bricks, something in the concrete, the marble. Something you don’t find anymore. Something we need to find again. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The World Outside +
    +

    The World Outside

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + The world outside the house is blanketed in snow, a monochrome of white interrupted only by the dark, wet trunks of trees, the red brick of chimneys, the occasional green of shrubs poking through. The roads are unbroken expanses of smooth white, no one is out yet, no footprints track their way through the snowy sidewalk. The world outside is the same as it was last night, before the snow began, and yet, it feels totally different. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Charleston A-Z +
    +

    Charleston A-Z

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Charleston, South Carolina, U.S. + + + – + + Charleston alphabetically. For example, Q is for quiet, Charleston has a lot of it. Just head down to the Battery area, walk through the park and starting walking down the side streets. Take one of the many alleys and walkways that weave between the massive, stately houses. Get lost. It doesn't take much to find a quiet place of your own. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + This is the only real way to see Dinosaur National Monument — you must journey down the river. There are two major rivers running through Dinosaur, the Yampa, which carves through Yampa Canyon, and the Green, which cuts through Lodore. Adventure Bound Rafting runs some of the best whitewater rafting trips in Colorado and I was lucky enough to go down the Green River with them, through the majestic Lodore Canyon. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + Dinosaur National Monument was poorly named. The best parts of it are not the fossils in the quarry (which is closed for 2010 anyway) but the canyon country — some of the best, most remote canyon country you'll find in this part of the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone +
    +

    The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming, U.S. + + + – + + There is wilderness in Yellowstone, even if it's just inches from the boardwalks that transport thousands around the geothermal pools. It may not be wilderness on a grand scale — the sweeping mountain peaks or wild rivers of other parks — but in some ways that makes it more enticing. As one Ranger told me, Yellowstone isn't about the big picture, the grand scenery, it's about the tiny details within each pool. To really see Yellowstone, he said, you have to take your time, move slowly and look closely. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Backpacking in the Grand Tetons +
    +

    Backpacking in the Grand Tetons

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming, U.S. + + + – + + Hiking into the wilderness empties your mind. You fall into the silence of the mountains and you can relax in a way that's very difficult to do in the midst of civilization. The white noise that surrounds us in our everyday lives, that noise we don't even notice as it adds thin layers of stress that build up over days, weeks, years, does not seem capable of following us into the mountains. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Great Sand Dunes National Park +
    +

    Great Sand Dunes National Park

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Great Sand Dunes National Park, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + Something about the desert inspires me to get up early and watch the sunrise. The cool mornings seem worth getting up for out here in the high plains of Colorado, especially when there's the chance to watch the sunrise from the largest sand dunes in North America, here in Great Sand Dune National Park. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Comanche National Grasslands +
    +

    Comanche National Grasslands

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Comanche National Grasslands, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + To say the Comanche National Grasslands is off the grid would be an understatement. With the exception of Highway 50 in Nevada, I've never driven through such isolation and vast openness anywhere in the world. And it's easy to get lost. There are no signs, no road names even, just dirt paths crisscrossing a wide, perfectly flat expanses of grass. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/10/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/10/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f12bb51 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/10/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,76 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Around the World -- Page 10 + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing Archive

    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/11/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/11/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dd8bc90 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/11/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,76 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Around the World -- Page 11 + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing Archive

    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/12/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/12/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a349daa --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/12/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,76 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Around the World -- Page 12 + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing Archive

    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/2/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/2/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..86da817 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/2/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,519 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Around the World -- Page 2 + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing Archive

    +
    +
    + Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks +
    +

    Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Amarillo, Texas, U.S. + + + – + + There are many reasons, but here's the one I currently consider most important: National Parks never close. Take Palo Dura State park outside of Amarillo, Texas. Were it a National Park, I would be there right now. But it's not, it's a state park and so I'm sitting in a hotel room in Amarillo because everyone knows nature closes at 10PM. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Legend of Billy the Kid +
    +

    The Legend of Billy the Kid

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Hico, Texas, U.S. + + + – + + History rarely offers neat, tidy stories. But the messier, more confusing and more controversial the story becomes, the more it works its way into our imaginations. The legend of Billy the Kid is like that of Amelia Earhart or D.B. Cooper — the less we know for sure, the more compelling the story becomes. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Dixie Drug Store +
    +

    The Dixie Drug Store

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + + – + + New Orleans is it's own world. So much so that's it's impossible to put your finger on what it is that makes it different. New Orleans is a place where the line between consensus reality and private dream seems to have never fully developed. And a wonderful world it is. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Begin the Begin +
    +

    Begin the Begin

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Gulf Port, Mississippi, U.S. + + + – + + It's travel time again. This time I'm driving my 1969 Ford truck out west, to Texas, Colorado, Utah and more — a road trip around the western United States. The first stop is Gulf Port, Mississippi. It's hard to believe, sitting here on the deserted beaches of Gulf Shore, watching the sun break through the ominous clouds, but soon this beauty will be gone. The BP oil spill is somewhere out there, blown slowly ashore by the storm hovering over us, waiting to drown the beaches in crude. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Los Angeles, I'm Yours +
    +

    Los Angeles, I’m Yours

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + Los Angeles is all about the car. Shiny, air-conditioned comfort, gliding you soundlessly from one place to another without the need to interact with anything in between. But I have discovered that if you abandon the car for the subway and your own two feet, the illusion that L.A. is just a model train set world — tiny, plastic and devoid of any ground beneath the ground — fades and you find yourself, for a time, in a real city. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + (There'll Be) Peace in the Valley +
    +

    (There’ll Be) Peace in the Valley

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Death Valley, California, U.S. + + + – + + Sometimes you ignore the places close to home because, well, there's always next weekend. Which is why I never made it Death Valley in the twenty-five years I lived in California. It took being all the way across the country to get me out to Death Valley. Which might explain why I actually got up before dawn just to watch the sunrise at Zabriskie Point. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + So Far, I Have Not Found The Science +
    +

    So Far, I Have Not Found The Science

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Okefenokee Swamp, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + A canoe trip through the Okefenokee Swamp down in the southern most corner of Georgia. Paddling the strange reddish and incredibly still waters. Begging alligators, aching muscles and the kindly folks of Stintson's Barbecue all getting their due. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + How to Get Off Your Butt and Travel the World +
    +

    How to Get Off Your Butt and Travel the World

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + How do you make the leap from cubicle daydreams to life on to the road? You want to travel the world, but, like me, you have a million excuses stopping you. How do overcome the inertia that keeps you trapped in a life that isn't what you want it to be? Here's a few practical tips and how tos designed to motivate you to get off your butt and travel the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + No Strangers on a Train +
    +

    No Strangers on a Train

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + We mythologize trains because they harken back to an age of community travel, a real, tangible community of travelers, not just backpackers, but people from all walks of life, people traveling near and far together in a shared space that isn't locked down like an airplane and isn't isolated like a car; it's a shared travel experience and there are precious few of those left in our world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies +
    +

    Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Birmingham, Alabama, U.S. + + + – + + A few pages from Leonardo Da Vinci's notebooks make a rare trip outside Italy, to Birmingham, AL, of all places. But the Birmingham Museum of Art is home to far more alarming works of art, works which depict the eventual, inevitable, bunny takeover, after which all the elements of our reality will be replaced by bunnies. Seriously. You heard it here first. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains +
    +

    Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Great Smoky Mountains, Tennessee, U.S. + + + – + + Pigeon Forge is Myrtle Beach in the mountains. Redneck weddings cascade straight out of the chapel and into the mini golf reception area. Pigeon Forge is everything that's wrong with America. But we aren't here for Pigeon Forge, it just happens to have a free condo we're staying in. We're here for the mountains. Smoky Mountain National Park is just a few miles up the road. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Rope Swings and River Floats +
    +

    Rope Swings and River Floats

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Mountain Cabin, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + Two weekends ago we went up to the mountains, just outside of Dahlonega GA, and floated the Chestatee River using inner tubes, various pool toys and one super-cool inflatable seahorse. Unfortunately, proving one of my travel mottos -- you can never go back -- a return trip proved disastrous. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Our Days Are Becoming Nights +
    +

    Our Days Are Becoming Nights

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + + – + + A short thought on the eve of our departure from Nicaragua: Everywhere I go I think, I should live here... I should be able to not just visit places, but in habit them. Of course that isn't possible, which is too bad. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Tiny Cities Made of Ash +
    +

    Tiny Cities Made of Ash

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + + – + + The church bells of León have become a constant cacophony, not the rhythmic ringing out of the hours or tolling from Mass that the human mind seems to find pleasant, but the atonal banging that only appeals to the young and dumb. But Francisco is entirely unperturbed; He's too fascinated with the tattoo on Corrinne's shoulder to bother with what slowly just becomes yet another sound echoing through León. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You Can't Go Home Again +
    +

    You Can’t Go Home Again

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + + – + + The first time we came to Little Corn Island it was April, the tail end of the dry season. It rained once or twice, but never for more than five minutes and always followed by more sunshine. This time it's the end of June, just well into the wet season, and the island is an entirely different place. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Returning Again &mdash; Back on Little Corn Island +
    +

    Returning Again — Back on Little Corn Island

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + + – + + Generally speaking, the world seems so huge and so full of amazing destinations that repeating one never struck me as a judicious use of my short allotment of time. But for Little Corn Island I'm willing to make an exception and of course, the universe being what it is, our second trip to Little Corn Island has been unpredictable and entirely new. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + In Love With a View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty and Living Well +
    +

    In Love With a View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty and Living Well

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + Why all the vitriol about a seemingly innocuous concept -- that traveling doesn't have to cost a lot of money, isn't all that difficult and hey, you can even go right now? People like us, who feel tied down by responsibility, find the suggestion that we actually aren't tied down patronizing and yes, elitist. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Little Island in the Sun +
    +

    Little Island in the Sun

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + + – + + We arrived on Little Corn Island around sundown and met Ali, whom I at first took to be a tout, but he showed us the way to our guesthouse and, after settling in and getting a feel for the island, I realized that Ali, wasn't a tout, he was just a really nice guy who enjoyed doing favors for tourists, just beware the Yoni beverage he offers. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Return to the Sea +
    +

    Return to the Sea

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua + + + – + + Southwestern Nicaragua is a very small strip of land with Lago Nicaragua to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west. The main town in the area, Juan Del Sur, is nestled around a well protected harbor with a mediocre strip of sand. For the nice beaches you have to head up or down the coast to one of the many small inlets. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ring The Bells +
    +

    Ring The Bells

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Granada, Nicaragua + + + – + + The Church, which dates from the 1600s has the the narrowest, steepest, circular concrete staircase that I've ever encountered. It had a low railing and circled up four stories worth of precipitous dropoffs before you hit solid ground. From the top was a views of Granada's endless sea of mottled pink, orange and brown hues -- terra cotta roof tiles stretching from the shores of Lago Nicaragua all the way back toward the hills. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Fall +
    +

    Fall

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + The trees are in full technicolor swing. The land is slowly dying, and not just because it's Fall, we're also in the middle of a prolonged drought and this year the leaves are opting for a James Dean-style, leave-a-good-looking-corpse exit. If you're a leaf and you've got to go, do it with class. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + On The Other Ocean +
    +

    On The Other Ocean

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Catalina Island, California, U.S. + + + – + + Consider what would happen if your house were tilted 30 degrees to the left, how this would complicate ordinary activities -- like say walking. Now throw in a bouncing motion that lifts the floor five or six feet up and down in a seesaw-like motion on a perpendicular axis to the 30 degree tilt -- things become more like riding a seesaw that's attached to a merry-go-round which is missing a few bolts. That's sailing. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Being There +
    +

    Being There

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Myrtle Beach Airport, South Carolina, U.S. + + + – + + Myrtle Beach does not exist. Nearly everything in Myrtle Beach is a paltry derivative of some original form. For instance, most of the country has golf courses, in Myrtle Beach there are endless rows of putt-putt courses, where most towns attempt to draw in big name musical acts for their tourist venues, Myrtle Beach is content with impersonators. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sailing Through +
    +

    Sailing Through

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Charleston, South Carolina, U.S. + + + – + + The rumors are true. I moved back to the south; Athens GA to be exact. But I hate staying in one place for too long, so after a month or two in Athens I headed up to Charleston to visit a friend. The south is curious place. If you've never been here I couldn't hope to explain it, but it's not so much a place as an approach. A way of getting somewhere more than anywhere specific. Perhaps even a wrong turn. + + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/3/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/3/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d545293 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/3/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,521 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Around the World -- Page 3 + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing Archive

    +
    +
    + Goodbye to the Mother and the Cove +
    +

    Goodbye to the Mother and the Cove

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + It's strange how you can plan something, go through all the motions of making it happen without ever really understanding what you're doing. I've been doing this for the better part of three years now. I realized recently that I have no real idea how I came to be here. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Everything All The Time +
    +

    Everything All The Time

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + I don't know if I'm just overly paranoid but when I call up memories in the dark hours of the Beaujolais-soaked pre-dawn, I see a collection of mildly amusing, occasionally painful series of embarrassments, misunderstandings and general wrong-place, wrong-time sort of moments. Which isn't to imply that my life is a British sitcom, just that I'm not in a hurry to re-live any of it. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Sun Came Up With No Conclusions +
    +

    The Sun Came Up With No Conclusions

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + "And so it is that we, as men, do not exist until we do; and then it is that we play with our world of existent things, and order and disorder them, and so it shall be that non-existence shall take us back from existence and that nameless spirituality shall return to Void, like a tired child home from a very wild circus." -- Robert Anton Wilson and Kerry Thornley. Good luck and Godspeed Mr. Wilson. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Give It Up Or Turnit A Loose +
    +

    Give It Up Or Turnit A Loose

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + Traveling soul. Soul is not something out there or in you, it's the place where you meet the out there; something very similar to what I think James Brown meant — a mixture of the secular and the spiritual, the profane and the sublime. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Homeward +
    +

    Homeward

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + New York, New York. John F Kennedy airport 1 am date unknown, sleepy looking customs guard stamps a passport without hardly looking at, without even checking to see where I had been. A light drizzle is falling outside and the subways extension to the terminal never looked so good. What is it like to be home? I don't know, I'll tell you when I get there. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Cadenza +
    +

    Cadenza

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Paris - Outside it's raining. Beads of water form on the window in front of me. The glow of the unseen sun is fading behind midnight blue clouds and darkening sky. An old man in a butcher apron selling oysters under an awning smokes a cigarette and watches the mothers and children walking home with bags of groceries. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + I Don't Sleep I Dream +
    +

    I Don’t Sleep I Dream

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + + – + + How can Freud's former residence in Vienna lack a couch? The closest thing is up against the wall, behind a small writing desk in what was then the waiting room — a small divan where one might stare at the patternless ceiling until the patterns emerge as it were. “Tell me about it,” he began. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Unreflected +
    +

    Unreflected

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + + – + + The Kunsthistorisches Museum contains probably the best collection of art outside of France — Rubens, Rembrandt, Vermeer, Raphael, Velazquez, Bruegel and a certain Italian for whom I have a festering personal obsession, which shall be addressed shortly — and what's remarkable about this magnificent assemblage is that the vast majority of it was once the Hapsburg's private collection. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds +
    +

    Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Prague, Czech Republic + + + – + + Just north of Prague's old town square and east of the River Vltava is Josefov, the old Jewish quarter of Prague. The Pinkas Synagogue in Josefov is an unassuming pale, sand-colored building with a slightly sunken entrance. Inside is a small alter and little else. The floor is bare; there are no places for worshipers to sit. The synagogue is little more than walls. And on the walls inscribed in extremely small print are the names of the 77,297 Jewish citizens of Bohemia and Moravia who died in the Holocaust. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Inside and Out +
    +

    Inside and Out

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic + + + – + + Chasing Egon Schiele: The attention to detail that makes the difference between a building and work of art was everywhere in Cesky Krumlov, from the delicate pink and red complements of a fine dovetailed corner, to the white plaster and oak beams of the Egon Schiele museum, which, despite geometric differences, looked not unlike the Globe Theatre in London. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bled, Slovenia + + + – + + There is a roughly 200km loop of road that leads northwest out of Bled, through a pass in the Julian Alps and then down the other side, twisting and winding back toward Bled by way of craggy canyons, small hamlets and crystalline rivers. We set out sometime after breakfast. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ghost +
    +

    Ghost

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Ljubljana, Slovenia + + + – + + Like Dubrovnik, Trogir is a walled city of roughly Venetian vintage, but Trogir's wall has largely crumbled away or been removed. Still, it has the gorgeous narrow cobblestone streets, arched doorways and towering forts that give all Dalmatian towns their Rapunzel-like fairly tale quality. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Feel Good Lost +
    +

    Feel Good Lost

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + + – + + Dubrovnik, Croatia was heavily shelled during the Bosnian conflict and roughly 65 percent of its buildings were hit, built for the most part you'd never know it. Most of the buildings date from about 1468, though some were destroyed in the great earthquake of 1667, still, by and large, the city looks as it did in the fifteenth century. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Blue Milk +
    +

    Blue Milk

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + + – + + It's hard to understand, standing on the banks of such crystalline, cerulean lakes, whose dazzling colors come from the mineral rich silt runoff of glaciers, that the largest European conflict since world war two began here, at Like Plitvice Croatia. But indeed this is where the first shots were fired on Easter Sunday in 1991 and the first casualty was a park policeman. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Refracted Light and Grace +
    +

    Refracted Light and Grace

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Budapest, Hungary + + + – + + Evening, after dinner, outside on the balcony, smoking cigarettes and contemplating the nightscape of Buda's Castle Hill rising up out of its own golden reflection in the shimmering Danube waters. The drone of car horns in the distance and the electric tram squealing as it pulls out of the station below on the river a boat slowly churns upstream... + +

    +
    +
    +
    + London Calling +
    +

    London Calling

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + London, United Kingdom + + + – + + London: The British don't want me -- no money, no proof I'm leaving and no real reason for coming, good lord, I must be a vagabond, up to no good, surely. Eventually the customs agent relents and lets me in, a favor I repay by nearly burning down one of London's bigger parks. Seriously. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Closing Time +
    +

    Closing Time

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + + – + + Headed back to Europe: I started to write a bit of reminiscence, trying to remember the highlights of my time in Asia before I return to the west, but about halfway through I kept thinking of a popular Buddhist saying — be here now. Most of these dispatches are written in past tense, but this time I want to simply be here now. This moment, on this train. This is the last time I'll post something from Southeast Asia. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning of the End +
    +

    Beginning of the End

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + + – + + I wasn't expecting much from Ko Kradan, but in the end I discovered a slice of Thailand the way it's often describe by wistful hippies who first came here twenty years ago. Tong and Ngu and the rest of the Thais working at Paradise Lost were the nicest people I met in Thailand and Wally was by far the most laid back farang I've come across. I ended up staying on Ko Kradan for the remainder of my time in the south. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Going Down South +
    +

    Going Down South

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Koh Phi Phi, Thailand + + + – + + The Phi Phi Island Resort, where some friends were staying, is nestled on the leeward shore of Koh Phi Phi Island and posts a private beach, beautiful reef, fancy swimming pools and rooms with real sheets. Unheard of. I sauntered in a day early, acted like I owned the place, rented snorkel gear, charged it to a random room number and spent the afternoon on the reef. If only I could have put it on the Underhill's credit card. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Book of Right On +
    +

    The Book of Right On

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Sinoukville, Cambodia + + + – + + The next day we continued on to Sinoukville which is Cambodia's attempt at a seaside resort. Combining the essential elements of Goa and Thailand, Sinoukville is a pleasant, if somewhat hippy-oriented, travelers haven. We rented Honda Dreams and cruised down the coast to deserted white sand beaches, thatched huts serving noodles and rice, where we watched sunsets and dodged rain storms. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Midnight in a Perfect World +
    +

    Midnight in a Perfect World

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Death Island, Cambodia + + + – + + Death Island, as Rob nicknamed it, was just what I needed. The first day we sat down for lunch and ordered crab; a boy in his underwear proceeded to run out of the kitchen, swam out in the ocean and began unloading crabs from a trap into a bucket. It doesn't get much fresher than that. Throw in a nice beach, some cheap bungalows and you're away. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Angkor Wat +
    +

    Angkor Wat

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Angkor Wat, Cambodia + + + – + + Roughly half a million people a year visit Angkor Wat. The first evening we decided to see just how tourist-filled Angkor was by heading to the most popular sunset temple, Phnom Bakheng, to watch the sunset. And there were a lot of tourists. Thousands of them. And that was just at one temple. Thus was hatched the plan: see Angkor in the heat of the day. Yes it will be hot. Hot hot hot. Fucking hot. But hopefully empty. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + ...Wait 'til it Blows +
    +

    …Wait ‘til it Blows

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Seam Reap, Cambodia + + + – + + One the things I may have failed to mention thus far in my Cambodia reportage is that this was/is one of the most heavily mined areas in the world. You might think that removing landmines involves sophisticated technology of the sort you see in BBC documentaries on Bosnia, but here in Cambodia landmine removal is most often handled by the technological marvel of southeast Asia — the bamboo stick. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning to See the Light +
    +

    Beginning to See the Light

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Floating Village, Cambodia + + + – + + Surprisingly, a floating village is not that different than a village on the land. There are the same stores, the computer repair shop, the grocers, the petrol station, the temple, the dance hall and all the other things that makeup a town. I could even say with some authority that the town is laid out in streets, watery pathways that form nearly perfect lines. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/4/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/4/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9f49991 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/4/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,519 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Around the World -- Page 4 + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing Archive

    +
    +
    + Blood on the Tracks +
    +

    Blood on the Tracks

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Phenom Phen, Cambodia + + + – + + As I mentioned in the last entry I came down with a bit of a fever for a few days. This was accompanied by what we in the group have come to term, for lack of a nicer, but equally descriptive phrase — pissing out the ass. It's not a pretty picture. Nor is it a pleasant experience, and consequently I don't have a real clear recollection of the journey from Ban Lung to Kratie or from Kratie out to Sen Monoron. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ticket To Ride +
    +

    Ticket To Ride

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Ban Lung, Cambodia + + + – + + I can't see. My eyebrows are orange with dust. I cannot see them, but I know they must be; they were yesterday. Every now and then when her legs clench down on my hips or her fingernails dig into my shoulders, I remember Debi is behind me and I am more or less responsible for not killing both of us. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Little Corner of the World +
    +

    Little Corner of the World

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Four Thousand Islands, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + It's difficult to explain but the further south you go in Laos the more relaxed life becomes. Since life in the north is not exactly high stress, by the time we arrived in the four thousand Islands we had to check our pulse periodically to ensure that time was in fact still moving forward. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Can&#8217;t Get There From Here +
    +

    Can’t Get There From Here

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Attapeu, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + The most magical light in Laos lives on the Bolevan Plateau. For some reason not many tourists seem to make it out to the Bolevan Plateau, in spite of the fact that the roads are quite good, transport runs regularly, the villages peaceful, even sleepy, little hamlets. In short, the Bolevan Plateau is wonderful, and not the least in part because no one else is there. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Safe as Milk +
    +

    Safe as Milk

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Sekong, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + You would think, if you were the United States and you were illegally and unofficially bombing a foreign country you might not want to stamp "US Bomb" on the side of your bombs, and yet there it was all over Laos: "US Bomb." Clearly somebody didn't think things all the way through, especially given that roughly one third of said bombs failed to explode. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Everyday the Fourteenth +
    +

    Everyday the Fourteenth

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Savannakhet, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + We piled four large bags, four daypacks and five people in a six meter dugout canoe. The boat was powered by the ever-present-in-southeast-Asia long tail motor which is essential a lawnmower engine with a three meter pole extending out of it to which a small propeller is attached — perfect for navigating shallow water. And by shallow I mean sometimes a mere inch between the hull and the riverbed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Water Slides and Spirit Guides +
    +

    Water Slides and Spirit Guides

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Konglor Cave, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + The dramatic black karst limestone mountains ringing Ban Na Hin grew darker as the light faded. I was sitting alone on the back porch of our guesthouse watching the light slowly disappear from the bottoms of the clouds and wondering absently how many pages it would take to explain how I came to be in the tiny town of Ban Na Hin, or if such an explanation even really existed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Lovely Universe +
    +

    The Lovely Universe

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Vang Vieng, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + I would like to say that I have something memorable to write about Vang Vieng, but the truth is we mostly sat around doing very little, making new friends, drinking a beer around the fire and waiting out the Chinese new year celebrations, which meant none of us could get Cambodian visas until the following Monday. We were forced to relax beside the river for several more days than we intended. Yes friends, traveling is hard, but I do it for you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan +
    +

    I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Luang Nam Tha, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + The next time someone asks you, “would you like to live in a tree house and travel five hundred feet above the ground attached to a zip wire?” I highly suggest you say, “yes, where do a I sign up?” If you happen to be in Laos, try the Gibbon Experience. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Hymn of the Big Wheel +
    +

    Hymn of the Big Wheel

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + Jose Saramago writes in The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis that the gods "journey like us in the river of things, differing from us only because we call them gods and sometimes believe in them." Sitting in the middle of the river listening to the gurgle of water moving over stone and around trees I began to think that perhaps this is the sound of some lost language, a sound capable of creating mountains, valleys, estuaries, isthmuses and all the other forms around us, gurgling and sonorous but without clear meaning, shrouded in turquoise, a mystery through which we can move our sense of wonder intact. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Down the River +
    +

    Down the River

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + Morning in Chiang Khong Thailand revealed itself as a foggy, and not a little mysterious, affair with the far shore of the Mekong, the Laos shore, almost completely hidden in a veil of mist. The first ferry crossed at eight and I was on it, looking to meet up with the slow boat to Luang Prabang. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Doi Inthanan National Park, Thailand + + + – + + The light outside the windows was still a pre-dawn inky blue when the freezing cold water hit my back. A cold shower at six thirty in the morning is infinitely more powerful, albeit not at long lasting, as a cup of coffee. After dropping my body temperature a few degrees and having no towel to dry off with, just a dirty shirt and ceaseless ceiling fan, a cup of tea seemed like a good idea so I stopped in at the restaurant downstairs and, after a cup of hot water with some Jasmine leaves swirling at the bottom of it, I climbed on my rental motorbike and set out for Doi Inthanan National Park. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You and I Are Disappearing +
    +

    You and I Are Disappearing

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Chang Mai, Thailand + + + – + + The all night bus reached Chiang Mai well past dawn, the city already beginning to stir. I considered trying to nap, but in the end decided to explore the town. What better way to see Buddhist temples than in the dreamy fog of sleeplessness? Chiang Mai has over three hundred wats within the somewhat sprawling city limits, most of them reasonably modern and, in my opinion, not worth visiting. I narrowed the field to three, which I figured was a nice round one percent. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Buddha on the Bounty +
    +

    Buddha on the Bounty

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + + – + + The house Jim Thompson left behind in Bangkok is gorgeous, but the real charm is the garden and its orchids. I wandered around the gardens which really aren't that large for some time and then found a bench near a collection of orchids, where I sat for the better part of an hour, occasionally taking a photograph or two, but mostly thinking about how human orchids are. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Brink of the Clouds +
    +

    Brink of the Clouds

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + + – + + "The city is a cathedral" writes James Salter, "its scent is dreams." Salter may have been referring to New York, but his words ring true in Bangkok. And the best place to feel it at night is on the river or from the top of the Baiyoke Sky Hotel — where a circular, revolving observation deck offers 360° views of the Bangkok nightscape. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Are You Amplified to Rock? +
    +

    Are You Amplified to Rock?

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + + – + + It's a new year, are you amplified to rock? Ready, set, go. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Merry Christmas 2005 +
    +

    Merry Christmas 2005

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + + – + + Seasons Greeting from luxagraf. I'm in Bangkok, Thailand at the moment. I am taking a short break from traveling to do a little working so I don't have much to report. I've seen the two big temples down in the Khaosan Rd area, but otherwise I've been trying to live an ordinary life in Bangkok, if such a thing is possible. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sunset Over the Himalayas +
    +

    Sunset Over the Himalayas

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Pokhara, Nepal + + + – + + After about forty-five minutes of paddling I reached a point where the views of the Annapurna range were, in the words of an Englishman I met in Katmandu, "gob smacking gorgeous." I put down the paddle and moved to the center of the boat where the benches were wider and, using my bag a cushion, lay back against the gunwale and hung my feet over the opposite side so that they just skimmed the surface of the chilly water. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Pashupatinath +
    +

    Pashupatinath

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Pashupatinath, Nepal + + + – + + Nestled on a hillside beside the Bagmati River, Pashupatinath is one of the holiest sites in the world for Hindus, second only to Varanasi in India. Pashupatinath consists of a large temple which is open only to Hindus, surrounded by a number of smaller shrines and then down on the banks of the Bagmati are the burning ghats where bodies are cremated. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Durbar Square Kathmandu +
    +

    Durbar Square Kathmandu

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Kathmandu, Nepal + + + – + + After saturating myself with the streets of Thamel I went on a longer excursion down to Durbar Square to see the various pagodas, temples and the old palace. The palace itself no longer houses the King, but is still used for coronations and ceremonies and Durbar Square is still very much the hub of Katmandu. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Goodbye India +
    +

    Goodbye India

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Delhi, India + + + – + + I have taken almost 750 photos and traveled nearly 4000 km (2500 miles) in India, the vast majority of it by train. I have seen everything from depressing squalor to majestic palaces and yet I still feel as if I have hardly scratched the surface. I can't think of another and certainly have never been to a country with the kind of geographic and ethnic diversity of India. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Taj Express +
    +

    The Taj Express

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Agra, India + + + – + + The Taj Mahal is one of the Seven Wonders of the World, and, given the level of hype I was fully prepared to be underwhelmed, but I was wrong. I have never in my life seen anything so extravagant, elegant and colossal. The Taj Mahal seems mythically, spiritually, as well as architecturally, to have risen from nowhere, without equal or context. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + On a Camel With No Name +
    +

    On a Camel With No Name

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Thar Desert, India + + + – + + The Thar Desert is a bewitching if stark place. It reminded me of areas of the Great Basin between Las Vegas and St. George, Utah. Twigging mesquite-like trees, bluish gray bushes resembling creosote, a very large bush that resembled a Palo Verde tree and grew in impenetrable clumps, and, strangely, only one species of cactus and not a whole lot of them. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Majestic Fort +
    +

    The Majestic Fort

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Jodhpur, India + + + – + + The next day I hopped in a rickshaw and headed up to tour Meherangarh, or the Majestic Fort as it's known in English. As its English name indicates, it is indeed perched majestically atop the only hill around, and seems not so much built on a hill as to have naturally risen out the very rocks that form the mesa on which it rests. The outer wall encloses some of the sturdiest and most impressive ramparts I've seen in India or anywhere else. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/5/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/5/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6ef9b1f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/5/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,444 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Around the World -- Page 5 + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing Archive

    +
    +
    + Around Udaipur +
    +

    Around Udaipur

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + + – + + Just out of Udaipur is a government sponsored "artist colony" for various cultures from the five nearby states, Rajasthan, Gujarat, Karnataka, Goa and Madhya Pradesh. On one hand Shilpogram is a wonderful idea on the part of the government, but on the other hand the "artists colony" is slightly creepy. Amidst displays of typical tribal life there were artists and craftsmen and women hawking their wares along with dancers and musicians performing traditional songs. The whole thing had the feel of a living museum, or, for the creepy angle — human zoo. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Monsoon Palace +
    +

    The Monsoon Palace

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + + – + + We started out in the early evening quickly leaving behind Udaipur and its increasing urban sprawl. The road to the Monsoon Palace passes through the Sajjan Garh Nature Preserve and there was a sudden and dramatic drop in temperature, but then the road climbed out of the hollow and the temperature jumped back up to comfortable as we began to climb the mountain in a series of hairpin switchbacks. As the sun slowly slunk behind the mountain range to the west the balconies and balustrades of the Monsoon Palace took on an increasingly orange hue. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The City Palace +
    +

    The City Palace

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + + – + + I spent some time sitting in the inner gardens of the City Place, listening to rustling trees and the various guides bringing small groups of western and Indian tourists through the garden. In the center of the hanging gardens was the kings, extremely oversized bath, which reminded me of children's book that I once gave to a friend's daughter; it was a massively oversized and lavishly illustrated book that told the story of a king who refused to get out of the bath and instead made his ministers, advisors, cooks and even his wife conduct business by getting in the bath with him. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Living in Airport Terminals +
    +

    Living in Airport Terminals

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Ahmedabad, India + + + – + + Airport terminals are fast becoming my favorite part of traveling. When you stop and observe them closely as I have been forced to do on this trip, terminals are actually quite beautiful, weird places. Terminals inhabit a unique space in the architecture of humanity, perhaps the strangest of all spaces we have created; a space that is itself only a boundary that delineates the border between what was and what will be without leaving any space at all for what is. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Anjuna Market +
    +

    Anjuna Market

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Anjuna Beach, India + + + – + + Earlier today I caught a bus up to the Anjuna Flea Market and can now tell you for certain that old hippies do not die, they simply move to Goa. The flea market was quite a spectacle; riots of color at every turn and more silver jewelry than you could shake a stick at. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Fish Story +
    +

    Fish Story

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Colva Beach, India + + + – + + The Arabian Sea is warm and the sand sucks at your feet when you walk, schools of tiny fish dart and disappear into each receding wave. In the morning the water is nearly glassy and the beach slopes off so slowly one can walk out at least 200 meters and be only waist deep. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Backwaters of Kerala +
    +

    The Backwaters of Kerala

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + + – + + The guide showed us Tamarind trees, coconut palms, lemon trees, vanilla vine, plantain trees and countless other shrubs and bushes whose names I have already forgotten. The most fascinating was a plant that produces a fruit something like a miniature mango that contains cyanide and which, as our guide informed us, is cultivated mainly to commit suicide with — as if it was no big deal and everyone is at least occasionally tempted to each the killer mango. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Vasco de Gama Exhumed +
    +

    Vasco de Gama Exhumed

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + + – + + Fort Cochin is curious collision of cultures — Chinese, India and even Portuguese. Many of the obviously older buildings are of a distinctly Iberian-style — moss covered, adobe-colored arches abound. There is graveyard just down the road with a tombstone that bears the name Vasco de Gama, who died and was buried here for fourteen years before being moved to Lisbon (there we go again, more Europeans digging up and moving the dead). + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine +
    +

    Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Well it's my last night here in Paris and I've chosen to return to the best restaurant we've been to so far, an Iraqi restaurant in a Marais. I am using all my willpower right now to avoid having a political outburst re the quality of Iraqi food versus the intelligence of George Bush etc etc. I'm traveling; I don't want to get into politics except to say that my dislike for the current El Presidente was no small factor in my decision to go abroad. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bury Your Dead +
    +

    Bury Your Dead

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + I would like to say that the catacombs of Paris had some spectacular effect on me seeing that I strolled through human remains, skulls and femurs mainly, "decoratively arranged," but the truth is, after you get over the initial shock of seeing a skull, well, it turns out you can get adjusted to just about anything. Maybe that in and off itself is the scary part. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Houses We Live In +
    +

    The Houses We Live In

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + I've been thinking the last couple of days about something Bill's dad said to me before I left. I'm paraphrasing here since I don't remember the exact phrasing he used, but something to the effect of "people are essentially the same everywhere, they just build their houses differently." Indeed, Parisian architecture is completely unlike anything in America. Perhaps more than any other single element, architecture reflects culture and the ideas of the people that make up culture. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sainte Chapelle +
    +

    Sainte Chapelle

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Sainte Chapelle was interesting to see after the modern, conceptual art stuff at the Pompidou, rather than simple stained glass, Sainte Chapelle felt quite conceptual. In a sense the entire Bible (i.e. all history from that perspective) is unfolding simultaneously, quite a so-called post-modern idea if you think about it. And yet it was conceived and executed over 800 years ago. Kind of kicks a lot pretentious modern art in its collective ass. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Living in a Railway Car +
    +

    Living in a Railway Car

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + This French apartment is more like a railway sleeper car than apartment proper. Maybe fifteen feet long and only three feet wide at the ceiling. More like five feet wide at the floor, but, because it's an attic, the outer wall slopes in and you lose two feet by the time you get to the ceiling. It's narrow enough that you can't pass another body when you walk to length of it. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Twenty More Minutes to Go +
    +

    Twenty More Minutes to Go

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Newport Beach, California, U.S. + + + – + + Well it's the night before I leave. I just got done pacing around the driveway of my parents house smoking cigarettes… nervously? Excitedly? Restlessly? A bit of all of those I suppose. I walk across the street, over the drainage ditch and head for the swing set at the park. Right now I'm swinging in a park in Costa Mesa California. Tomorrow France. Weird. [Photo to the right, via Flickr] + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Travel Tips and Resources +
    +

    Travel Tips and Resources

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Newport Beach, California, U.S. + + + – + + An overview of the things you might want to bring on an extended trip, as well as some tips and recommendations on things like visas and vaccinations. The part that was most helpful for me was learning what I didn't need to bring — as it turns out, quite a bit. Nowadays my pack is much smaller and lighter. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The New Luddites +
    +

    The New Luddites

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Newport Beach, California, U.S. + + + – + + An older, non-travel piece about Google's plan to scan all the world's books and Luddite-like response from many authors. Let's see, someone wants to make your book easier to find, searchable and indexable and you're opposed to it? You're a fucking idiot. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + One Nation Under a Groove +
    +

    One Nation Under a Groove

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + + – + + The sky is falling! The iPod! It's ruining our culture! Or, uh, maybe it's just like the Walkman, but better. And since, so far as I can tell, the world did not collapse with the introduction of the Walkman and headphones, it probably isn't going to fall apart just because the storage format for our music has changed. [Photo to the right via Flickr] + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Farewell Mr. Hunter S Thompson +
    +

    Farewell Mr. Hunter S Thompson

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + + – + + Hunter S. Thompson departs on a journey to the western lands. Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas delivered the penultimate eulogy for the dreams of the 1960's, one that mourned, but also tried to lay the empty idealism to rest. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Art of the Essay +
    +

    The Art of the Essay

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + + – + + I generally ignore internet debates, they never go anywhere, so why bother. But we all have our weak points and when programmer Paul Graham posted what might be the dumbest essay on writing that's ever been written, I just couldn't help myuself. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Farewell Mr. Cash +
    +

    Farewell Mr. Cash

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + + – + + Johnny Cash heads for the western lands. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/6/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/6/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9aa46d5 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/6/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,76 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Around the World -- Page 6 + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
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    + +
    +

    Writing Archive

    +
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    Walk Slowly

    +
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    +

    Writing Archive

    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/8/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/8/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4c20f03 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/8/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,76 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Around the World -- Page 8 + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Writing Archive

    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/9/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/9/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f1a15f3 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/9/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,76 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Around the World -- Page 9 + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Writing Archive

    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/austria/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/austria/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f93e6b2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/austria/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,113 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Austria + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Austria

    +
    +
    + I Don't Sleep I Dream +
    +

    I Don’t Sleep I Dream

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + + – + + How can Freud's former residence in Vienna lack a couch? The closest thing is up against the wall, behind a small writing desk in what was then the waiting room — a small divan where one might stare at the patternless ceiling until the patterns emerge as it were. “Tell me about it,” he began. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Unreflected +
    +

    Unreflected

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + + – + + The Kunsthistorisches Museum contains probably the best collection of art outside of France — Rubens, Rembrandt, Vermeer, Raphael, Velazquez, Bruegel and a certain Italian for whom I have a festering personal obsession, which shall be addressed shortly — and what's remarkable about this magnificent assemblage is that the vast majority of it was once the Hapsburg's private collection. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/austria/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/austria/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f93e6b2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/austria/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,113 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Austria + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Austria

    +
    +
    + I Don't Sleep I Dream +
    +

    I Don’t Sleep I Dream

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + + – + + How can Freud's former residence in Vienna lack a couch? The closest thing is up against the wall, behind a small writing desk in what was then the waiting room — a small divan where one might stare at the patternless ceiling until the patterns emerge as it were. “Tell me about it,” he began. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Unreflected +
    +

    Unreflected

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + + – + + The Kunsthistorisches Museum contains probably the best collection of art outside of France — Rubens, Rembrandt, Vermeer, Raphael, Velazquez, Bruegel and a certain Italian for whom I have a festering personal obsession, which shall be addressed shortly — and what's remarkable about this magnificent assemblage is that the vast majority of it was once the Hapsburg's private collection. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/cambodia/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/cambodia/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b499c46 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/cambodia/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,203 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Cambodia + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

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    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Cambodia

    +
    +
    + The Book of Right On +
    +

    The Book of Right On

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Sinoukville, Cambodia + + + – + + The next day we continued on to Sinoukville which is Cambodia's attempt at a seaside resort. Combining the essential elements of Goa and Thailand, Sinoukville is a pleasant, if somewhat hippy-oriented, travelers haven. We rented Honda Dreams and cruised down the coast to deserted white sand beaches, thatched huts serving noodles and rice, where we watched sunsets and dodged rain storms. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Midnight in a Perfect World +
    +

    Midnight in a Perfect World

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Death Island, Cambodia + + + – + + Death Island, as Rob nicknamed it, was just what I needed. The first day we sat down for lunch and ordered crab; a boy in his underwear proceeded to run out of the kitchen, swam out in the ocean and began unloading crabs from a trap into a bucket. It doesn't get much fresher than that. Throw in a nice beach, some cheap bungalows and you're away. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Angkor Wat +
    +

    Angkor Wat

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Angkor Wat, Cambodia + + + – + + Roughly half a million people a year visit Angkor Wat. The first evening we decided to see just how tourist-filled Angkor was by heading to the most popular sunset temple, Phnom Bakheng, to watch the sunset. And there were a lot of tourists. Thousands of them. And that was just at one temple. Thus was hatched the plan: see Angkor in the heat of the day. Yes it will be hot. Hot hot hot. Fucking hot. But hopefully empty. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + ...Wait 'til it Blows +
    +

    …Wait ‘til it Blows

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Seam Reap, Cambodia + + + – + + One the things I may have failed to mention thus far in my Cambodia reportage is that this was/is one of the most heavily mined areas in the world. You might think that removing landmines involves sophisticated technology of the sort you see in BBC documentaries on Bosnia, but here in Cambodia landmine removal is most often handled by the technological marvel of southeast Asia — the bamboo stick. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning to See the Light +
    +

    Beginning to See the Light

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Floating Village, Cambodia + + + – + + Surprisingly, a floating village is not that different than a village on the land. There are the same stores, the computer repair shop, the grocers, the petrol station, the temple, the dance hall and all the other things that makeup a town. I could even say with some authority that the town is laid out in streets, watery pathways that form nearly perfect lines. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Blood on the Tracks +
    +

    Blood on the Tracks

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Phenom Phen, Cambodia + + + – + + As I mentioned in the last entry I came down with a bit of a fever for a few days. This was accompanied by what we in the group have come to term, for lack of a nicer, but equally descriptive phrase — pissing out the ass. It's not a pretty picture. Nor is it a pleasant experience, and consequently I don't have a real clear recollection of the journey from Ban Lung to Kratie or from Kratie out to Sen Monoron. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ticket To Ride +
    +

    Ticket To Ride

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Ban Lung, Cambodia + + + – + + I can't see. My eyebrows are orange with dust. I cannot see them, but I know they must be; they were yesterday. Every now and then when her legs clench down on my hips or her fingernails dig into my shoulders, I remember Debi is behind me and I am more or less responsible for not killing both of us. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/cambodia/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/cambodia/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b499c46 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/cambodia/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,203 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Cambodia + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Cambodia

    +
    +
    + The Book of Right On +
    +

    The Book of Right On

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Sinoukville, Cambodia + + + – + + The next day we continued on to Sinoukville which is Cambodia's attempt at a seaside resort. Combining the essential elements of Goa and Thailand, Sinoukville is a pleasant, if somewhat hippy-oriented, travelers haven. We rented Honda Dreams and cruised down the coast to deserted white sand beaches, thatched huts serving noodles and rice, where we watched sunsets and dodged rain storms. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Midnight in a Perfect World +
    +

    Midnight in a Perfect World

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Death Island, Cambodia + + + – + + Death Island, as Rob nicknamed it, was just what I needed. The first day we sat down for lunch and ordered crab; a boy in his underwear proceeded to run out of the kitchen, swam out in the ocean and began unloading crabs from a trap into a bucket. It doesn't get much fresher than that. Throw in a nice beach, some cheap bungalows and you're away. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Angkor Wat +
    +

    Angkor Wat

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Angkor Wat, Cambodia + + + – + + Roughly half a million people a year visit Angkor Wat. The first evening we decided to see just how tourist-filled Angkor was by heading to the most popular sunset temple, Phnom Bakheng, to watch the sunset. And there were a lot of tourists. Thousands of them. And that was just at one temple. Thus was hatched the plan: see Angkor in the heat of the day. Yes it will be hot. Hot hot hot. Fucking hot. But hopefully empty. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + ...Wait 'til it Blows +
    +

    …Wait ‘til it Blows

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Seam Reap, Cambodia + + + – + + One the things I may have failed to mention thus far in my Cambodia reportage is that this was/is one of the most heavily mined areas in the world. You might think that removing landmines involves sophisticated technology of the sort you see in BBC documentaries on Bosnia, but here in Cambodia landmine removal is most often handled by the technological marvel of southeast Asia — the bamboo stick. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning to See the Light +
    +

    Beginning to See the Light

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Floating Village, Cambodia + + + – + + Surprisingly, a floating village is not that different than a village on the land. There are the same stores, the computer repair shop, the grocers, the petrol station, the temple, the dance hall and all the other things that makeup a town. I could even say with some authority that the town is laid out in streets, watery pathways that form nearly perfect lines. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Blood on the Tracks +
    +

    Blood on the Tracks

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Phenom Phen, Cambodia + + + – + + As I mentioned in the last entry I came down with a bit of a fever for a few days. This was accompanied by what we in the group have come to term, for lack of a nicer, but equally descriptive phrase — pissing out the ass. It's not a pretty picture. Nor is it a pleasant experience, and consequently I don't have a real clear recollection of the journey from Ban Lung to Kratie or from Kratie out to Sen Monoron. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ticket To Ride +
    +

    Ticket To Ride

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Ban Lung, Cambodia + + + – + + I can't see. My eyebrows are orange with dust. I cannot see them, but I know they must be; they were yesterday. Every now and then when her legs clench down on my hips or her fingernails dig into my shoulders, I remember Debi is behind me and I am more or less responsible for not killing both of us. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/central-america/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/central-america/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1957b94 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/central-america/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,203 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Central America + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Central America

    +
    +
    + Our Days Are Becoming Nights +
    +

    Our Days Are Becoming Nights

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + + – + + A short thought on the eve of our departure from Nicaragua: Everywhere I go I think, I should live here... I should be able to not just visit places, but in habit them. Of course that isn't possible, which is too bad. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Tiny Cities Made of Ash +
    +

    Tiny Cities Made of Ash

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + + – + + The church bells of León have become a constant cacophony, not the rhythmic ringing out of the hours or tolling from Mass that the human mind seems to find pleasant, but the atonal banging that only appeals to the young and dumb. But Francisco is entirely unperturbed; He's too fascinated with the tattoo on Corrinne's shoulder to bother with what slowly just becomes yet another sound echoing through León. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You Can't Go Home Again +
    +

    You Can’t Go Home Again

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + + – + + The first time we came to Little Corn Island it was April, the tail end of the dry season. It rained once or twice, but never for more than five minutes and always followed by more sunshine. This time it's the end of June, just well into the wet season, and the island is an entirely different place. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Returning Again &mdash; Back on Little Corn Island +
    +

    Returning Again — Back on Little Corn Island

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + + – + + Generally speaking, the world seems so huge and so full of amazing destinations that repeating one never struck me as a judicious use of my short allotment of time. But for Little Corn Island I'm willing to make an exception and of course, the universe being what it is, our second trip to Little Corn Island has been unpredictable and entirely new. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Little Island in the Sun +
    +

    Little Island in the Sun

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + + – + + We arrived on Little Corn Island around sundown and met Ali, whom I at first took to be a tout, but he showed us the way to our guesthouse and, after settling in and getting a feel for the island, I realized that Ali, wasn't a tout, he was just a really nice guy who enjoyed doing favors for tourists, just beware the Yoni beverage he offers. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Return to the Sea +
    +

    Return to the Sea

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua + + + – + + Southwestern Nicaragua is a very small strip of land with Lago Nicaragua to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west. The main town in the area, Juan Del Sur, is nestled around a well protected harbor with a mediocre strip of sand. For the nice beaches you have to head up or down the coast to one of the many small inlets. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ring The Bells +
    +

    Ring The Bells

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Granada, Nicaragua + + + – + + The Church, which dates from the 1600s has the the narrowest, steepest, circular concrete staircase that I've ever encountered. It had a low railing and circled up four stories worth of precipitous dropoffs before you hit solid ground. From the top was a views of Granada's endless sea of mottled pink, orange and brown hues -- terra cotta roof tiles stretching from the shores of Lago Nicaragua all the way back toward the hills. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/central-america/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/central-america/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1957b94 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/central-america/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,203 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Central America + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Central America

    +
    +
    + Our Days Are Becoming Nights +
    +

    Our Days Are Becoming Nights

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + + – + + A short thought on the eve of our departure from Nicaragua: Everywhere I go I think, I should live here... I should be able to not just visit places, but in habit them. Of course that isn't possible, which is too bad. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Tiny Cities Made of Ash +
    +

    Tiny Cities Made of Ash

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + + – + + The church bells of León have become a constant cacophony, not the rhythmic ringing out of the hours or tolling from Mass that the human mind seems to find pleasant, but the atonal banging that only appeals to the young and dumb. But Francisco is entirely unperturbed; He's too fascinated with the tattoo on Corrinne's shoulder to bother with what slowly just becomes yet another sound echoing through León. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You Can't Go Home Again +
    +

    You Can’t Go Home Again

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + + – + + The first time we came to Little Corn Island it was April, the tail end of the dry season. It rained once or twice, but never for more than five minutes and always followed by more sunshine. This time it's the end of June, just well into the wet season, and the island is an entirely different place. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Returning Again &mdash; Back on Little Corn Island +
    +

    Returning Again — Back on Little Corn Island

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + + – + + Generally speaking, the world seems so huge and so full of amazing destinations that repeating one never struck me as a judicious use of my short allotment of time. But for Little Corn Island I'm willing to make an exception and of course, the universe being what it is, our second trip to Little Corn Island has been unpredictable and entirely new. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Little Island in the Sun +
    +

    Little Island in the Sun

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + + – + + We arrived on Little Corn Island around sundown and met Ali, whom I at first took to be a tout, but he showed us the way to our guesthouse and, after settling in and getting a feel for the island, I realized that Ali, wasn't a tout, he was just a really nice guy who enjoyed doing favors for tourists, just beware the Yoni beverage he offers. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Return to the Sea +
    +

    Return to the Sea

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua + + + – + + Southwestern Nicaragua is a very small strip of land with Lago Nicaragua to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west. The main town in the area, Juan Del Sur, is nestled around a well protected harbor with a mediocre strip of sand. For the nice beaches you have to head up or down the coast to one of the many small inlets. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ring The Bells +
    +

    Ring The Bells

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Granada, Nicaragua + + + – + + The Church, which dates from the 1600s has the the narrowest, steepest, circular concrete staircase that I've ever encountered. It had a low railing and circled up four stories worth of precipitous dropoffs before you hit solid ground. From the top was a views of Granada's endless sea of mottled pink, orange and brown hues -- terra cotta roof tiles stretching from the shores of Lago Nicaragua all the way back toward the hills. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/central-asia/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/central-asia/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cb10635 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/central-asia/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,347 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Central Asia + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Central Asia

    +
    +
    + Sunset Over the Himalayas +
    +

    Sunset Over the Himalayas

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Pokhara, Nepal + + + – + + After about forty-five minutes of paddling I reached a point where the views of the Annapurna range were, in the words of an Englishman I met in Katmandu, "gob smacking gorgeous." I put down the paddle and moved to the center of the boat where the benches were wider and, using my bag a cushion, lay back against the gunwale and hung my feet over the opposite side so that they just skimmed the surface of the chilly water. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Pashupatinath +
    +

    Pashupatinath

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Pashupatinath, Nepal + + + – + + Nestled on a hillside beside the Bagmati River, Pashupatinath is one of the holiest sites in the world for Hindus, second only to Varanasi in India. Pashupatinath consists of a large temple which is open only to Hindus, surrounded by a number of smaller shrines and then down on the banks of the Bagmati are the burning ghats where bodies are cremated. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Durbar Square Kathmandu +
    +

    Durbar Square Kathmandu

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Kathmandu, Nepal + + + – + + After saturating myself with the streets of Thamel I went on a longer excursion down to Durbar Square to see the various pagodas, temples and the old palace. The palace itself no longer houses the King, but is still used for coronations and ceremonies and Durbar Square is still very much the hub of Katmandu. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Goodbye India +
    +

    Goodbye India

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Delhi, India + + + – + + I have taken almost 750 photos and traveled nearly 4000 km (2500 miles) in India, the vast majority of it by train. I have seen everything from depressing squalor to majestic palaces and yet I still feel as if I have hardly scratched the surface. I can't think of another and certainly have never been to a country with the kind of geographic and ethnic diversity of India. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Taj Express +
    +

    The Taj Express

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Agra, India + + + – + + The Taj Mahal is one of the Seven Wonders of the World, and, given the level of hype I was fully prepared to be underwhelmed, but I was wrong. I have never in my life seen anything so extravagant, elegant and colossal. The Taj Mahal seems mythically, spiritually, as well as architecturally, to have risen from nowhere, without equal or context. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + On a Camel With No Name +
    +

    On a Camel With No Name

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Thar Desert, India + + + – + + The Thar Desert is a bewitching if stark place. It reminded me of areas of the Great Basin between Las Vegas and St. George, Utah. Twigging mesquite-like trees, bluish gray bushes resembling creosote, a very large bush that resembled a Palo Verde tree and grew in impenetrable clumps, and, strangely, only one species of cactus and not a whole lot of them. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Majestic Fort +
    +

    The Majestic Fort

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Jodhpur, India + + + – + + The next day I hopped in a rickshaw and headed up to tour Meherangarh, or the Majestic Fort as it's known in English. As its English name indicates, it is indeed perched majestically atop the only hill around, and seems not so much built on a hill as to have naturally risen out the very rocks that form the mesa on which it rests. The outer wall encloses some of the sturdiest and most impressive ramparts I've seen in India or anywhere else. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Around Udaipur +
    +

    Around Udaipur

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + + – + + Just out of Udaipur is a government sponsored "artist colony" for various cultures from the five nearby states, Rajasthan, Gujarat, Karnataka, Goa and Madhya Pradesh. On one hand Shilpogram is a wonderful idea on the part of the government, but on the other hand the "artists colony" is slightly creepy. Amidst displays of typical tribal life there were artists and craftsmen and women hawking their wares along with dancers and musicians performing traditional songs. The whole thing had the feel of a living museum, or, for the creepy angle — human zoo. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Monsoon Palace +
    +

    The Monsoon Palace

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + + – + + We started out in the early evening quickly leaving behind Udaipur and its increasing urban sprawl. The road to the Monsoon Palace passes through the Sajjan Garh Nature Preserve and there was a sudden and dramatic drop in temperature, but then the road climbed out of the hollow and the temperature jumped back up to comfortable as we began to climb the mountain in a series of hairpin switchbacks. As the sun slowly slunk behind the mountain range to the west the balconies and balustrades of the Monsoon Palace took on an increasingly orange hue. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The City Palace +
    +

    The City Palace

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + + – + + I spent some time sitting in the inner gardens of the City Place, listening to rustling trees and the various guides bringing small groups of western and Indian tourists through the garden. In the center of the hanging gardens was the kings, extremely oversized bath, which reminded me of children's book that I once gave to a friend's daughter; it was a massively oversized and lavishly illustrated book that told the story of a king who refused to get out of the bath and instead made his ministers, advisors, cooks and even his wife conduct business by getting in the bath with him. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Living in Airport Terminals +
    +

    Living in Airport Terminals

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Ahmedabad, India + + + – + + Airport terminals are fast becoming my favorite part of traveling. When you stop and observe them closely as I have been forced to do on this trip, terminals are actually quite beautiful, weird places. Terminals inhabit a unique space in the architecture of humanity, perhaps the strangest of all spaces we have created; a space that is itself only a boundary that delineates the border between what was and what will be without leaving any space at all for what is. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Anjuna Market +
    +

    Anjuna Market

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Anjuna Beach, India + + + – + + Earlier today I caught a bus up to the Anjuna Flea Market and can now tell you for certain that old hippies do not die, they simply move to Goa. The flea market was quite a spectacle; riots of color at every turn and more silver jewelry than you could shake a stick at. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Fish Story +
    +

    Fish Story

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Colva Beach, India + + + – + + The Arabian Sea is warm and the sand sucks at your feet when you walk, schools of tiny fish dart and disappear into each receding wave. In the morning the water is nearly glassy and the beach slopes off so slowly one can walk out at least 200 meters and be only waist deep. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Backwaters of Kerala +
    +

    The Backwaters of Kerala

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + + – + + The guide showed us Tamarind trees, coconut palms, lemon trees, vanilla vine, plantain trees and countless other shrubs and bushes whose names I have already forgotten. The most fascinating was a plant that produces a fruit something like a miniature mango that contains cyanide and which, as our guide informed us, is cultivated mainly to commit suicide with — as if it was no big deal and everyone is at least occasionally tempted to each the killer mango. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Vasco de Gama Exhumed +
    +

    Vasco de Gama Exhumed

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + + – + + Fort Cochin is curious collision of cultures — Chinese, India and even Portuguese. Many of the obviously older buildings are of a distinctly Iberian-style — moss covered, adobe-colored arches abound. There is graveyard just down the road with a tombstone that bears the name Vasco de Gama, who died and was buried here for fourteen years before being moved to Lisbon (there we go again, more Europeans digging up and moving the dead). + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/central-asia/2/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/central-asia/2/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0c3f276 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/central-asia/2/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,77 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Central Asia -- Page 2 + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Central Asia

    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/central-asia/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/central-asia/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cb10635 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/central-asia/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,347 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Central Asia + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Central Asia

    +
    +
    + Sunset Over the Himalayas +
    +

    Sunset Over the Himalayas

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Pokhara, Nepal + + + – + + After about forty-five minutes of paddling I reached a point where the views of the Annapurna range were, in the words of an Englishman I met in Katmandu, "gob smacking gorgeous." I put down the paddle and moved to the center of the boat where the benches were wider and, using my bag a cushion, lay back against the gunwale and hung my feet over the opposite side so that they just skimmed the surface of the chilly water. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Pashupatinath +
    +

    Pashupatinath

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Pashupatinath, Nepal + + + – + + Nestled on a hillside beside the Bagmati River, Pashupatinath is one of the holiest sites in the world for Hindus, second only to Varanasi in India. Pashupatinath consists of a large temple which is open only to Hindus, surrounded by a number of smaller shrines and then down on the banks of the Bagmati are the burning ghats where bodies are cremated. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Durbar Square Kathmandu +
    +

    Durbar Square Kathmandu

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Kathmandu, Nepal + + + – + + After saturating myself with the streets of Thamel I went on a longer excursion down to Durbar Square to see the various pagodas, temples and the old palace. The palace itself no longer houses the King, but is still used for coronations and ceremonies and Durbar Square is still very much the hub of Katmandu. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Goodbye India +
    +

    Goodbye India

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Delhi, India + + + – + + I have taken almost 750 photos and traveled nearly 4000 km (2500 miles) in India, the vast majority of it by train. I have seen everything from depressing squalor to majestic palaces and yet I still feel as if I have hardly scratched the surface. I can't think of another and certainly have never been to a country with the kind of geographic and ethnic diversity of India. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Taj Express +
    +

    The Taj Express

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Agra, India + + + – + + The Taj Mahal is one of the Seven Wonders of the World, and, given the level of hype I was fully prepared to be underwhelmed, but I was wrong. I have never in my life seen anything so extravagant, elegant and colossal. The Taj Mahal seems mythically, spiritually, as well as architecturally, to have risen from nowhere, without equal or context. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + On a Camel With No Name +
    +

    On a Camel With No Name

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Thar Desert, India + + + – + + The Thar Desert is a bewitching if stark place. It reminded me of areas of the Great Basin between Las Vegas and St. George, Utah. Twigging mesquite-like trees, bluish gray bushes resembling creosote, a very large bush that resembled a Palo Verde tree and grew in impenetrable clumps, and, strangely, only one species of cactus and not a whole lot of them. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Majestic Fort +
    +

    The Majestic Fort

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Jodhpur, India + + + – + + The next day I hopped in a rickshaw and headed up to tour Meherangarh, or the Majestic Fort as it's known in English. As its English name indicates, it is indeed perched majestically atop the only hill around, and seems not so much built on a hill as to have naturally risen out the very rocks that form the mesa on which it rests. The outer wall encloses some of the sturdiest and most impressive ramparts I've seen in India or anywhere else. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Around Udaipur +
    +

    Around Udaipur

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + + – + + Just out of Udaipur is a government sponsored "artist colony" for various cultures from the five nearby states, Rajasthan, Gujarat, Karnataka, Goa and Madhya Pradesh. On one hand Shilpogram is a wonderful idea on the part of the government, but on the other hand the "artists colony" is slightly creepy. Amidst displays of typical tribal life there were artists and craftsmen and women hawking their wares along with dancers and musicians performing traditional songs. The whole thing had the feel of a living museum, or, for the creepy angle — human zoo. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Monsoon Palace +
    +

    The Monsoon Palace

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + + – + + We started out in the early evening quickly leaving behind Udaipur and its increasing urban sprawl. The road to the Monsoon Palace passes through the Sajjan Garh Nature Preserve and there was a sudden and dramatic drop in temperature, but then the road climbed out of the hollow and the temperature jumped back up to comfortable as we began to climb the mountain in a series of hairpin switchbacks. As the sun slowly slunk behind the mountain range to the west the balconies and balustrades of the Monsoon Palace took on an increasingly orange hue. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The City Palace +
    +

    The City Palace

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + + – + + I spent some time sitting in the inner gardens of the City Place, listening to rustling trees and the various guides bringing small groups of western and Indian tourists through the garden. In the center of the hanging gardens was the kings, extremely oversized bath, which reminded me of children's book that I once gave to a friend's daughter; it was a massively oversized and lavishly illustrated book that told the story of a king who refused to get out of the bath and instead made his ministers, advisors, cooks and even his wife conduct business by getting in the bath with him. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Living in Airport Terminals +
    +

    Living in Airport Terminals

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Ahmedabad, India + + + – + + Airport terminals are fast becoming my favorite part of traveling. When you stop and observe them closely as I have been forced to do on this trip, terminals are actually quite beautiful, weird places. Terminals inhabit a unique space in the architecture of humanity, perhaps the strangest of all spaces we have created; a space that is itself only a boundary that delineates the border between what was and what will be without leaving any space at all for what is. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Anjuna Market +
    +

    Anjuna Market

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Anjuna Beach, India + + + – + + Earlier today I caught a bus up to the Anjuna Flea Market and can now tell you for certain that old hippies do not die, they simply move to Goa. The flea market was quite a spectacle; riots of color at every turn and more silver jewelry than you could shake a stick at. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Fish Story +
    +

    Fish Story

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Colva Beach, India + + + – + + The Arabian Sea is warm and the sand sucks at your feet when you walk, schools of tiny fish dart and disappear into each receding wave. In the morning the water is nearly glassy and the beach slopes off so slowly one can walk out at least 200 meters and be only waist deep. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Backwaters of Kerala +
    +

    The Backwaters of Kerala

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + + – + + The guide showed us Tamarind trees, coconut palms, lemon trees, vanilla vine, plantain trees and countless other shrubs and bushes whose names I have already forgotten. The most fascinating was a plant that produces a fruit something like a miniature mango that contains cyanide and which, as our guide informed us, is cultivated mainly to commit suicide with — as if it was no big deal and everyone is at least occasionally tempted to each the killer mango. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Vasco de Gama Exhumed +
    +

    Vasco de Gama Exhumed

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + + – + + Fort Cochin is curious collision of cultures — Chinese, India and even Portuguese. Many of the obviously older buildings are of a distinctly Iberian-style — moss covered, adobe-colored arches abound. There is graveyard just down the road with a tombstone that bears the name Vasco de Gama, who died and was buried here for fourteen years before being moved to Lisbon (there we go again, more Europeans digging up and moving the dead). + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/croatia/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/croatia/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bb8d947 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/croatia/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,113 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Croatia + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Croatia

    +
    +
    + Feel Good Lost +
    +

    Feel Good Lost

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + + – + + Dubrovnik, Croatia was heavily shelled during the Bosnian conflict and roughly 65 percent of its buildings were hit, built for the most part you'd never know it. Most of the buildings date from about 1468, though some were destroyed in the great earthquake of 1667, still, by and large, the city looks as it did in the fifteenth century. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Blue Milk +
    +

    Blue Milk

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + + – + + It's hard to understand, standing on the banks of such crystalline, cerulean lakes, whose dazzling colors come from the mineral rich silt runoff of glaciers, that the largest European conflict since world war two began here, at Like Plitvice Croatia. But indeed this is where the first shots were fired on Easter Sunday in 1991 and the first casualty was a park policeman. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/croatia/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/croatia/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bb8d947 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/croatia/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,113 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Croatia + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Croatia

    +
    +
    + Feel Good Lost +
    +

    Feel Good Lost

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + + – + + Dubrovnik, Croatia was heavily shelled during the Bosnian conflict and roughly 65 percent of its buildings were hit, built for the most part you'd never know it. Most of the buildings date from about 1468, though some were destroyed in the great earthquake of 1667, still, by and large, the city looks as it did in the fifteenth century. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Blue Milk +
    +

    Blue Milk

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + + – + + It's hard to understand, standing on the banks of such crystalline, cerulean lakes, whose dazzling colors come from the mineral rich silt runoff of glaciers, that the largest European conflict since world war two began here, at Like Plitvice Croatia. But indeed this is where the first shots were fired on Easter Sunday in 1991 and the first casualty was a park policeman. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/czech-republic/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/czech-republic/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2255b57 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/czech-republic/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,114 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Czech Republic + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Czech Republic

    +
    +
    + Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds +
    +

    Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Prague, Czech Republic + + + – + + Just north of Prague's old town square and east of the River Vltava is Josefov, the old Jewish quarter of Prague. The Pinkas Synagogue in Josefov is an unassuming pale, sand-colored building with a slightly sunken entrance. Inside is a small alter and little else. The floor is bare; there are no places for worshipers to sit. The synagogue is little more than walls. And on the walls inscribed in extremely small print are the names of the 77,297 Jewish citizens of Bohemia and Moravia who died in the Holocaust. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Inside and Out +
    +

    Inside and Out

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic + + + – + + Chasing Egon Schiele: The attention to detail that makes the difference between a building and work of art was everywhere in Cesky Krumlov, from the delicate pink and red complements of a fine dovetailed corner, to the white plaster and oak beams of the Egon Schiele museum, which, despite geometric differences, looked not unlike the Globe Theatre in London. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/czech-republic/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/czech-republic/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2255b57 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/czech-republic/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,114 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Czech Republic + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Czech Republic

    +
    +
    + Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds +
    +

    Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Prague, Czech Republic + + + – + + Just north of Prague's old town square and east of the River Vltava is Josefov, the old Jewish quarter of Prague. The Pinkas Synagogue in Josefov is an unassuming pale, sand-colored building with a slightly sunken entrance. Inside is a small alter and little else. The floor is bare; there are no places for worshipers to sit. The synagogue is little more than walls. And on the walls inscribed in extremely small print are the names of the 77,297 Jewish citizens of Bohemia and Moravia who died in the Holocaust. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Inside and Out +
    +

    Inside and Out

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic + + + – + + Chasing Egon Schiele: The attention to detail that makes the difference between a building and work of art was everywhere in Cesky Krumlov, from the delicate pink and red complements of a fine dovetailed corner, to the white plaster and oak beams of the Egon Schiele museum, which, despite geometric differences, looked not unlike the Globe Theatre in London. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/europe/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/europe/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1f906ec --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/europe/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,402 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Europe + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Europe

    +
    +
    + The Language of Cities +
    +

    The Language of Cities

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Paris is angry. Cities can get angry. This isn't the first time it's happened to me. New York threw me out once. Los Angeles and I left on mutually hostile terms, though we've since made up. Cities have personalities just like people, and to really be part of a city your personalities have to mesh, you have to find each other on your own terms everyday. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + From Here We Go Sublime +
    +

    From Here We Go Sublime

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Just arrived Dulles-Reykjavik-Paris, 26-hour trip, no sleep. I see things. I see a grizzly looking Spaniard selling old railway lanterns at the flea market, I see muslim men playing basketball in skull caps, I see a Michael Faraday experiment with bulbs and wires enclosed in glass that turns out to be just an elevator. I see a stout Frenchwoman closing the gates of Pere Lachaise, no more dead, we've had enough of you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Cadenza +
    +

    Cadenza

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Paris - Outside it's raining. Beads of water form on the window in front of me. The glow of the unseen sun is fading behind midnight blue clouds and darkening sky. An old man in a butcher apron selling oysters under an awning smokes a cigarette and watches the mothers and children walking home with bags of groceries. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + I Don't Sleep I Dream +
    +

    I Don’t Sleep I Dream

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + + – + + How can Freud's former residence in Vienna lack a couch? The closest thing is up against the wall, behind a small writing desk in what was then the waiting room — a small divan where one might stare at the patternless ceiling until the patterns emerge as it were. “Tell me about it,” he began. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Unreflected +
    +

    Unreflected

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + + – + + The Kunsthistorisches Museum contains probably the best collection of art outside of France — Rubens, Rembrandt, Vermeer, Raphael, Velazquez, Bruegel and a certain Italian for whom I have a festering personal obsession, which shall be addressed shortly — and what's remarkable about this magnificent assemblage is that the vast majority of it was once the Hapsburg's private collection. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds +
    +

    Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Prague, Czech Republic + + + – + + Just north of Prague's old town square and east of the River Vltava is Josefov, the old Jewish quarter of Prague. The Pinkas Synagogue in Josefov is an unassuming pale, sand-colored building with a slightly sunken entrance. Inside is a small alter and little else. The floor is bare; there are no places for worshipers to sit. The synagogue is little more than walls. And on the walls inscribed in extremely small print are the names of the 77,297 Jewish citizens of Bohemia and Moravia who died in the Holocaust. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Inside and Out +
    +

    Inside and Out

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic + + + – + + Chasing Egon Schiele: The attention to detail that makes the difference between a building and work of art was everywhere in Cesky Krumlov, from the delicate pink and red complements of a fine dovetailed corner, to the white plaster and oak beams of the Egon Schiele museum, which, despite geometric differences, looked not unlike the Globe Theatre in London. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bled, Slovenia + + + – + + There is a roughly 200km loop of road that leads northwest out of Bled, through a pass in the Julian Alps and then down the other side, twisting and winding back toward Bled by way of craggy canyons, small hamlets and crystalline rivers. We set out sometime after breakfast. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ghost +
    +

    Ghost

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Ljubljana, Slovenia + + + – + + Like Dubrovnik, Trogir is a walled city of roughly Venetian vintage, but Trogir's wall has largely crumbled away or been removed. Still, it has the gorgeous narrow cobblestone streets, arched doorways and towering forts that give all Dalmatian towns their Rapunzel-like fairly tale quality. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Feel Good Lost +
    +

    Feel Good Lost

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + + – + + Dubrovnik, Croatia was heavily shelled during the Bosnian conflict and roughly 65 percent of its buildings were hit, built for the most part you'd never know it. Most of the buildings date from about 1468, though some were destroyed in the great earthquake of 1667, still, by and large, the city looks as it did in the fifteenth century. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Blue Milk +
    +

    Blue Milk

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + + – + + It's hard to understand, standing on the banks of such crystalline, cerulean lakes, whose dazzling colors come from the mineral rich silt runoff of glaciers, that the largest European conflict since world war two began here, at Like Plitvice Croatia. But indeed this is where the first shots were fired on Easter Sunday in 1991 and the first casualty was a park policeman. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Refracted Light and Grace +
    +

    Refracted Light and Grace

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Budapest, Hungary + + + – + + Evening, after dinner, outside on the balcony, smoking cigarettes and contemplating the nightscape of Buda's Castle Hill rising up out of its own golden reflection in the shimmering Danube waters. The drone of car horns in the distance and the electric tram squealing as it pulls out of the station below on the river a boat slowly churns upstream... + +

    +
    +
    +
    + London Calling +
    +

    London Calling

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + London, United Kingdom + + + – + + London: The British don't want me -- no money, no proof I'm leaving and no real reason for coming, good lord, I must be a vagabond, up to no good, surely. Eventually the customs agent relents and lets me in, a favor I repay by nearly burning down one of London's bigger parks. Seriously. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine +
    +

    Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Well it's my last night here in Paris and I've chosen to return to the best restaurant we've been to so far, an Iraqi restaurant in a Marais. I am using all my willpower right now to avoid having a political outburst re the quality of Iraqi food versus the intelligence of George Bush etc etc. I'm traveling; I don't want to get into politics except to say that my dislike for the current El Presidente was no small factor in my decision to go abroad. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bury Your Dead +
    +

    Bury Your Dead

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + I would like to say that the catacombs of Paris had some spectacular effect on me seeing that I strolled through human remains, skulls and femurs mainly, "decoratively arranged," but the truth is, after you get over the initial shock of seeing a skull, well, it turns out you can get adjusted to just about anything. Maybe that in and off itself is the scary part. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Houses We Live In +
    +

    The Houses We Live In

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + I've been thinking the last couple of days about something Bill's dad said to me before I left. I'm paraphrasing here since I don't remember the exact phrasing he used, but something to the effect of "people are essentially the same everywhere, they just build their houses differently." Indeed, Parisian architecture is completely unlike anything in America. Perhaps more than any other single element, architecture reflects culture and the ideas of the people that make up culture. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sainte Chapelle +
    +

    Sainte Chapelle

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Sainte Chapelle was interesting to see after the modern, conceptual art stuff at the Pompidou, rather than simple stained glass, Sainte Chapelle felt quite conceptual. In a sense the entire Bible (i.e. all history from that perspective) is unfolding simultaneously, quite a so-called post-modern idea if you think about it. And yet it was conceived and executed over 800 years ago. Kind of kicks a lot pretentious modern art in its collective ass. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Living in a Railway Car +
    +

    Living in a Railway Car

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + This French apartment is more like a railway sleeper car than apartment proper. Maybe fifteen feet long and only three feet wide at the ceiling. More like five feet wide at the floor, but, because it's an attic, the outer wall slopes in and you lose two feet by the time you get to the ceiling. It's narrow enough that you can't pass another body when you walk to length of it. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/europe/2/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/europe/2/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2f4d139 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/europe/2/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,77 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Europe -- Page 2 + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Europe

    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/europe/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/europe/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1f906ec --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/europe/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,402 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Europe + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Europe

    +
    +
    + The Language of Cities +
    +

    The Language of Cities

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Paris is angry. Cities can get angry. This isn't the first time it's happened to me. New York threw me out once. Los Angeles and I left on mutually hostile terms, though we've since made up. Cities have personalities just like people, and to really be part of a city your personalities have to mesh, you have to find each other on your own terms everyday. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + From Here We Go Sublime +
    +

    From Here We Go Sublime

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Just arrived Dulles-Reykjavik-Paris, 26-hour trip, no sleep. I see things. I see a grizzly looking Spaniard selling old railway lanterns at the flea market, I see muslim men playing basketball in skull caps, I see a Michael Faraday experiment with bulbs and wires enclosed in glass that turns out to be just an elevator. I see a stout Frenchwoman closing the gates of Pere Lachaise, no more dead, we've had enough of you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Cadenza +
    +

    Cadenza

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Paris - Outside it's raining. Beads of water form on the window in front of me. The glow of the unseen sun is fading behind midnight blue clouds and darkening sky. An old man in a butcher apron selling oysters under an awning smokes a cigarette and watches the mothers and children walking home with bags of groceries. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + I Don't Sleep I Dream +
    +

    I Don’t Sleep I Dream

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + + – + + How can Freud's former residence in Vienna lack a couch? The closest thing is up against the wall, behind a small writing desk in what was then the waiting room — a small divan where one might stare at the patternless ceiling until the patterns emerge as it were. “Tell me about it,” he began. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Unreflected +
    +

    Unreflected

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Vienna, Austria + + + – + + The Kunsthistorisches Museum contains probably the best collection of art outside of France — Rubens, Rembrandt, Vermeer, Raphael, Velazquez, Bruegel and a certain Italian for whom I have a festering personal obsession, which shall be addressed shortly — and what's remarkable about this magnificent assemblage is that the vast majority of it was once the Hapsburg's private collection. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds +
    +

    Four Minutes Thirty-Three Seconds

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Prague, Czech Republic + + + – + + Just north of Prague's old town square and east of the River Vltava is Josefov, the old Jewish quarter of Prague. The Pinkas Synagogue in Josefov is an unassuming pale, sand-colored building with a slightly sunken entrance. Inside is a small alter and little else. The floor is bare; there are no places for worshipers to sit. The synagogue is little more than walls. And on the walls inscribed in extremely small print are the names of the 77,297 Jewish citizens of Bohemia and Moravia who died in the Holocaust. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Inside and Out +
    +

    Inside and Out

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic + + + – + + Chasing Egon Schiele: The attention to detail that makes the difference between a building and work of art was everywhere in Cesky Krumlov, from the delicate pink and red complements of a fine dovetailed corner, to the white plaster and oak beams of the Egon Schiele museum, which, despite geometric differences, looked not unlike the Globe Theatre in London. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bled, Slovenia + + + – + + There is a roughly 200km loop of road that leads northwest out of Bled, through a pass in the Julian Alps and then down the other side, twisting and winding back toward Bled by way of craggy canyons, small hamlets and crystalline rivers. We set out sometime after breakfast. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ghost +
    +

    Ghost

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Ljubljana, Slovenia + + + – + + Like Dubrovnik, Trogir is a walled city of roughly Venetian vintage, but Trogir's wall has largely crumbled away or been removed. Still, it has the gorgeous narrow cobblestone streets, arched doorways and towering forts that give all Dalmatian towns their Rapunzel-like fairly tale quality. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Feel Good Lost +
    +

    Feel Good Lost

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + + – + + Dubrovnik, Croatia was heavily shelled during the Bosnian conflict and roughly 65 percent of its buildings were hit, built for the most part you'd never know it. Most of the buildings date from about 1468, though some were destroyed in the great earthquake of 1667, still, by and large, the city looks as it did in the fifteenth century. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Blue Milk +
    +

    Blue Milk

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Dubrovnik, Croatia + + + – + + It's hard to understand, standing on the banks of such crystalline, cerulean lakes, whose dazzling colors come from the mineral rich silt runoff of glaciers, that the largest European conflict since world war two began here, at Like Plitvice Croatia. But indeed this is where the first shots were fired on Easter Sunday in 1991 and the first casualty was a park policeman. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Refracted Light and Grace +
    +

    Refracted Light and Grace

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Budapest, Hungary + + + – + + Evening, after dinner, outside on the balcony, smoking cigarettes and contemplating the nightscape of Buda's Castle Hill rising up out of its own golden reflection in the shimmering Danube waters. The drone of car horns in the distance and the electric tram squealing as it pulls out of the station below on the river a boat slowly churns upstream... + +

    +
    +
    +
    + London Calling +
    +

    London Calling

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + London, United Kingdom + + + – + + London: The British don't want me -- no money, no proof I'm leaving and no real reason for coming, good lord, I must be a vagabond, up to no good, surely. Eventually the customs agent relents and lets me in, a favor I repay by nearly burning down one of London's bigger parks. Seriously. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine +
    +

    Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Well it's my last night here in Paris and I've chosen to return to the best restaurant we've been to so far, an Iraqi restaurant in a Marais. I am using all my willpower right now to avoid having a political outburst re the quality of Iraqi food versus the intelligence of George Bush etc etc. I'm traveling; I don't want to get into politics except to say that my dislike for the current El Presidente was no small factor in my decision to go abroad. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bury Your Dead +
    +

    Bury Your Dead

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + I would like to say that the catacombs of Paris had some spectacular effect on me seeing that I strolled through human remains, skulls and femurs mainly, "decoratively arranged," but the truth is, after you get over the initial shock of seeing a skull, well, it turns out you can get adjusted to just about anything. Maybe that in and off itself is the scary part. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Houses We Live In +
    +

    The Houses We Live In

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + I've been thinking the last couple of days about something Bill's dad said to me before I left. I'm paraphrasing here since I don't remember the exact phrasing he used, but something to the effect of "people are essentially the same everywhere, they just build their houses differently." Indeed, Parisian architecture is completely unlike anything in America. Perhaps more than any other single element, architecture reflects culture and the ideas of the people that make up culture. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sainte Chapelle +
    +

    Sainte Chapelle

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Sainte Chapelle was interesting to see after the modern, conceptual art stuff at the Pompidou, rather than simple stained glass, Sainte Chapelle felt quite conceptual. In a sense the entire Bible (i.e. all history from that perspective) is unfolding simultaneously, quite a so-called post-modern idea if you think about it. And yet it was conceived and executed over 800 years ago. Kind of kicks a lot pretentious modern art in its collective ass. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Living in a Railway Car +
    +

    Living in a Railway Car

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + This French apartment is more like a railway sleeper car than apartment proper. Maybe fifteen feet long and only three feet wide at the ceiling. More like five feet wide at the floor, but, because it's an attic, the outer wall slopes in and you lose two feet by the time you get to the ceiling. It's narrow enough that you can't pass another body when you walk to length of it. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/france/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/france/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..33127a2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/france/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,221 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from France + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from France

    +
    +
    + The Language of Cities +
    +

    The Language of Cities

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Paris is angry. Cities can get angry. This isn't the first time it's happened to me. New York threw me out once. Los Angeles and I left on mutually hostile terms, though we've since made up. Cities have personalities just like people, and to really be part of a city your personalities have to mesh, you have to find each other on your own terms everyday. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + From Here We Go Sublime +
    +

    From Here We Go Sublime

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Just arrived Dulles-Reykjavik-Paris, 26-hour trip, no sleep. I see things. I see a grizzly looking Spaniard selling old railway lanterns at the flea market, I see muslim men playing basketball in skull caps, I see a Michael Faraday experiment with bulbs and wires enclosed in glass that turns out to be just an elevator. I see a stout Frenchwoman closing the gates of Pere Lachaise, no more dead, we've had enough of you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Cadenza +
    +

    Cadenza

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Paris - Outside it's raining. Beads of water form on the window in front of me. The glow of the unseen sun is fading behind midnight blue clouds and darkening sky. An old man in a butcher apron selling oysters under an awning smokes a cigarette and watches the mothers and children walking home with bags of groceries. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine +
    +

    Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Well it's my last night here in Paris and I've chosen to return to the best restaurant we've been to so far, an Iraqi restaurant in a Marais. I am using all my willpower right now to avoid having a political outburst re the quality of Iraqi food versus the intelligence of George Bush etc etc. I'm traveling; I don't want to get into politics except to say that my dislike for the current El Presidente was no small factor in my decision to go abroad. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bury Your Dead +
    +

    Bury Your Dead

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + I would like to say that the catacombs of Paris had some spectacular effect on me seeing that I strolled through human remains, skulls and femurs mainly, "decoratively arranged," but the truth is, after you get over the initial shock of seeing a skull, well, it turns out you can get adjusted to just about anything. Maybe that in and off itself is the scary part. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Houses We Live In +
    +

    The Houses We Live In

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + I've been thinking the last couple of days about something Bill's dad said to me before I left. I'm paraphrasing here since I don't remember the exact phrasing he used, but something to the effect of "people are essentially the same everywhere, they just build their houses differently." Indeed, Parisian architecture is completely unlike anything in America. Perhaps more than any other single element, architecture reflects culture and the ideas of the people that make up culture. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sainte Chapelle +
    +

    Sainte Chapelle

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Sainte Chapelle was interesting to see after the modern, conceptual art stuff at the Pompidou, rather than simple stained glass, Sainte Chapelle felt quite conceptual. In a sense the entire Bible (i.e. all history from that perspective) is unfolding simultaneously, quite a so-called post-modern idea if you think about it. And yet it was conceived and executed over 800 years ago. Kind of kicks a lot pretentious modern art in its collective ass. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Living in a Railway Car +
    +

    Living in a Railway Car

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + This French apartment is more like a railway sleeper car than apartment proper. Maybe fifteen feet long and only three feet wide at the ceiling. More like five feet wide at the floor, but, because it's an attic, the outer wall slopes in and you lose two feet by the time you get to the ceiling. It's narrow enough that you can't pass another body when you walk to length of it. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/france/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/france/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..33127a2 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/france/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,221 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from France + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from France

    +
    +
    + The Language of Cities +
    +

    The Language of Cities

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Paris is angry. Cities can get angry. This isn't the first time it's happened to me. New York threw me out once. Los Angeles and I left on mutually hostile terms, though we've since made up. Cities have personalities just like people, and to really be part of a city your personalities have to mesh, you have to find each other on your own terms everyday. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + From Here We Go Sublime +
    +

    From Here We Go Sublime

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Just arrived Dulles-Reykjavik-Paris, 26-hour trip, no sleep. I see things. I see a grizzly looking Spaniard selling old railway lanterns at the flea market, I see muslim men playing basketball in skull caps, I see a Michael Faraday experiment with bulbs and wires enclosed in glass that turns out to be just an elevator. I see a stout Frenchwoman closing the gates of Pere Lachaise, no more dead, we've had enough of you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Cadenza +
    +

    Cadenza

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Paris - Outside it's raining. Beads of water form on the window in front of me. The glow of the unseen sun is fading behind midnight blue clouds and darkening sky. An old man in a butcher apron selling oysters under an awning smokes a cigarette and watches the mothers and children walking home with bags of groceries. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine +
    +

    Riots, Iraqi Restaurants, Goodbye Seine

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Well it's my last night here in Paris and I've chosen to return to the best restaurant we've been to so far, an Iraqi restaurant in a Marais. I am using all my willpower right now to avoid having a political outburst re the quality of Iraqi food versus the intelligence of George Bush etc etc. I'm traveling; I don't want to get into politics except to say that my dislike for the current El Presidente was no small factor in my decision to go abroad. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Bury Your Dead +
    +

    Bury Your Dead

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + I would like to say that the catacombs of Paris had some spectacular effect on me seeing that I strolled through human remains, skulls and femurs mainly, "decoratively arranged," but the truth is, after you get over the initial shock of seeing a skull, well, it turns out you can get adjusted to just about anything. Maybe that in and off itself is the scary part. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Houses We Live In +
    +

    The Houses We Live In

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + I've been thinking the last couple of days about something Bill's dad said to me before I left. I'm paraphrasing here since I don't remember the exact phrasing he used, but something to the effect of "people are essentially the same everywhere, they just build their houses differently." Indeed, Parisian architecture is completely unlike anything in America. Perhaps more than any other single element, architecture reflects culture and the ideas of the people that make up culture. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sainte Chapelle +
    +

    Sainte Chapelle

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Sainte Chapelle was interesting to see after the modern, conceptual art stuff at the Pompidou, rather than simple stained glass, Sainte Chapelle felt quite conceptual. In a sense the entire Bible (i.e. all history from that perspective) is unfolding simultaneously, quite a so-called post-modern idea if you think about it. And yet it was conceived and executed over 800 years ago. Kind of kicks a lot pretentious modern art in its collective ass. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Living in a Railway Car +
    +

    Living in a Railway Car

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + This French apartment is more like a railway sleeper car than apartment proper. Maybe fifteen feet long and only three feet wide at the ceiling. More like five feet wide at the floor, but, because it's an attic, the outer wall slopes in and you lose two feet by the time you get to the ceiling. It's narrow enough that you can't pass another body when you walk to length of it. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/hungary/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/hungary/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..446d47b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/hungary/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,95 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Hungary + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Hungary

    +
    +
    + Refracted Light and Grace +
    +

    Refracted Light and Grace

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Budapest, Hungary + + + – + + Evening, after dinner, outside on the balcony, smoking cigarettes and contemplating the nightscape of Buda's Castle Hill rising up out of its own golden reflection in the shimmering Danube waters. The drone of car horns in the distance and the electric tram squealing as it pulls out of the station below on the river a boat slowly churns upstream... + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/hungary/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/hungary/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..446d47b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/hungary/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,95 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Hungary + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Hungary

    +
    +
    + Refracted Light and Grace +
    +

    Refracted Light and Grace

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Budapest, Hungary + + + – + + Evening, after dinner, outside on the balcony, smoking cigarettes and contemplating the nightscape of Buda's Castle Hill rising up out of its own golden reflection in the shimmering Danube waters. The drone of car horns in the distance and the electric tram squealing as it pulls out of the station below on the river a boat slowly churns upstream... + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3beacfa --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,517 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Around the World + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing Archive

    +
    +
    + Oysterman Wanted +
    +

    Oysterman Wanted

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + + – + + The world of oystermen and local fishing industry is doomed. Even the people resisting the transition know they’re no longer fighting for their way of life. They’re just fighting to keep the thinnest resemblance of what they’ve always known around until they leave this world. They’re fighting to keep from having to watch the death of everything they know. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + All the Pretty Beaches +
    +

    All the Pretty Beaches

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + + – + + St. George is just off the Gulf Coast of northwest Florida, only about 7 hours from where I live. There are better places if you're looking to dive or snorkel. Ditto if it's nightlife you're after. But if you're looking for a seemingly endless amount of gorgeous white sand beaches you'll share with only a few migratory birds, St. George is the place to be. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Consider the Apalachicola Oyster +
    +

    Consider the Apalachicola Oyster

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Apalachicola, Florida, U.S. + + + – + + If you know the name Apalachicola at all it’s likely because of its eponymous oysters. Very few things, let alone culinary things, are as attached to place as oysters. In fact, once you get beyond the Rockefeller, ordering “oysters” is akin to walking in a bar and ordering “a beer.” But unlike beer, oysters don’t have brands, they have places — Pemaquid, Wellfleet, Blue Point, Apalachicola. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Things Behind the Sun +
    +

    Things Behind the Sun

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + My grandparents left the home they lived in for 60 years today. I don't know how much of my life was spent in that house, probably well over a year if you added up all the holidays and family gatherings. And now I'm thousands of miles away and someone is clearing out the house. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Street Food in Athens Georgia +
    +

    Street Food in Athens Georgia

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + Cheap food, made fresh, in front of you. Served hot, wrapped in newspaper. Street food is the people's food, it removes the mystery of the kitchen, lays the process bare. It's also the staple diet of people around the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Worst Place on Earth +
    +

    The Worst Place on Earth

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Gili Trawangan, Indonesia + + + – + + They aren't really the worst place on Earth (everyone knows that's Yuma, AZ), but the Gili Islands would top my list of places you should never go to. In the end they're not even a real place, just a collection of paradise fantasies culled from decades of hippie travelers, scuba divers, honeymooners, and the rich, lost children of the West. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Best Snorkeling in the World +
    +

    The Best Snorkeling in the World

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Nusa Lembongan, Bali, Indonesia + + + – + + Drift snorkeling is like watching fish float by the window of an underwater train. And Indonesia has more marine life than anywhere I've ever been. Fish I have previously seen perhaps two or three at a time are swimming in massive schools. The blue depths are filled with dozens of Moorish Idols, schools of deep purple tangs, so dark they look black until you get up close, parrotfish in clusters, munching on the coral, bright, powder blue tangs, yellow-masked angelfish, countless butterfly fish, wrasses, triggerfish, pufferfish and even bright blue starfish that crawl slowly over the reef. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Balinese Temple Ceremony +
    +

    The Balinese Temple Ceremony

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Ubud, Bali, Indonesia + + + – + + While Balinese temples look partly like Hindu temples in India, there are other elements that come from older religions. Bali is what happens when Hindu beliefs collide with animism. The Balinese seem to embrace the basic tenants of traditional Hinduism, but then add plenty of their own animist flourishes to the mix -- like frequent and elaborate temple ceremonies. We were lucky enough to be invited to a temple ceremony in Tegallantang, Bali. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Motor City is Burning +
    +

    Motor City is Burning

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Ubud, Bali, Indonesia + + + – + + Awesome as it was to be back on the Asian version of a motorbike, it wasn't quite the relaxing riding I did in Laos and elsewhere. You can never recapture the magic, and I wasn't trying.... Okay, maybe I was, but it didn't work. regrettably Honda seems to have phased out the Dream in the last five years, replacing it with something called the Nitro, which just doesn't have the same ring to it. But the bike is irrelevant, was always irrelevant. I missed my friends. It just wasn't the same by myself. Debi, Matt, where are you? There are roads to be ridden, locals with ten people on a bike to be humbled by. Six fingered men to be seen, by some. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Cooking in Rome +
    +

    Cooking in Rome

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Rome, Italy + + + – + + In the end Italy and I didn't really get along, but the food redeemed it for me. The restaurants are good, but if you really want to experience the glory of Italian food you need to head to the market, grab some utterly amazing raw ingredients and whip up something yourself. This is what food is supposed to be, simple, fresh and great. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Natural Science +
    +

    Natural Science

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Firenze (Florence), Italy + + + – + + There's no way around it; Florence is crowded. It may well be that Naples is the only Italian city that isn't overrun with tourists in the summer, but after three days of hardly seeing another traveler, I wasn't prepared for the crowds. Luckily it isn't hard to avoid the tourist hordes, just get up early and then when everyone else is starting to stir, head for obscure museums like La Specola, part of the Museo di Storia Naturale di Firenze. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Forever Today +
    +

    Forever Today

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Pompeii, Italy + + + – + + Pompeii feels both very old and not that different from the modern cities that surround it now. The gap between then and now feels small because when you wander around places like Pompeii you realize that human beings have changed very little over vast expanses of time. Pompeii had the same elements of cities today, a central square, markets, temples, government offices, even fast food. Not much has changed over the years, though togas aren’t much in vogue these days. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The New Pollution +
    +

    The New Pollution

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Napoli (Naples), Italy + + + – + + Naples Italy is a big, crowded, graffiti-filled city. It's an intimidating place that is by turns a bit like Philadelphia, a bit Mumbai, a bit some post-apocalyptic video game and, in the end, something else entirely. Still, given the tourist epidemic that sweeps Italy every summer, Naples is a place worth appreciating for what it is not, even if what is isn't, perhaps, enough to ever bring you back. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Language of Cities +
    +

    The Language of Cities

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Paris is angry. Cities can get angry. This isn't the first time it's happened to me. New York threw me out once. Los Angeles and I left on mutually hostile terms, though we've since made up. Cities have personalities just like people, and to really be part of a city your personalities have to mesh, you have to find each other on your own terms everyday. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + From Here We Go Sublime +
    +

    From Here We Go Sublime

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Paris, France + + + – + + Just arrived Dulles-Reykjavik-Paris, 26-hour trip, no sleep. I see things. I see a grizzly looking Spaniard selling old railway lanterns at the flea market, I see muslim men playing basketball in skull caps, I see a Michael Faraday experiment with bulbs and wires enclosed in glass that turns out to be just an elevator. I see a stout Frenchwoman closing the gates of Pere Lachaise, no more dead, we've had enough of you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + We Used to Wait For It +
    +

    We Used to Wait For It

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + When we first came here, there was nothing. Downtown Los Angeles was an empty husk of a place fifteen years ago. Now it's reborn, alive and kicking. Yet there is something in the older buildings, something in the old walls, something lost in the bricks, something in the concrete, the marble. Something you don’t find anymore. Something we need to find again. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The World Outside +
    +

    The World Outside

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + The world outside the house is blanketed in snow, a monochrome of white interrupted only by the dark, wet trunks of trees, the red brick of chimneys, the occasional green of shrubs poking through. The roads are unbroken expanses of smooth white, no one is out yet, no footprints track their way through the snowy sidewalk. The world outside is the same as it was last night, before the snow began, and yet, it feels totally different. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Charleston A-Z +
    +

    Charleston A-Z

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Charleston, South Carolina, U.S. + + + – + + Charleston alphabetically. For example, Q is for quiet, Charleston has a lot of it. Just head down to the Battery area, walk through the park and starting walking down the side streets. Take one of the many alleys and walkways that weave between the massive, stately houses. Get lost. It doesn't take much to find a quiet place of your own. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + This is the only real way to see Dinosaur National Monument — you must journey down the river. There are two major rivers running through Dinosaur, the Yampa, which carves through Yampa Canyon, and the Green, which cuts through Lodore. Adventure Bound Rafting runs some of the best whitewater rafting trips in Colorado and I was lucky enough to go down the Green River with them, through the majestic Lodore Canyon. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + Dinosaur National Monument was poorly named. The best parts of it are not the fossils in the quarry (which is closed for 2010 anyway) but the canyon country — some of the best, most remote canyon country you'll find in this part of the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone +
    +

    The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming, U.S. + + + – + + There is wilderness in Yellowstone, even if it's just inches from the boardwalks that transport thousands around the geothermal pools. It may not be wilderness on a grand scale — the sweeping mountain peaks or wild rivers of other parks — but in some ways that makes it more enticing. As one Ranger told me, Yellowstone isn't about the big picture, the grand scenery, it's about the tiny details within each pool. To really see Yellowstone, he said, you have to take your time, move slowly and look closely. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Backpacking in the Grand Tetons +
    +

    Backpacking in the Grand Tetons

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming, U.S. + + + – + + Hiking into the wilderness empties your mind. You fall into the silence of the mountains and you can relax in a way that's very difficult to do in the midst of civilization. The white noise that surrounds us in our everyday lives, that noise we don't even notice as it adds thin layers of stress that build up over days, weeks, years, does not seem capable of following us into the mountains. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Great Sand Dunes National Park +
    +

    Great Sand Dunes National Park

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Great Sand Dunes National Park, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + Something about the desert inspires me to get up early and watch the sunrise. The cool mornings seem worth getting up for out here in the high plains of Colorado, especially when there's the chance to watch the sunrise from the largest sand dunes in North America, here in Great Sand Dune National Park. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Comanche National Grasslands +
    +

    Comanche National Grasslands

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Comanche National Grasslands, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + To say the Comanche National Grasslands is off the grid would be an understatement. With the exception of Highway 50 in Nevada, I've never driven through such isolation and vast openness anywhere in the world. And it's easy to get lost. There are no signs, no road names even, just dirt paths crisscrossing a wide, perfectly flat expanses of grass. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/india/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/india/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9a64b95 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/india/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,293 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from India + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from India

    +
    +
    + Goodbye India +
    +

    Goodbye India

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Delhi, India + + + – + + I have taken almost 750 photos and traveled nearly 4000 km (2500 miles) in India, the vast majority of it by train. I have seen everything from depressing squalor to majestic palaces and yet I still feel as if I have hardly scratched the surface. I can't think of another and certainly have never been to a country with the kind of geographic and ethnic diversity of India. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Taj Express +
    +

    The Taj Express

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Agra, India + + + – + + The Taj Mahal is one of the Seven Wonders of the World, and, given the level of hype I was fully prepared to be underwhelmed, but I was wrong. I have never in my life seen anything so extravagant, elegant and colossal. The Taj Mahal seems mythically, spiritually, as well as architecturally, to have risen from nowhere, without equal or context. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + On a Camel With No Name +
    +

    On a Camel With No Name

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Thar Desert, India + + + – + + The Thar Desert is a bewitching if stark place. It reminded me of areas of the Great Basin between Las Vegas and St. George, Utah. Twigging mesquite-like trees, bluish gray bushes resembling creosote, a very large bush that resembled a Palo Verde tree and grew in impenetrable clumps, and, strangely, only one species of cactus and not a whole lot of them. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Majestic Fort +
    +

    The Majestic Fort

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Jodhpur, India + + + – + + The next day I hopped in a rickshaw and headed up to tour Meherangarh, or the Majestic Fort as it's known in English. As its English name indicates, it is indeed perched majestically atop the only hill around, and seems not so much built on a hill as to have naturally risen out the very rocks that form the mesa on which it rests. The outer wall encloses some of the sturdiest and most impressive ramparts I've seen in India or anywhere else. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Around Udaipur +
    +

    Around Udaipur

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + + – + + Just out of Udaipur is a government sponsored "artist colony" for various cultures from the five nearby states, Rajasthan, Gujarat, Karnataka, Goa and Madhya Pradesh. On one hand Shilpogram is a wonderful idea on the part of the government, but on the other hand the "artists colony" is slightly creepy. Amidst displays of typical tribal life there were artists and craftsmen and women hawking their wares along with dancers and musicians performing traditional songs. The whole thing had the feel of a living museum, or, for the creepy angle — human zoo. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Monsoon Palace +
    +

    The Monsoon Palace

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + + – + + We started out in the early evening quickly leaving behind Udaipur and its increasing urban sprawl. The road to the Monsoon Palace passes through the Sajjan Garh Nature Preserve and there was a sudden and dramatic drop in temperature, but then the road climbed out of the hollow and the temperature jumped back up to comfortable as we began to climb the mountain in a series of hairpin switchbacks. As the sun slowly slunk behind the mountain range to the west the balconies and balustrades of the Monsoon Palace took on an increasingly orange hue. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The City Palace +
    +

    The City Palace

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + + – + + I spent some time sitting in the inner gardens of the City Place, listening to rustling trees and the various guides bringing small groups of western and Indian tourists through the garden. In the center of the hanging gardens was the kings, extremely oversized bath, which reminded me of children's book that I once gave to a friend's daughter; it was a massively oversized and lavishly illustrated book that told the story of a king who refused to get out of the bath and instead made his ministers, advisors, cooks and even his wife conduct business by getting in the bath with him. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Living in Airport Terminals +
    +

    Living in Airport Terminals

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Ahmedabad, India + + + – + + Airport terminals are fast becoming my favorite part of traveling. When you stop and observe them closely as I have been forced to do on this trip, terminals are actually quite beautiful, weird places. Terminals inhabit a unique space in the architecture of humanity, perhaps the strangest of all spaces we have created; a space that is itself only a boundary that delineates the border between what was and what will be without leaving any space at all for what is. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Anjuna Market +
    +

    Anjuna Market

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Anjuna Beach, India + + + – + + Earlier today I caught a bus up to the Anjuna Flea Market and can now tell you for certain that old hippies do not die, they simply move to Goa. The flea market was quite a spectacle; riots of color at every turn and more silver jewelry than you could shake a stick at. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Fish Story +
    +

    Fish Story

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Colva Beach, India + + + – + + The Arabian Sea is warm and the sand sucks at your feet when you walk, schools of tiny fish dart and disappear into each receding wave. In the morning the water is nearly glassy and the beach slopes off so slowly one can walk out at least 200 meters and be only waist deep. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Backwaters of Kerala +
    +

    The Backwaters of Kerala

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + + – + + The guide showed us Tamarind trees, coconut palms, lemon trees, vanilla vine, plantain trees and countless other shrubs and bushes whose names I have already forgotten. The most fascinating was a plant that produces a fruit something like a miniature mango that contains cyanide and which, as our guide informed us, is cultivated mainly to commit suicide with — as if it was no big deal and everyone is at least occasionally tempted to each the killer mango. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Vasco de Gama Exhumed +
    +

    Vasco de Gama Exhumed

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + + – + + Fort Cochin is curious collision of cultures — Chinese, India and even Portuguese. Many of the obviously older buildings are of a distinctly Iberian-style — moss covered, adobe-colored arches abound. There is graveyard just down the road with a tombstone that bears the name Vasco de Gama, who died and was buried here for fourteen years before being moved to Lisbon (there we go again, more Europeans digging up and moving the dead). + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/india/2/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/india/2/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..be4067e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/india/2/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,77 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from India -- Page 2 + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from India

    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/india/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/india/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9a64b95 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/india/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,293 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from India + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from India

    +
    +
    + Goodbye India +
    +

    Goodbye India

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Delhi, India + + + – + + I have taken almost 750 photos and traveled nearly 4000 km (2500 miles) in India, the vast majority of it by train. I have seen everything from depressing squalor to majestic palaces and yet I still feel as if I have hardly scratched the surface. I can't think of another and certainly have never been to a country with the kind of geographic and ethnic diversity of India. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Taj Express +
    +

    The Taj Express

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Agra, India + + + – + + The Taj Mahal is one of the Seven Wonders of the World, and, given the level of hype I was fully prepared to be underwhelmed, but I was wrong. I have never in my life seen anything so extravagant, elegant and colossal. The Taj Mahal seems mythically, spiritually, as well as architecturally, to have risen from nowhere, without equal or context. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + On a Camel With No Name +
    +

    On a Camel With No Name

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Thar Desert, India + + + – + + The Thar Desert is a bewitching if stark place. It reminded me of areas of the Great Basin between Las Vegas and St. George, Utah. Twigging mesquite-like trees, bluish gray bushes resembling creosote, a very large bush that resembled a Palo Verde tree and grew in impenetrable clumps, and, strangely, only one species of cactus and not a whole lot of them. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Majestic Fort +
    +

    The Majestic Fort

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Jodhpur, India + + + – + + The next day I hopped in a rickshaw and headed up to tour Meherangarh, or the Majestic Fort as it's known in English. As its English name indicates, it is indeed perched majestically atop the only hill around, and seems not so much built on a hill as to have naturally risen out the very rocks that form the mesa on which it rests. The outer wall encloses some of the sturdiest and most impressive ramparts I've seen in India or anywhere else. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Around Udaipur +
    +

    Around Udaipur

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + + – + + Just out of Udaipur is a government sponsored "artist colony" for various cultures from the five nearby states, Rajasthan, Gujarat, Karnataka, Goa and Madhya Pradesh. On one hand Shilpogram is a wonderful idea on the part of the government, but on the other hand the "artists colony" is slightly creepy. Amidst displays of typical tribal life there were artists and craftsmen and women hawking their wares along with dancers and musicians performing traditional songs. The whole thing had the feel of a living museum, or, for the creepy angle — human zoo. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Monsoon Palace +
    +

    The Monsoon Palace

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + + – + + We started out in the early evening quickly leaving behind Udaipur and its increasing urban sprawl. The road to the Monsoon Palace passes through the Sajjan Garh Nature Preserve and there was a sudden and dramatic drop in temperature, but then the road climbed out of the hollow and the temperature jumped back up to comfortable as we began to climb the mountain in a series of hairpin switchbacks. As the sun slowly slunk behind the mountain range to the west the balconies and balustrades of the Monsoon Palace took on an increasingly orange hue. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The City Palace +
    +

    The City Palace

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Udiapur, India + + + – + + I spent some time sitting in the inner gardens of the City Place, listening to rustling trees and the various guides bringing small groups of western and Indian tourists through the garden. In the center of the hanging gardens was the kings, extremely oversized bath, which reminded me of children's book that I once gave to a friend's daughter; it was a massively oversized and lavishly illustrated book that told the story of a king who refused to get out of the bath and instead made his ministers, advisors, cooks and even his wife conduct business by getting in the bath with him. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Living in Airport Terminals +
    +

    Living in Airport Terminals

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Ahmedabad, India + + + – + + Airport terminals are fast becoming my favorite part of traveling. When you stop and observe them closely as I have been forced to do on this trip, terminals are actually quite beautiful, weird places. Terminals inhabit a unique space in the architecture of humanity, perhaps the strangest of all spaces we have created; a space that is itself only a boundary that delineates the border between what was and what will be without leaving any space at all for what is. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Anjuna Market +
    +

    Anjuna Market

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Anjuna Beach, India + + + – + + Earlier today I caught a bus up to the Anjuna Flea Market and can now tell you for certain that old hippies do not die, they simply move to Goa. The flea market was quite a spectacle; riots of color at every turn and more silver jewelry than you could shake a stick at. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Fish Story +
    +

    Fish Story

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Colva Beach, India + + + – + + The Arabian Sea is warm and the sand sucks at your feet when you walk, schools of tiny fish dart and disappear into each receding wave. In the morning the water is nearly glassy and the beach slopes off so slowly one can walk out at least 200 meters and be only waist deep. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Backwaters of Kerala +
    +

    The Backwaters of Kerala

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + + – + + The guide showed us Tamarind trees, coconut palms, lemon trees, vanilla vine, plantain trees and countless other shrubs and bushes whose names I have already forgotten. The most fascinating was a plant that produces a fruit something like a miniature mango that contains cyanide and which, as our guide informed us, is cultivated mainly to commit suicide with — as if it was no big deal and everyone is at least occasionally tempted to each the killer mango. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Vasco de Gama Exhumed +
    +

    Vasco de Gama Exhumed

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Fort Kochi, India + + + – + + Fort Cochin is curious collision of cultures — Chinese, India and even Portuguese. Many of the obviously older buildings are of a distinctly Iberian-style — moss covered, adobe-colored arches abound. There is graveyard just down the road with a tombstone that bears the name Vasco de Gama, who died and was buried here for fourteen years before being moved to Lisbon (there we go again, more Europeans digging up and moving the dead). + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/indonesia/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/indonesia/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ef451ea --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/indonesia/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,149 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Indonesia + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Indonesia

    +
    +
    + The Worst Place on Earth +
    +

    The Worst Place on Earth

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Gili Trawangan, Indonesia + + + – + + They aren't really the worst place on Earth (everyone knows that's Yuma, AZ), but the Gili Islands would top my list of places you should never go to. In the end they're not even a real place, just a collection of paradise fantasies culled from decades of hippie travelers, scuba divers, honeymooners, and the rich, lost children of the West. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Best Snorkeling in the World +
    +

    The Best Snorkeling in the World

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Nusa Lembongan, Bali, Indonesia + + + – + + Drift snorkeling is like watching fish float by the window of an underwater train. And Indonesia has more marine life than anywhere I've ever been. Fish I have previously seen perhaps two or three at a time are swimming in massive schools. The blue depths are filled with dozens of Moorish Idols, schools of deep purple tangs, so dark they look black until you get up close, parrotfish in clusters, munching on the coral, bright, powder blue tangs, yellow-masked angelfish, countless butterfly fish, wrasses, triggerfish, pufferfish and even bright blue starfish that crawl slowly over the reef. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Balinese Temple Ceremony +
    +

    The Balinese Temple Ceremony

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Ubud, Bali, Indonesia + + + – + + While Balinese temples look partly like Hindu temples in India, there are other elements that come from older religions. Bali is what happens when Hindu beliefs collide with animism. The Balinese seem to embrace the basic tenants of traditional Hinduism, but then add plenty of their own animist flourishes to the mix -- like frequent and elaborate temple ceremonies. We were lucky enough to be invited to a temple ceremony in Tegallantang, Bali. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Motor City is Burning +
    +

    Motor City is Burning

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Ubud, Bali, Indonesia + + + – + + Awesome as it was to be back on the Asian version of a motorbike, it wasn't quite the relaxing riding I did in Laos and elsewhere. You can never recapture the magic, and I wasn't trying.... Okay, maybe I was, but it didn't work. regrettably Honda seems to have phased out the Dream in the last five years, replacing it with something called the Nitro, which just doesn't have the same ring to it. But the bike is irrelevant, was always irrelevant. I missed my friends. It just wasn't the same by myself. Debi, Matt, where are you? There are roads to be ridden, locals with ten people on a bike to be humbled by. Six fingered men to be seen, by some. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/indonesia/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/indonesia/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ef451ea --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/indonesia/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,149 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Indonesia + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Indonesia

    +
    +
    + The Worst Place on Earth +
    +

    The Worst Place on Earth

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Gili Trawangan, Indonesia + + + – + + They aren't really the worst place on Earth (everyone knows that's Yuma, AZ), but the Gili Islands would top my list of places you should never go to. In the end they're not even a real place, just a collection of paradise fantasies culled from decades of hippie travelers, scuba divers, honeymooners, and the rich, lost children of the West. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Best Snorkeling in the World +
    +

    The Best Snorkeling in the World

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Nusa Lembongan, Bali, Indonesia + + + – + + Drift snorkeling is like watching fish float by the window of an underwater train. And Indonesia has more marine life than anywhere I've ever been. Fish I have previously seen perhaps two or three at a time are swimming in massive schools. The blue depths are filled with dozens of Moorish Idols, schools of deep purple tangs, so dark they look black until you get up close, parrotfish in clusters, munching on the coral, bright, powder blue tangs, yellow-masked angelfish, countless butterfly fish, wrasses, triggerfish, pufferfish and even bright blue starfish that crawl slowly over the reef. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Balinese Temple Ceremony +
    +

    The Balinese Temple Ceremony

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Ubud, Bali, Indonesia + + + – + + While Balinese temples look partly like Hindu temples in India, there are other elements that come from older religions. Bali is what happens when Hindu beliefs collide with animism. The Balinese seem to embrace the basic tenants of traditional Hinduism, but then add plenty of their own animist flourishes to the mix -- like frequent and elaborate temple ceremonies. We were lucky enough to be invited to a temple ceremony in Tegallantang, Bali. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Motor City is Burning +
    +

    Motor City is Burning

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Ubud, Bali, Indonesia + + + – + + Awesome as it was to be back on the Asian version of a motorbike, it wasn't quite the relaxing riding I did in Laos and elsewhere. You can never recapture the magic, and I wasn't trying.... Okay, maybe I was, but it didn't work. regrettably Honda seems to have phased out the Dream in the last five years, replacing it with something called the Nitro, which just doesn't have the same ring to it. But the bike is irrelevant, was always irrelevant. I missed my friends. It just wasn't the same by myself. Debi, Matt, where are you? There are roads to be ridden, locals with ten people on a bike to be humbled by. Six fingered men to be seen, by some. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/italy/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/italy/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..554f60e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/italy/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,149 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Italy + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Italy

    +
    +
    + Cooking in Rome +
    +

    Cooking in Rome

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Rome, Italy + + + – + + In the end Italy and I didn't really get along, but the food redeemed it for me. The restaurants are good, but if you really want to experience the glory of Italian food you need to head to the market, grab some utterly amazing raw ingredients and whip up something yourself. This is what food is supposed to be, simple, fresh and great. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Natural Science +
    +

    Natural Science

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Firenze (Florence), Italy + + + – + + There's no way around it; Florence is crowded. It may well be that Naples is the only Italian city that isn't overrun with tourists in the summer, but after three days of hardly seeing another traveler, I wasn't prepared for the crowds. Luckily it isn't hard to avoid the tourist hordes, just get up early and then when everyone else is starting to stir, head for obscure museums like La Specola, part of the Museo di Storia Naturale di Firenze. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Forever Today +
    +

    Forever Today

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Pompeii, Italy + + + – + + Pompeii feels both very old and not that different from the modern cities that surround it now. The gap between then and now feels small because when you wander around places like Pompeii you realize that human beings have changed very little over vast expanses of time. Pompeii had the same elements of cities today, a central square, markets, temples, government offices, even fast food. Not much has changed over the years, though togas aren’t much in vogue these days. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The New Pollution +
    +

    The New Pollution

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Napoli (Naples), Italy + + + – + + Naples Italy is a big, crowded, graffiti-filled city. It's an intimidating place that is by turns a bit like Philadelphia, a bit Mumbai, a bit some post-apocalyptic video game and, in the end, something else entirely. Still, given the tourist epidemic that sweeps Italy every summer, Naples is a place worth appreciating for what it is not, even if what is isn't, perhaps, enough to ever bring you back. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/italy/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/italy/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..554f60e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/italy/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,149 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Italy + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Italy

    +
    +
    + Cooking in Rome +
    +

    Cooking in Rome

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Rome, Italy + + + – + + In the end Italy and I didn't really get along, but the food redeemed it for me. The restaurants are good, but if you really want to experience the glory of Italian food you need to head to the market, grab some utterly amazing raw ingredients and whip up something yourself. This is what food is supposed to be, simple, fresh and great. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Natural Science +
    +

    Natural Science

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Firenze (Florence), Italy + + + – + + There's no way around it; Florence is crowded. It may well be that Naples is the only Italian city that isn't overrun with tourists in the summer, but after three days of hardly seeing another traveler, I wasn't prepared for the crowds. Luckily it isn't hard to avoid the tourist hordes, just get up early and then when everyone else is starting to stir, head for obscure museums like La Specola, part of the Museo di Storia Naturale di Firenze. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Forever Today +
    +

    Forever Today

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Pompeii, Italy + + + – + + Pompeii feels both very old and not that different from the modern cities that surround it now. The gap between then and now feels small because when you wander around places like Pompeii you realize that human beings have changed very little over vast expanses of time. Pompeii had the same elements of cities today, a central square, markets, temples, government offices, even fast food. Not much has changed over the years, though togas aren’t much in vogue these days. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The New Pollution +
    +

    The New Pollution

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Napoli (Naples), Italy + + + – + + Naples Italy is a big, crowded, graffiti-filled city. It's an intimidating place that is by turns a bit like Philadelphia, a bit Mumbai, a bit some post-apocalyptic video game and, in the end, something else entirely. Still, given the tourist epidemic that sweeps Italy every summer, Naples is a place worth appreciating for what it is not, even if what is isn't, perhaps, enough to ever bring you back. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/laos/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/laos/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7c5756e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/laos/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,239 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Lao (Pdr) + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Lao (Pdr)

    +
    +
    + Little Corner of the World +
    +

    Little Corner of the World

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Four Thousand Islands, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + It's difficult to explain but the further south you go in Laos the more relaxed life becomes. Since life in the north is not exactly high stress, by the time we arrived in the four thousand Islands we had to check our pulse periodically to ensure that time was in fact still moving forward. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Can&#8217;t Get There From Here +
    +

    Can’t Get There From Here

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Attapeu, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + The most magical light in Laos lives on the Bolevan Plateau. For some reason not many tourists seem to make it out to the Bolevan Plateau, in spite of the fact that the roads are quite good, transport runs regularly, the villages peaceful, even sleepy, little hamlets. In short, the Bolevan Plateau is wonderful, and not the least in part because no one else is there. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Safe as Milk +
    +

    Safe as Milk

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Sekong, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + You would think, if you were the United States and you were illegally and unofficially bombing a foreign country you might not want to stamp "US Bomb" on the side of your bombs, and yet there it was all over Laos: "US Bomb." Clearly somebody didn't think things all the way through, especially given that roughly one third of said bombs failed to explode. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Everyday the Fourteenth +
    +

    Everyday the Fourteenth

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Savannakhet, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + We piled four large bags, four daypacks and five people in a six meter dugout canoe. The boat was powered by the ever-present-in-southeast-Asia long tail motor which is essential a lawnmower engine with a three meter pole extending out of it to which a small propeller is attached — perfect for navigating shallow water. And by shallow I mean sometimes a mere inch between the hull and the riverbed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Water Slides and Spirit Guides +
    +

    Water Slides and Spirit Guides

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Konglor Cave, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + The dramatic black karst limestone mountains ringing Ban Na Hin grew darker as the light faded. I was sitting alone on the back porch of our guesthouse watching the light slowly disappear from the bottoms of the clouds and wondering absently how many pages it would take to explain how I came to be in the tiny town of Ban Na Hin, or if such an explanation even really existed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Lovely Universe +
    +

    The Lovely Universe

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Vang Vieng, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + I would like to say that I have something memorable to write about Vang Vieng, but the truth is we mostly sat around doing very little, making new friends, drinking a beer around the fire and waiting out the Chinese new year celebrations, which meant none of us could get Cambodian visas until the following Monday. We were forced to relax beside the river for several more days than we intended. Yes friends, traveling is hard, but I do it for you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan +
    +

    I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Luang Nam Tha, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + The next time someone asks you, “would you like to live in a tree house and travel five hundred feet above the ground attached to a zip wire?” I highly suggest you say, “yes, where do a I sign up?” If you happen to be in Laos, try the Gibbon Experience. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Hymn of the Big Wheel +
    +

    Hymn of the Big Wheel

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + Jose Saramago writes in The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis that the gods "journey like us in the river of things, differing from us only because we call them gods and sometimes believe in them." Sitting in the middle of the river listening to the gurgle of water moving over stone and around trees I began to think that perhaps this is the sound of some lost language, a sound capable of creating mountains, valleys, estuaries, isthmuses and all the other forms around us, gurgling and sonorous but without clear meaning, shrouded in turquoise, a mystery through which we can move our sense of wonder intact. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Down the River +
    +

    Down the River

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + Morning in Chiang Khong Thailand revealed itself as a foggy, and not a little mysterious, affair with the far shore of the Mekong, the Laos shore, almost completely hidden in a veil of mist. The first ferry crossed at eight and I was on it, looking to meet up with the slow boat to Luang Prabang. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/laos/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/laos/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7c5756e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/laos/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,239 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Lao (Pdr) + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Lao (Pdr)

    +
    +
    + Little Corner of the World +
    +

    Little Corner of the World

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Four Thousand Islands, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + It's difficult to explain but the further south you go in Laos the more relaxed life becomes. Since life in the north is not exactly high stress, by the time we arrived in the four thousand Islands we had to check our pulse periodically to ensure that time was in fact still moving forward. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Can&#8217;t Get There From Here +
    +

    Can’t Get There From Here

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Attapeu, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + The most magical light in Laos lives on the Bolevan Plateau. For some reason not many tourists seem to make it out to the Bolevan Plateau, in spite of the fact that the roads are quite good, transport runs regularly, the villages peaceful, even sleepy, little hamlets. In short, the Bolevan Plateau is wonderful, and not the least in part because no one else is there. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Safe as Milk +
    +

    Safe as Milk

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Sekong, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + You would think, if you were the United States and you were illegally and unofficially bombing a foreign country you might not want to stamp "US Bomb" on the side of your bombs, and yet there it was all over Laos: "US Bomb." Clearly somebody didn't think things all the way through, especially given that roughly one third of said bombs failed to explode. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Everyday the Fourteenth +
    +

    Everyday the Fourteenth

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Savannakhet, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + We piled four large bags, four daypacks and five people in a six meter dugout canoe. The boat was powered by the ever-present-in-southeast-Asia long tail motor which is essential a lawnmower engine with a three meter pole extending out of it to which a small propeller is attached — perfect for navigating shallow water. And by shallow I mean sometimes a mere inch between the hull and the riverbed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Water Slides and Spirit Guides +
    +

    Water Slides and Spirit Guides

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Konglor Cave, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + The dramatic black karst limestone mountains ringing Ban Na Hin grew darker as the light faded. I was sitting alone on the back porch of our guesthouse watching the light slowly disappear from the bottoms of the clouds and wondering absently how many pages it would take to explain how I came to be in the tiny town of Ban Na Hin, or if such an explanation even really existed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Lovely Universe +
    +

    The Lovely Universe

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Vang Vieng, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + I would like to say that I have something memorable to write about Vang Vieng, but the truth is we mostly sat around doing very little, making new friends, drinking a beer around the fire and waiting out the Chinese new year celebrations, which meant none of us could get Cambodian visas until the following Monday. We were forced to relax beside the river for several more days than we intended. Yes friends, traveling is hard, but I do it for you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan +
    +

    I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Luang Nam Tha, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + The next time someone asks you, “would you like to live in a tree house and travel five hundred feet above the ground attached to a zip wire?” I highly suggest you say, “yes, where do a I sign up?” If you happen to be in Laos, try the Gibbon Experience. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Hymn of the Big Wheel +
    +

    Hymn of the Big Wheel

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + Jose Saramago writes in The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis that the gods "journey like us in the river of things, differing from us only because we call them gods and sometimes believe in them." Sitting in the middle of the river listening to the gurgle of water moving over stone and around trees I began to think that perhaps this is the sound of some lost language, a sound capable of creating mountains, valleys, estuaries, isthmuses and all the other forms around us, gurgling and sonorous but without clear meaning, shrouded in turquoise, a mystery through which we can move our sense of wonder intact. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Down the River +
    +

    Down the River

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + Morning in Chiang Khong Thailand revealed itself as a foggy, and not a little mysterious, affair with the far shore of the Mekong, the Laos shore, almost completely hidden in a veil of mist. The first ferry crossed at eight and I was on it, looking to meet up with the slow boat to Luang Prabang. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/nepal/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/nepal/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3075d11 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/nepal/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,131 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Nepal + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Nepal

    +
    +
    + Sunset Over the Himalayas +
    +

    Sunset Over the Himalayas

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Pokhara, Nepal + + + – + + After about forty-five minutes of paddling I reached a point where the views of the Annapurna range were, in the words of an Englishman I met in Katmandu, "gob smacking gorgeous." I put down the paddle and moved to the center of the boat where the benches were wider and, using my bag a cushion, lay back against the gunwale and hung my feet over the opposite side so that they just skimmed the surface of the chilly water. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Pashupatinath +
    +

    Pashupatinath

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Pashupatinath, Nepal + + + – + + Nestled on a hillside beside the Bagmati River, Pashupatinath is one of the holiest sites in the world for Hindus, second only to Varanasi in India. Pashupatinath consists of a large temple which is open only to Hindus, surrounded by a number of smaller shrines and then down on the banks of the Bagmati are the burning ghats where bodies are cremated. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Durbar Square Kathmandu +
    +

    Durbar Square Kathmandu

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Kathmandu, Nepal + + + – + + After saturating myself with the streets of Thamel I went on a longer excursion down to Durbar Square to see the various pagodas, temples and the old palace. The palace itself no longer houses the King, but is still used for coronations and ceremonies and Durbar Square is still very much the hub of Katmandu. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/nepal/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/nepal/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3075d11 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/nepal/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,131 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Nepal + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Nepal

    +
    +
    + Sunset Over the Himalayas +
    +

    Sunset Over the Himalayas

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Pokhara, Nepal + + + – + + After about forty-five minutes of paddling I reached a point where the views of the Annapurna range were, in the words of an Englishman I met in Katmandu, "gob smacking gorgeous." I put down the paddle and moved to the center of the boat where the benches were wider and, using my bag a cushion, lay back against the gunwale and hung my feet over the opposite side so that they just skimmed the surface of the chilly water. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Pashupatinath +
    +

    Pashupatinath

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Pashupatinath, Nepal + + + – + + Nestled on a hillside beside the Bagmati River, Pashupatinath is one of the holiest sites in the world for Hindus, second only to Varanasi in India. Pashupatinath consists of a large temple which is open only to Hindus, surrounded by a number of smaller shrines and then down on the banks of the Bagmati are the burning ghats where bodies are cremated. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Durbar Square Kathmandu +
    +

    Durbar Square Kathmandu

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Kathmandu, Nepal + + + – + + After saturating myself with the streets of Thamel I went on a longer excursion down to Durbar Square to see the various pagodas, temples and the old palace. The palace itself no longer houses the King, but is still used for coronations and ceremonies and Durbar Square is still very much the hub of Katmandu. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/nicaragua/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/nicaragua/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..672c491 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/nicaragua/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,203 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Nicaragua + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Nicaragua

    +
    +
    + Our Days Are Becoming Nights +
    +

    Our Days Are Becoming Nights

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + + – + + A short thought on the eve of our departure from Nicaragua: Everywhere I go I think, I should live here... I should be able to not just visit places, but in habit them. Of course that isn't possible, which is too bad. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Tiny Cities Made of Ash +
    +

    Tiny Cities Made of Ash

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + + – + + The church bells of León have become a constant cacophony, not the rhythmic ringing out of the hours or tolling from Mass that the human mind seems to find pleasant, but the atonal banging that only appeals to the young and dumb. But Francisco is entirely unperturbed; He's too fascinated with the tattoo on Corrinne's shoulder to bother with what slowly just becomes yet another sound echoing through León. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You Can't Go Home Again +
    +

    You Can’t Go Home Again

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + + – + + The first time we came to Little Corn Island it was April, the tail end of the dry season. It rained once or twice, but never for more than five minutes and always followed by more sunshine. This time it's the end of June, just well into the wet season, and the island is an entirely different place. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Returning Again &mdash; Back on Little Corn Island +
    +

    Returning Again — Back on Little Corn Island

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + + – + + Generally speaking, the world seems so huge and so full of amazing destinations that repeating one never struck me as a judicious use of my short allotment of time. But for Little Corn Island I'm willing to make an exception and of course, the universe being what it is, our second trip to Little Corn Island has been unpredictable and entirely new. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Little Island in the Sun +
    +

    Little Island in the Sun

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + + – + + We arrived on Little Corn Island around sundown and met Ali, whom I at first took to be a tout, but he showed us the way to our guesthouse and, after settling in and getting a feel for the island, I realized that Ali, wasn't a tout, he was just a really nice guy who enjoyed doing favors for tourists, just beware the Yoni beverage he offers. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Return to the Sea +
    +

    Return to the Sea

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua + + + – + + Southwestern Nicaragua is a very small strip of land with Lago Nicaragua to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west. The main town in the area, Juan Del Sur, is nestled around a well protected harbor with a mediocre strip of sand. For the nice beaches you have to head up or down the coast to one of the many small inlets. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ring The Bells +
    +

    Ring The Bells

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Granada, Nicaragua + + + – + + The Church, which dates from the 1600s has the the narrowest, steepest, circular concrete staircase that I've ever encountered. It had a low railing and circled up four stories worth of precipitous dropoffs before you hit solid ground. From the top was a views of Granada's endless sea of mottled pink, orange and brown hues -- terra cotta roof tiles stretching from the shores of Lago Nicaragua all the way back toward the hills. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/nicaragua/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/nicaragua/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..672c491 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/nicaragua/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,203 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Nicaragua + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Nicaragua

    +
    +
    + Our Days Are Becoming Nights +
    +

    Our Days Are Becoming Nights

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + + – + + A short thought on the eve of our departure from Nicaragua: Everywhere I go I think, I should live here... I should be able to not just visit places, but in habit them. Of course that isn't possible, which is too bad. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Tiny Cities Made of Ash +
    +

    Tiny Cities Made of Ash

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + León, Nicaragua + + + – + + The church bells of León have become a constant cacophony, not the rhythmic ringing out of the hours or tolling from Mass that the human mind seems to find pleasant, but the atonal banging that only appeals to the young and dumb. But Francisco is entirely unperturbed; He's too fascinated with the tattoo on Corrinne's shoulder to bother with what slowly just becomes yet another sound echoing through León. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You Can't Go Home Again +
    +

    You Can’t Go Home Again

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + + – + + The first time we came to Little Corn Island it was April, the tail end of the dry season. It rained once or twice, but never for more than five minutes and always followed by more sunshine. This time it's the end of June, just well into the wet season, and the island is an entirely different place. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Returning Again &mdash; Back on Little Corn Island +
    +

    Returning Again — Back on Little Corn Island

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + + – + + Generally speaking, the world seems so huge and so full of amazing destinations that repeating one never struck me as a judicious use of my short allotment of time. But for Little Corn Island I'm willing to make an exception and of course, the universe being what it is, our second trip to Little Corn Island has been unpredictable and entirely new. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Little Island in the Sun +
    +

    Little Island in the Sun

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Little Corn Island, Nicaragua + + + – + + We arrived on Little Corn Island around sundown and met Ali, whom I at first took to be a tout, but he showed us the way to our guesthouse and, after settling in and getting a feel for the island, I realized that Ali, wasn't a tout, he was just a really nice guy who enjoyed doing favors for tourists, just beware the Yoni beverage he offers. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Return to the Sea +
    +

    Return to the Sea

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua + + + – + + Southwestern Nicaragua is a very small strip of land with Lago Nicaragua to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west. The main town in the area, Juan Del Sur, is nestled around a well protected harbor with a mediocre strip of sand. For the nice beaches you have to head up or down the coast to one of the many small inlets. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ring The Bells +
    +

    Ring The Bells

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Granada, Nicaragua + + + – + + The Church, which dates from the 1600s has the the narrowest, steepest, circular concrete staircase that I've ever encountered. It had a low railing and circled up four stories worth of precipitous dropoffs before you hit solid ground. From the top was a views of Granada's endless sea of mottled pink, orange and brown hues -- terra cotta roof tiles stretching from the shores of Lago Nicaragua all the way back toward the hills. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/north-america/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/north-america/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a82a738 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/north-america/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,515 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from North America + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from North America

    +
    +
    + Oysterman Wanted +
    +

    Oysterman Wanted

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + + – + + The world of oystermen and local fishing industry is doomed. Even the people resisting the transition know they’re no longer fighting for their way of life. They’re just fighting to keep the thinnest resemblance of what they’ve always known around until they leave this world. They’re fighting to keep from having to watch the death of everything they know. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + All the Pretty Beaches +
    +

    All the Pretty Beaches

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + + – + + St. George is just off the Gulf Coast of northwest Florida, only about 7 hours from where I live. There are better places if you're looking to dive or snorkel. Ditto if it's nightlife you're after. But if you're looking for a seemingly endless amount of gorgeous white sand beaches you'll share with only a few migratory birds, St. George is the place to be. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Consider the Apalachicola Oyster +
    +

    Consider the Apalachicola Oyster

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Apalachicola, Florida, U.S. + + + – + + If you know the name Apalachicola at all it’s likely because of its eponymous oysters. Very few things, let alone culinary things, are as attached to place as oysters. In fact, once you get beyond the Rockefeller, ordering “oysters” is akin to walking in a bar and ordering “a beer.” But unlike beer, oysters don’t have brands, they have places — Pemaquid, Wellfleet, Blue Point, Apalachicola. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Things Behind the Sun +
    +

    Things Behind the Sun

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + My grandparents left the home they lived in for 60 years today. I don't know how much of my life was spent in that house, probably well over a year if you added up all the holidays and family gatherings. And now I'm thousands of miles away and someone is clearing out the house. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Street Food in Athens Georgia +
    +

    Street Food in Athens Georgia

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + Cheap food, made fresh, in front of you. Served hot, wrapped in newspaper. Street food is the people's food, it removes the mystery of the kitchen, lays the process bare. It's also the staple diet of people around the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + We Used to Wait For It +
    +

    We Used to Wait For It

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + When we first came here, there was nothing. Downtown Los Angeles was an empty husk of a place fifteen years ago. Now it's reborn, alive and kicking. Yet there is something in the older buildings, something in the old walls, something lost in the bricks, something in the concrete, the marble. Something you don’t find anymore. Something we need to find again. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The World Outside +
    +

    The World Outside

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + The world outside the house is blanketed in snow, a monochrome of white interrupted only by the dark, wet trunks of trees, the red brick of chimneys, the occasional green of shrubs poking through. The roads are unbroken expanses of smooth white, no one is out yet, no footprints track their way through the snowy sidewalk. The world outside is the same as it was last night, before the snow began, and yet, it feels totally different. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Charleston A-Z +
    +

    Charleston A-Z

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Charleston, South Carolina, U.S. + + + – + + Charleston alphabetically. For example, Q is for quiet, Charleston has a lot of it. Just head down to the Battery area, walk through the park and starting walking down the side streets. Take one of the many alleys and walkways that weave between the massive, stately houses. Get lost. It doesn't take much to find a quiet place of your own. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + This is the only real way to see Dinosaur National Monument — you must journey down the river. There are two major rivers running through Dinosaur, the Yampa, which carves through Yampa Canyon, and the Green, which cuts through Lodore. Adventure Bound Rafting runs some of the best whitewater rafting trips in Colorado and I was lucky enough to go down the Green River with them, through the majestic Lodore Canyon. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + Dinosaur National Monument was poorly named. The best parts of it are not the fossils in the quarry (which is closed for 2010 anyway) but the canyon country — some of the best, most remote canyon country you'll find in this part of the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone +
    +

    The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming, U.S. + + + – + + There is wilderness in Yellowstone, even if it's just inches from the boardwalks that transport thousands around the geothermal pools. It may not be wilderness on a grand scale — the sweeping mountain peaks or wild rivers of other parks — but in some ways that makes it more enticing. As one Ranger told me, Yellowstone isn't about the big picture, the grand scenery, it's about the tiny details within each pool. To really see Yellowstone, he said, you have to take your time, move slowly and look closely. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Backpacking in the Grand Tetons +
    +

    Backpacking in the Grand Tetons

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming, U.S. + + + – + + Hiking into the wilderness empties your mind. You fall into the silence of the mountains and you can relax in a way that's very difficult to do in the midst of civilization. The white noise that surrounds us in our everyday lives, that noise we don't even notice as it adds thin layers of stress that build up over days, weeks, years, does not seem capable of following us into the mountains. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Great Sand Dunes National Park +
    +

    Great Sand Dunes National Park

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Great Sand Dunes National Park, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + Something about the desert inspires me to get up early and watch the sunrise. The cool mornings seem worth getting up for out here in the high plains of Colorado, especially when there's the chance to watch the sunrise from the largest sand dunes in North America, here in Great Sand Dune National Park. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Comanche National Grasslands +
    +

    Comanche National Grasslands

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Comanche National Grasslands, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + To say the Comanche National Grasslands is off the grid would be an understatement. With the exception of Highway 50 in Nevada, I've never driven through such isolation and vast openness anywhere in the world. And it's easy to get lost. There are no signs, no road names even, just dirt paths crisscrossing a wide, perfectly flat expanses of grass. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks +
    +

    Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Amarillo, Texas, U.S. + + + – + + There are many reasons, but here's the one I currently consider most important: National Parks never close. Take Palo Dura State park outside of Amarillo, Texas. Were it a National Park, I would be there right now. But it's not, it's a state park and so I'm sitting in a hotel room in Amarillo because everyone knows nature closes at 10PM. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Legend of Billy the Kid +
    +

    The Legend of Billy the Kid

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Hico, Texas, U.S. + + + – + + History rarely offers neat, tidy stories. But the messier, more confusing and more controversial the story becomes, the more it works its way into our imaginations. The legend of Billy the Kid is like that of Amelia Earhart or D.B. Cooper — the less we know for sure, the more compelling the story becomes. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Dixie Drug Store +
    +

    The Dixie Drug Store

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + + – + + New Orleans is it's own world. So much so that's it's impossible to put your finger on what it is that makes it different. New Orleans is a place where the line between consensus reality and private dream seems to have never fully developed. And a wonderful world it is. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Begin the Begin +
    +

    Begin the Begin

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Gulf Port, Mississippi, U.S. + + + – + + It's travel time again. This time I'm driving my 1969 Ford truck out west, to Texas, Colorado, Utah and more — a road trip around the western United States. The first stop is Gulf Port, Mississippi. It's hard to believe, sitting here on the deserted beaches of Gulf Shore, watching the sun break through the ominous clouds, but soon this beauty will be gone. The BP oil spill is somewhere out there, blown slowly ashore by the storm hovering over us, waiting to drown the beaches in crude. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Los Angeles, I'm Yours +
    +

    Los Angeles, I’m Yours

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + Los Angeles is all about the car. Shiny, air-conditioned comfort, gliding you soundlessly from one place to another without the need to interact with anything in between. But I have discovered that if you abandon the car for the subway and your own two feet, the illusion that L.A. is just a model train set world — tiny, plastic and devoid of any ground beneath the ground — fades and you find yourself, for a time, in a real city. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + (There'll Be) Peace in the Valley +
    +

    (There’ll Be) Peace in the Valley

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Death Valley, California, U.S. + + + – + + Sometimes you ignore the places close to home because, well, there's always next weekend. Which is why I never made it Death Valley in the twenty-five years I lived in California. It took being all the way across the country to get me out to Death Valley. Which might explain why I actually got up before dawn just to watch the sunrise at Zabriskie Point. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + So Far, I Have Not Found The Science +
    +

    So Far, I Have Not Found The Science

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Okefenokee Swamp, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + A canoe trip through the Okefenokee Swamp down in the southern most corner of Georgia. Paddling the strange reddish and incredibly still waters. Begging alligators, aching muscles and the kindly folks of Stintson's Barbecue all getting their due. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + How to Get Off Your Butt and Travel the World +
    +

    How to Get Off Your Butt and Travel the World

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + How do you make the leap from cubicle daydreams to life on to the road? You want to travel the world, but, like me, you have a million excuses stopping you. How do overcome the inertia that keeps you trapped in a life that isn't what you want it to be? Here's a few practical tips and how tos designed to motivate you to get off your butt and travel the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + No Strangers on a Train +
    +

    No Strangers on a Train

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + We mythologize trains because they harken back to an age of community travel, a real, tangible community of travelers, not just backpackers, but people from all walks of life, people traveling near and far together in a shared space that isn't locked down like an airplane and isn't isolated like a car; it's a shared travel experience and there are precious few of those left in our world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies +
    +

    Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Birmingham, Alabama, U.S. + + + – + + A few pages from Leonardo Da Vinci's notebooks make a rare trip outside Italy, to Birmingham, AL, of all places. But the Birmingham Museum of Art is home to far more alarming works of art, works which depict the eventual, inevitable, bunny takeover, after which all the elements of our reality will be replaced by bunnies. Seriously. You heard it here first. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/north-america/2/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/north-america/2/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..991686e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/north-america/2/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,426 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from North America -- Page 2 + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from North America

    +
    +
    + Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains +
    +

    Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Great Smoky Mountains, Tennessee, U.S. + + + – + + Pigeon Forge is Myrtle Beach in the mountains. Redneck weddings cascade straight out of the chapel and into the mini golf reception area. Pigeon Forge is everything that's wrong with America. But we aren't here for Pigeon Forge, it just happens to have a free condo we're staying in. We're here for the mountains. Smoky Mountain National Park is just a few miles up the road. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Rope Swings and River Floats +
    +

    Rope Swings and River Floats

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Mountain Cabin, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + Two weekends ago we went up to the mountains, just outside of Dahlonega GA, and floated the Chestatee River using inner tubes, various pool toys and one super-cool inflatable seahorse. Unfortunately, proving one of my travel mottos -- you can never go back -- a return trip proved disastrous. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + In Love With a View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty and Living Well +
    +

    In Love With a View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty and Living Well

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + Why all the vitriol about a seemingly innocuous concept -- that traveling doesn't have to cost a lot of money, isn't all that difficult and hey, you can even go right now? People like us, who feel tied down by responsibility, find the suggestion that we actually aren't tied down patronizing and yes, elitist. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Fall +
    +

    Fall

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + The trees are in full technicolor swing. The land is slowly dying, and not just because it's Fall, we're also in the middle of a prolonged drought and this year the leaves are opting for a James Dean-style, leave-a-good-looking-corpse exit. If you're a leaf and you've got to go, do it with class. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + On The Other Ocean +
    +

    On The Other Ocean

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Catalina Island, California, U.S. + + + – + + Consider what would happen if your house were tilted 30 degrees to the left, how this would complicate ordinary activities -- like say walking. Now throw in a bouncing motion that lifts the floor five or six feet up and down in a seesaw-like motion on a perpendicular axis to the 30 degree tilt -- things become more like riding a seesaw that's attached to a merry-go-round which is missing a few bolts. That's sailing. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Being There +
    +

    Being There

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Myrtle Beach Airport, South Carolina, U.S. + + + – + + Myrtle Beach does not exist. Nearly everything in Myrtle Beach is a paltry derivative of some original form. For instance, most of the country has golf courses, in Myrtle Beach there are endless rows of putt-putt courses, where most towns attempt to draw in big name musical acts for their tourist venues, Myrtle Beach is content with impersonators. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sailing Through +
    +

    Sailing Through

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Charleston, South Carolina, U.S. + + + – + + The rumors are true. I moved back to the south; Athens GA to be exact. But I hate staying in one place for too long, so after a month or two in Athens I headed up to Charleston to visit a friend. The south is curious place. If you've never been here I couldn't hope to explain it, but it's not so much a place as an approach. A way of getting somewhere more than anywhere specific. Perhaps even a wrong turn. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Goodbye to the Mother and the Cove +
    +

    Goodbye to the Mother and the Cove

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + It's strange how you can plan something, go through all the motions of making it happen without ever really understanding what you're doing. I've been doing this for the better part of three years now. I realized recently that I have no real idea how I came to be here. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Everything All The Time +
    +

    Everything All The Time

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + I don't know if I'm just overly paranoid but when I call up memories in the dark hours of the Beaujolais-soaked pre-dawn, I see a collection of mildly amusing, occasionally painful series of embarrassments, misunderstandings and general wrong-place, wrong-time sort of moments. Which isn't to imply that my life is a British sitcom, just that I'm not in a hurry to re-live any of it. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Sun Came Up With No Conclusions +
    +

    The Sun Came Up With No Conclusions

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + "And so it is that we, as men, do not exist until we do; and then it is that we play with our world of existent things, and order and disorder them, and so it shall be that non-existence shall take us back from existence and that nameless spirituality shall return to Void, like a tired child home from a very wild circus." -- Robert Anton Wilson and Kerry Thornley. Good luck and Godspeed Mr. Wilson. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Give It Up Or Turnit A Loose +
    +

    Give It Up Or Turnit A Loose

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + Traveling soul. Soul is not something out there or in you, it's the place where you meet the out there; something very similar to what I think James Brown meant — a mixture of the secular and the spiritual, the profane and the sublime. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Homeward +
    +

    Homeward

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + New York, New York. John F Kennedy airport 1 am date unknown, sleepy looking customs guard stamps a passport without hardly looking at, without even checking to see where I had been. A light drizzle is falling outside and the subways extension to the terminal never looked so good. What is it like to be home? I don't know, I'll tell you when I get there. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Twenty More Minutes to Go +
    +

    Twenty More Minutes to Go

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Newport Beach, California, U.S. + + + – + + Well it's the night before I leave. I just got done pacing around the driveway of my parents house smoking cigarettes… nervously? Excitedly? Restlessly? A bit of all of those I suppose. I walk across the street, over the drainage ditch and head for the swing set at the park. Right now I'm swinging in a park in Costa Mesa California. Tomorrow France. Weird. [Photo to the right, via Flickr] + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Travel Tips and Resources +
    +

    Travel Tips and Resources

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Newport Beach, California, U.S. + + + – + + An overview of the things you might want to bring on an extended trip, as well as some tips and recommendations on things like visas and vaccinations. The part that was most helpful for me was learning what I didn't need to bring — as it turns out, quite a bit. Nowadays my pack is much smaller and lighter. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The New Luddites +
    +

    The New Luddites

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Newport Beach, California, U.S. + + + – + + An older, non-travel piece about Google's plan to scan all the world's books and Luddite-like response from many authors. Let's see, someone wants to make your book easier to find, searchable and indexable and you're opposed to it? You're a fucking idiot. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + One Nation Under a Groove +
    +

    One Nation Under a Groove

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + + – + + The sky is falling! The iPod! It's ruining our culture! Or, uh, maybe it's just like the Walkman, but better. And since, so far as I can tell, the world did not collapse with the introduction of the Walkman and headphones, it probably isn't going to fall apart just because the storage format for our music has changed. [Photo to the right via Flickr] + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Farewell Mr. Hunter S Thompson +
    +

    Farewell Mr. Hunter S Thompson

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + + – + + Hunter S. Thompson departs on a journey to the western lands. Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas delivered the penultimate eulogy for the dreams of the 1960's, one that mourned, but also tried to lay the empty idealism to rest. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Art of the Essay +
    +

    The Art of the Essay

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + + – + + I generally ignore internet debates, they never go anywhere, so why bother. But we all have our weak points and when programmer Paul Graham posted what might be the dumbest essay on writing that's ever been written, I just couldn't help myuself. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Farewell Mr. Cash +
    +

    Farewell Mr. Cash

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + + – + + Johnny Cash heads for the western lands. + +

    +
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    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/north-america/3/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/north-america/3/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4ef027f --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/north-america/3/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,77 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from North America -- Page 3 + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Writing from North America

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    Walk Slowly

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    Writing from North America

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    Writing from North America

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    Walk Slowly

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    Writing from North America

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    + Oysterman Wanted +
    +

    Oysterman Wanted

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + + – + + The world of oystermen and local fishing industry is doomed. Even the people resisting the transition know they’re no longer fighting for their way of life. They’re just fighting to keep the thinnest resemblance of what they’ve always known around until they leave this world. They’re fighting to keep from having to watch the death of everything they know. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + All the Pretty Beaches +
    +

    All the Pretty Beaches

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + + – + + St. George is just off the Gulf Coast of northwest Florida, only about 7 hours from where I live. There are better places if you're looking to dive or snorkel. Ditto if it's nightlife you're after. But if you're looking for a seemingly endless amount of gorgeous white sand beaches you'll share with only a few migratory birds, St. George is the place to be. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Consider the Apalachicola Oyster +
    +

    Consider the Apalachicola Oyster

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Apalachicola, Florida, U.S. + + + – + + If you know the name Apalachicola at all it’s likely because of its eponymous oysters. Very few things, let alone culinary things, are as attached to place as oysters. In fact, once you get beyond the Rockefeller, ordering “oysters” is akin to walking in a bar and ordering “a beer.” But unlike beer, oysters don’t have brands, they have places — Pemaquid, Wellfleet, Blue Point, Apalachicola. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Things Behind the Sun +
    +

    Things Behind the Sun

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + My grandparents left the home they lived in for 60 years today. I don't know how much of my life was spent in that house, probably well over a year if you added up all the holidays and family gatherings. And now I'm thousands of miles away and someone is clearing out the house. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Street Food in Athens Georgia +
    +

    Street Food in Athens Georgia

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + Cheap food, made fresh, in front of you. Served hot, wrapped in newspaper. Street food is the people's food, it removes the mystery of the kitchen, lays the process bare. It's also the staple diet of people around the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + We Used to Wait For It +
    +

    We Used to Wait For It

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + When we first came here, there was nothing. Downtown Los Angeles was an empty husk of a place fifteen years ago. Now it's reborn, alive and kicking. Yet there is something in the older buildings, something in the old walls, something lost in the bricks, something in the concrete, the marble. Something you don’t find anymore. Something we need to find again. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The World Outside +
    +

    The World Outside

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + The world outside the house is blanketed in snow, a monochrome of white interrupted only by the dark, wet trunks of trees, the red brick of chimneys, the occasional green of shrubs poking through. The roads are unbroken expanses of smooth white, no one is out yet, no footprints track their way through the snowy sidewalk. The world outside is the same as it was last night, before the snow began, and yet, it feels totally different. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Charleston A-Z +
    +

    Charleston A-Z

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Charleston, South Carolina, U.S. + + + – + + Charleston alphabetically. For example, Q is for quiet, Charleston has a lot of it. Just head down to the Battery area, walk through the park and starting walking down the side streets. Take one of the many alleys and walkways that weave between the massive, stately houses. Get lost. It doesn't take much to find a quiet place of your own. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + This is the only real way to see Dinosaur National Monument — you must journey down the river. There are two major rivers running through Dinosaur, the Yampa, which carves through Yampa Canyon, and the Green, which cuts through Lodore. Adventure Bound Rafting runs some of the best whitewater rafting trips in Colorado and I was lucky enough to go down the Green River with them, through the majestic Lodore Canyon. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + Dinosaur National Monument was poorly named. The best parts of it are not the fossils in the quarry (which is closed for 2010 anyway) but the canyon country — some of the best, most remote canyon country you'll find in this part of the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone +
    +

    The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming, U.S. + + + – + + There is wilderness in Yellowstone, even if it's just inches from the boardwalks that transport thousands around the geothermal pools. It may not be wilderness on a grand scale — the sweeping mountain peaks or wild rivers of other parks — but in some ways that makes it more enticing. As one Ranger told me, Yellowstone isn't about the big picture, the grand scenery, it's about the tiny details within each pool. To really see Yellowstone, he said, you have to take your time, move slowly and look closely. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Backpacking in the Grand Tetons +
    +

    Backpacking in the Grand Tetons

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming, U.S. + + + – + + Hiking into the wilderness empties your mind. You fall into the silence of the mountains and you can relax in a way that's very difficult to do in the midst of civilization. The white noise that surrounds us in our everyday lives, that noise we don't even notice as it adds thin layers of stress that build up over days, weeks, years, does not seem capable of following us into the mountains. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Great Sand Dunes National Park +
    +

    Great Sand Dunes National Park

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Great Sand Dunes National Park, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + Something about the desert inspires me to get up early and watch the sunrise. The cool mornings seem worth getting up for out here in the high plains of Colorado, especially when there's the chance to watch the sunrise from the largest sand dunes in North America, here in Great Sand Dune National Park. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Comanche National Grasslands +
    +

    Comanche National Grasslands

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Comanche National Grasslands, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + To say the Comanche National Grasslands is off the grid would be an understatement. With the exception of Highway 50 in Nevada, I've never driven through such isolation and vast openness anywhere in the world. And it's easy to get lost. There are no signs, no road names even, just dirt paths crisscrossing a wide, perfectly flat expanses of grass. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks +
    +

    Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Amarillo, Texas, U.S. + + + – + + There are many reasons, but here's the one I currently consider most important: National Parks never close. Take Palo Dura State park outside of Amarillo, Texas. Were it a National Park, I would be there right now. But it's not, it's a state park and so I'm sitting in a hotel room in Amarillo because everyone knows nature closes at 10PM. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Legend of Billy the Kid +
    +

    The Legend of Billy the Kid

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Hico, Texas, U.S. + + + – + + History rarely offers neat, tidy stories. But the messier, more confusing and more controversial the story becomes, the more it works its way into our imaginations. The legend of Billy the Kid is like that of Amelia Earhart or D.B. Cooper — the less we know for sure, the more compelling the story becomes. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Dixie Drug Store +
    +

    The Dixie Drug Store

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + + – + + New Orleans is it's own world. So much so that's it's impossible to put your finger on what it is that makes it different. New Orleans is a place where the line between consensus reality and private dream seems to have never fully developed. And a wonderful world it is. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Begin the Begin +
    +

    Begin the Begin

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Gulf Port, Mississippi, U.S. + + + – + + It's travel time again. This time I'm driving my 1969 Ford truck out west, to Texas, Colorado, Utah and more — a road trip around the western United States. The first stop is Gulf Port, Mississippi. It's hard to believe, sitting here on the deserted beaches of Gulf Shore, watching the sun break through the ominous clouds, but soon this beauty will be gone. The BP oil spill is somewhere out there, blown slowly ashore by the storm hovering over us, waiting to drown the beaches in crude. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Los Angeles, I'm Yours +
    +

    Los Angeles, I’m Yours

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + Los Angeles is all about the car. Shiny, air-conditioned comfort, gliding you soundlessly from one place to another without the need to interact with anything in between. But I have discovered that if you abandon the car for the subway and your own two feet, the illusion that L.A. is just a model train set world — tiny, plastic and devoid of any ground beneath the ground — fades and you find yourself, for a time, in a real city. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + (There'll Be) Peace in the Valley +
    +

    (There’ll Be) Peace in the Valley

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Death Valley, California, U.S. + + + – + + Sometimes you ignore the places close to home because, well, there's always next weekend. Which is why I never made it Death Valley in the twenty-five years I lived in California. It took being all the way across the country to get me out to Death Valley. Which might explain why I actually got up before dawn just to watch the sunrise at Zabriskie Point. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + So Far, I Have Not Found The Science +
    +

    So Far, I Have Not Found The Science

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Okefenokee Swamp, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + A canoe trip through the Okefenokee Swamp down in the southern most corner of Georgia. Paddling the strange reddish and incredibly still waters. Begging alligators, aching muscles and the kindly folks of Stintson's Barbecue all getting their due. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + How to Get Off Your Butt and Travel the World +
    +

    How to Get Off Your Butt and Travel the World

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + How do you make the leap from cubicle daydreams to life on to the road? You want to travel the world, but, like me, you have a million excuses stopping you. How do overcome the inertia that keeps you trapped in a life that isn't what you want it to be? Here's a few practical tips and how tos designed to motivate you to get off your butt and travel the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + No Strangers on a Train +
    +

    No Strangers on a Train

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + We mythologize trains because they harken back to an age of community travel, a real, tangible community of travelers, not just backpackers, but people from all walks of life, people traveling near and far together in a shared space that isn't locked down like an airplane and isn't isolated like a car; it's a shared travel experience and there are precious few of those left in our world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies +
    +

    Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Birmingham, Alabama, U.S. + + + – + + A few pages from Leonardo Da Vinci's notebooks make a rare trip outside Italy, to Birmingham, AL, of all places. But the Birmingham Museum of Art is home to far more alarming works of art, works which depict the eventual, inevitable, bunny takeover, after which all the elements of our reality will be replaced by bunnies. Seriously. You heard it here first. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/slovenia/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/slovenia/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..37c003d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/slovenia/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,113 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Slovenia + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Slovenia

    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bled, Slovenia + + + – + + There is a roughly 200km loop of road that leads northwest out of Bled, through a pass in the Julian Alps and then down the other side, twisting and winding back toward Bled by way of craggy canyons, small hamlets and crystalline rivers. We set out sometime after breakfast. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ghost +
    +

    Ghost

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Ljubljana, Slovenia + + + – + + Like Dubrovnik, Trogir is a walled city of roughly Venetian vintage, but Trogir's wall has largely crumbled away or been removed. Still, it has the gorgeous narrow cobblestone streets, arched doorways and towering forts that give all Dalmatian towns their Rapunzel-like fairly tale quality. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/slovenia/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/slovenia/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..37c003d --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/slovenia/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,113 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Slovenia + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Slovenia

    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers Part Two

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bled, Slovenia + + + – + + There is a roughly 200km loop of road that leads northwest out of Bled, through a pass in the Julian Alps and then down the other side, twisting and winding back toward Bled by way of craggy canyons, small hamlets and crystalline rivers. We set out sometime after breakfast. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ghost +
    +

    Ghost

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Ljubljana, Slovenia + + + – + + Like Dubrovnik, Trogir is a walled city of roughly Venetian vintage, but Trogir's wall has largely crumbled away or been removed. Still, it has the gorgeous narrow cobblestone streets, arched doorways and towering forts that give all Dalmatian towns their Rapunzel-like fairly tale quality. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/southeast-asia/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/southeast-asia/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5455bbd --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/southeast-asia/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,517 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Southeast Asia + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Southeast Asia

    +
    +
    + Closing Time +
    +

    Closing Time

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + + – + + Headed back to Europe: I started to write a bit of reminiscence, trying to remember the highlights of my time in Asia before I return to the west, but about halfway through I kept thinking of a popular Buddhist saying — be here now. Most of these dispatches are written in past tense, but this time I want to simply be here now. This moment, on this train. This is the last time I'll post something from Southeast Asia. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning of the End +
    +

    Beginning of the End

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + + – + + I wasn't expecting much from Ko Kradan, but in the end I discovered a slice of Thailand the way it's often describe by wistful hippies who first came here twenty years ago. Tong and Ngu and the rest of the Thais working at Paradise Lost were the nicest people I met in Thailand and Wally was by far the most laid back farang I've come across. I ended up staying on Ko Kradan for the remainder of my time in the south. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Going Down South +
    +

    Going Down South

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Koh Phi Phi, Thailand + + + – + + The Phi Phi Island Resort, where some friends were staying, is nestled on the leeward shore of Koh Phi Phi Island and posts a private beach, beautiful reef, fancy swimming pools and rooms with real sheets. Unheard of. I sauntered in a day early, acted like I owned the place, rented snorkel gear, charged it to a random room number and spent the afternoon on the reef. If only I could have put it on the Underhill's credit card. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Book of Right On +
    +

    The Book of Right On

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Sinoukville, Cambodia + + + – + + The next day we continued on to Sinoukville which is Cambodia's attempt at a seaside resort. Combining the essential elements of Goa and Thailand, Sinoukville is a pleasant, if somewhat hippy-oriented, travelers haven. We rented Honda Dreams and cruised down the coast to deserted white sand beaches, thatched huts serving noodles and rice, where we watched sunsets and dodged rain storms. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Midnight in a Perfect World +
    +

    Midnight in a Perfect World

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Death Island, Cambodia + + + – + + Death Island, as Rob nicknamed it, was just what I needed. The first day we sat down for lunch and ordered crab; a boy in his underwear proceeded to run out of the kitchen, swam out in the ocean and began unloading crabs from a trap into a bucket. It doesn't get much fresher than that. Throw in a nice beach, some cheap bungalows and you're away. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Angkor Wat +
    +

    Angkor Wat

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Angkor Wat, Cambodia + + + – + + Roughly half a million people a year visit Angkor Wat. The first evening we decided to see just how tourist-filled Angkor was by heading to the most popular sunset temple, Phnom Bakheng, to watch the sunset. And there were a lot of tourists. Thousands of them. And that was just at one temple. Thus was hatched the plan: see Angkor in the heat of the day. Yes it will be hot. Hot hot hot. Fucking hot. But hopefully empty. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + ...Wait 'til it Blows +
    +

    …Wait ‘til it Blows

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Seam Reap, Cambodia + + + – + + One the things I may have failed to mention thus far in my Cambodia reportage is that this was/is one of the most heavily mined areas in the world. You might think that removing landmines involves sophisticated technology of the sort you see in BBC documentaries on Bosnia, but here in Cambodia landmine removal is most often handled by the technological marvel of southeast Asia — the bamboo stick. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning to See the Light +
    +

    Beginning to See the Light

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Floating Village, Cambodia + + + – + + Surprisingly, a floating village is not that different than a village on the land. There are the same stores, the computer repair shop, the grocers, the petrol station, the temple, the dance hall and all the other things that makeup a town. I could even say with some authority that the town is laid out in streets, watery pathways that form nearly perfect lines. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Blood on the Tracks +
    +

    Blood on the Tracks

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Phenom Phen, Cambodia + + + – + + As I mentioned in the last entry I came down with a bit of a fever for a few days. This was accompanied by what we in the group have come to term, for lack of a nicer, but equally descriptive phrase — pissing out the ass. It's not a pretty picture. Nor is it a pleasant experience, and consequently I don't have a real clear recollection of the journey from Ban Lung to Kratie or from Kratie out to Sen Monoron. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ticket To Ride +
    +

    Ticket To Ride

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Ban Lung, Cambodia + + + – + + I can't see. My eyebrows are orange with dust. I cannot see them, but I know they must be; they were yesterday. Every now and then when her legs clench down on my hips or her fingernails dig into my shoulders, I remember Debi is behind me and I am more or less responsible for not killing both of us. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Little Corner of the World +
    +

    Little Corner of the World

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Four Thousand Islands, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + It's difficult to explain but the further south you go in Laos the more relaxed life becomes. Since life in the north is not exactly high stress, by the time we arrived in the four thousand Islands we had to check our pulse periodically to ensure that time was in fact still moving forward. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Can&#8217;t Get There From Here +
    +

    Can’t Get There From Here

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Attapeu, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + The most magical light in Laos lives on the Bolevan Plateau. For some reason not many tourists seem to make it out to the Bolevan Plateau, in spite of the fact that the roads are quite good, transport runs regularly, the villages peaceful, even sleepy, little hamlets. In short, the Bolevan Plateau is wonderful, and not the least in part because no one else is there. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Safe as Milk +
    +

    Safe as Milk

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Sekong, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + You would think, if you were the United States and you were illegally and unofficially bombing a foreign country you might not want to stamp "US Bomb" on the side of your bombs, and yet there it was all over Laos: "US Bomb." Clearly somebody didn't think things all the way through, especially given that roughly one third of said bombs failed to explode. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Everyday the Fourteenth +
    +

    Everyday the Fourteenth

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Savannakhet, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + We piled four large bags, four daypacks and five people in a six meter dugout canoe. The boat was powered by the ever-present-in-southeast-Asia long tail motor which is essential a lawnmower engine with a three meter pole extending out of it to which a small propeller is attached — perfect for navigating shallow water. And by shallow I mean sometimes a mere inch between the hull and the riverbed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Water Slides and Spirit Guides +
    +

    Water Slides and Spirit Guides

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Konglor Cave, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + The dramatic black karst limestone mountains ringing Ban Na Hin grew darker as the light faded. I was sitting alone on the back porch of our guesthouse watching the light slowly disappear from the bottoms of the clouds and wondering absently how many pages it would take to explain how I came to be in the tiny town of Ban Na Hin, or if such an explanation even really existed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Lovely Universe +
    +

    The Lovely Universe

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Vang Vieng, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + I would like to say that I have something memorable to write about Vang Vieng, but the truth is we mostly sat around doing very little, making new friends, drinking a beer around the fire and waiting out the Chinese new year celebrations, which meant none of us could get Cambodian visas until the following Monday. We were forced to relax beside the river for several more days than we intended. Yes friends, traveling is hard, but I do it for you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan +
    +

    I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Luang Nam Tha, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + The next time someone asks you, “would you like to live in a tree house and travel five hundred feet above the ground attached to a zip wire?” I highly suggest you say, “yes, where do a I sign up?” If you happen to be in Laos, try the Gibbon Experience. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Hymn of the Big Wheel +
    +

    Hymn of the Big Wheel

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + Jose Saramago writes in The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis that the gods "journey like us in the river of things, differing from us only because we call them gods and sometimes believe in them." Sitting in the middle of the river listening to the gurgle of water moving over stone and around trees I began to think that perhaps this is the sound of some lost language, a sound capable of creating mountains, valleys, estuaries, isthmuses and all the other forms around us, gurgling and sonorous but without clear meaning, shrouded in turquoise, a mystery through which we can move our sense of wonder intact. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Down the River +
    +

    Down the River

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + Morning in Chiang Khong Thailand revealed itself as a foggy, and not a little mysterious, affair with the far shore of the Mekong, the Laos shore, almost completely hidden in a veil of mist. The first ferry crossed at eight and I was on it, looking to meet up with the slow boat to Luang Prabang. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Doi Inthanan National Park, Thailand + + + – + + The light outside the windows was still a pre-dawn inky blue when the freezing cold water hit my back. A cold shower at six thirty in the morning is infinitely more powerful, albeit not at long lasting, as a cup of coffee. After dropping my body temperature a few degrees and having no towel to dry off with, just a dirty shirt and ceaseless ceiling fan, a cup of tea seemed like a good idea so I stopped in at the restaurant downstairs and, after a cup of hot water with some Jasmine leaves swirling at the bottom of it, I climbed on my rental motorbike and set out for Doi Inthanan National Park. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You and I Are Disappearing +
    +

    You and I Are Disappearing

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Chang Mai, Thailand + + + – + + The all night bus reached Chiang Mai well past dawn, the city already beginning to stir. I considered trying to nap, but in the end decided to explore the town. What better way to see Buddhist temples than in the dreamy fog of sleeplessness? Chiang Mai has over three hundred wats within the somewhat sprawling city limits, most of them reasonably modern and, in my opinion, not worth visiting. I narrowed the field to three, which I figured was a nice round one percent. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Buddha on the Bounty +
    +

    Buddha on the Bounty

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + + – + + The house Jim Thompson left behind in Bangkok is gorgeous, but the real charm is the garden and its orchids. I wandered around the gardens which really aren't that large for some time and then found a bench near a collection of orchids, where I sat for the better part of an hour, occasionally taking a photograph or two, but mostly thinking about how human orchids are. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Brink of the Clouds +
    +

    Brink of the Clouds

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + + – + + "The city is a cathedral" writes James Salter, "its scent is dreams." Salter may have been referring to New York, but his words ring true in Bangkok. And the best place to feel it at night is on the river or from the top of the Baiyoke Sky Hotel — where a circular, revolving observation deck offers 360° views of the Bangkok nightscape. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Are You Amplified to Rock? +
    +

    Are You Amplified to Rock?

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + + – + + It's a new year, are you amplified to rock? Ready, set, go. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/southeast-asia/2/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/southeast-asia/2/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4888654 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/southeast-asia/2/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,100 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Southeast Asia -- Page 2 + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Southeast Asia

    +
    +
    + Merry Christmas 2005 +
    +

    Merry Christmas 2005

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + + – + + Seasons Greeting from luxagraf. I'm in Bangkok, Thailand at the moment. I am taking a short break from traveling to do a little working so I don't have much to report. I've seen the two big temples down in the Khaosan Rd area, but otherwise I've been trying to live an ordinary life in Bangkok, if such a thing is possible. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/southeast-asia/3/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/southeast-asia/3/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2ed767b --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/southeast-asia/3/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,77 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Southeast Asia -- Page 3 + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Southeast Asia

    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/southeast-asia/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/southeast-asia/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5455bbd --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/southeast-asia/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,517 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Southeast Asia + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Southeast Asia

    +
    +
    + Closing Time +
    +

    Closing Time

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + + – + + Headed back to Europe: I started to write a bit of reminiscence, trying to remember the highlights of my time in Asia before I return to the west, but about halfway through I kept thinking of a popular Buddhist saying — be here now. Most of these dispatches are written in past tense, but this time I want to simply be here now. This moment, on this train. This is the last time I'll post something from Southeast Asia. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning of the End +
    +

    Beginning of the End

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + + – + + I wasn't expecting much from Ko Kradan, but in the end I discovered a slice of Thailand the way it's often describe by wistful hippies who first came here twenty years ago. Tong and Ngu and the rest of the Thais working at Paradise Lost were the nicest people I met in Thailand and Wally was by far the most laid back farang I've come across. I ended up staying on Ko Kradan for the remainder of my time in the south. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Going Down South +
    +

    Going Down South

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Koh Phi Phi, Thailand + + + – + + The Phi Phi Island Resort, where some friends were staying, is nestled on the leeward shore of Koh Phi Phi Island and posts a private beach, beautiful reef, fancy swimming pools and rooms with real sheets. Unheard of. I sauntered in a day early, acted like I owned the place, rented snorkel gear, charged it to a random room number and spent the afternoon on the reef. If only I could have put it on the Underhill's credit card. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Book of Right On +
    +

    The Book of Right On

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Sinoukville, Cambodia + + + – + + The next day we continued on to Sinoukville which is Cambodia's attempt at a seaside resort. Combining the essential elements of Goa and Thailand, Sinoukville is a pleasant, if somewhat hippy-oriented, travelers haven. We rented Honda Dreams and cruised down the coast to deserted white sand beaches, thatched huts serving noodles and rice, where we watched sunsets and dodged rain storms. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Midnight in a Perfect World +
    +

    Midnight in a Perfect World

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Death Island, Cambodia + + + – + + Death Island, as Rob nicknamed it, was just what I needed. The first day we sat down for lunch and ordered crab; a boy in his underwear proceeded to run out of the kitchen, swam out in the ocean and began unloading crabs from a trap into a bucket. It doesn't get much fresher than that. Throw in a nice beach, some cheap bungalows and you're away. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Angkor Wat +
    +

    Angkor Wat

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Angkor Wat, Cambodia + + + – + + Roughly half a million people a year visit Angkor Wat. The first evening we decided to see just how tourist-filled Angkor was by heading to the most popular sunset temple, Phnom Bakheng, to watch the sunset. And there were a lot of tourists. Thousands of them. And that was just at one temple. Thus was hatched the plan: see Angkor in the heat of the day. Yes it will be hot. Hot hot hot. Fucking hot. But hopefully empty. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + ...Wait 'til it Blows +
    +

    …Wait ‘til it Blows

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Seam Reap, Cambodia + + + – + + One the things I may have failed to mention thus far in my Cambodia reportage is that this was/is one of the most heavily mined areas in the world. You might think that removing landmines involves sophisticated technology of the sort you see in BBC documentaries on Bosnia, but here in Cambodia landmine removal is most often handled by the technological marvel of southeast Asia — the bamboo stick. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning to See the Light +
    +

    Beginning to See the Light

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Floating Village, Cambodia + + + – + + Surprisingly, a floating village is not that different than a village on the land. There are the same stores, the computer repair shop, the grocers, the petrol station, the temple, the dance hall and all the other things that makeup a town. I could even say with some authority that the town is laid out in streets, watery pathways that form nearly perfect lines. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Blood on the Tracks +
    +

    Blood on the Tracks

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Phenom Phen, Cambodia + + + – + + As I mentioned in the last entry I came down with a bit of a fever for a few days. This was accompanied by what we in the group have come to term, for lack of a nicer, but equally descriptive phrase — pissing out the ass. It's not a pretty picture. Nor is it a pleasant experience, and consequently I don't have a real clear recollection of the journey from Ban Lung to Kratie or from Kratie out to Sen Monoron. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Ticket To Ride +
    +

    Ticket To Ride

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Ban Lung, Cambodia + + + – + + I can't see. My eyebrows are orange with dust. I cannot see them, but I know they must be; they were yesterday. Every now and then when her legs clench down on my hips or her fingernails dig into my shoulders, I remember Debi is behind me and I am more or less responsible for not killing both of us. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Little Corner of the World +
    +

    Little Corner of the World

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Four Thousand Islands, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + It's difficult to explain but the further south you go in Laos the more relaxed life becomes. Since life in the north is not exactly high stress, by the time we arrived in the four thousand Islands we had to check our pulse periodically to ensure that time was in fact still moving forward. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Can&#8217;t Get There From Here +
    +

    Can’t Get There From Here

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Attapeu, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + The most magical light in Laos lives on the Bolevan Plateau. For some reason not many tourists seem to make it out to the Bolevan Plateau, in spite of the fact that the roads are quite good, transport runs regularly, the villages peaceful, even sleepy, little hamlets. In short, the Bolevan Plateau is wonderful, and not the least in part because no one else is there. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Safe as Milk +
    +

    Safe as Milk

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Sekong, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + You would think, if you were the United States and you were illegally and unofficially bombing a foreign country you might not want to stamp "US Bomb" on the side of your bombs, and yet there it was all over Laos: "US Bomb." Clearly somebody didn't think things all the way through, especially given that roughly one third of said bombs failed to explode. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Everyday the Fourteenth +
    +

    Everyday the Fourteenth

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Savannakhet, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + We piled four large bags, four daypacks and five people in a six meter dugout canoe. The boat was powered by the ever-present-in-southeast-Asia long tail motor which is essential a lawnmower engine with a three meter pole extending out of it to which a small propeller is attached — perfect for navigating shallow water. And by shallow I mean sometimes a mere inch between the hull and the riverbed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Water Slides and Spirit Guides +
    +

    Water Slides and Spirit Guides

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Konglor Cave, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + The dramatic black karst limestone mountains ringing Ban Na Hin grew darker as the light faded. I was sitting alone on the back porch of our guesthouse watching the light slowly disappear from the bottoms of the clouds and wondering absently how many pages it would take to explain how I came to be in the tiny town of Ban Na Hin, or if such an explanation even really existed. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Lovely Universe +
    +

    The Lovely Universe

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Vang Vieng, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + I would like to say that I have something memorable to write about Vang Vieng, but the truth is we mostly sat around doing very little, making new friends, drinking a beer around the fire and waiting out the Chinese new year celebrations, which meant none of us could get Cambodian visas until the following Monday. We were forced to relax beside the river for several more days than we intended. Yes friends, traveling is hard, but I do it for you. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan +
    +

    I Used to Fly Like Peter Pan

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Luang Nam Tha, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + The next time someone asks you, “would you like to live in a tree house and travel five hundred feet above the ground attached to a zip wire?” I highly suggest you say, “yes, where do a I sign up?” If you happen to be in Laos, try the Gibbon Experience. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Hymn of the Big Wheel +
    +

    Hymn of the Big Wheel

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + Jose Saramago writes in The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis that the gods "journey like us in the river of things, differing from us only because we call them gods and sometimes believe in them." Sitting in the middle of the river listening to the gurgle of water moving over stone and around trees I began to think that perhaps this is the sound of some lost language, a sound capable of creating mountains, valleys, estuaries, isthmuses and all the other forms around us, gurgling and sonorous but without clear meaning, shrouded in turquoise, a mystery through which we can move our sense of wonder intact. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Down the River +
    +

    Down the River

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Luang Prabang, Lao (PDR) + + + – + + Morning in Chiang Khong Thailand revealed itself as a foggy, and not a little mysterious, affair with the far shore of the Mekong, the Laos shore, almost completely hidden in a veil of mist. The first ferry crossed at eight and I was on it, looking to meet up with the slow boat to Luang Prabang. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Doi Inthanan National Park, Thailand + + + – + + The light outside the windows was still a pre-dawn inky blue when the freezing cold water hit my back. A cold shower at six thirty in the morning is infinitely more powerful, albeit not at long lasting, as a cup of coffee. After dropping my body temperature a few degrees and having no towel to dry off with, just a dirty shirt and ceaseless ceiling fan, a cup of tea seemed like a good idea so I stopped in at the restaurant downstairs and, after a cup of hot water with some Jasmine leaves swirling at the bottom of it, I climbed on my rental motorbike and set out for Doi Inthanan National Park. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You and I Are Disappearing +
    +

    You and I Are Disappearing

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Chang Mai, Thailand + + + – + + The all night bus reached Chiang Mai well past dawn, the city already beginning to stir. I considered trying to nap, but in the end decided to explore the town. What better way to see Buddhist temples than in the dreamy fog of sleeplessness? Chiang Mai has over three hundred wats within the somewhat sprawling city limits, most of them reasonably modern and, in my opinion, not worth visiting. I narrowed the field to three, which I figured was a nice round one percent. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Buddha on the Bounty +
    +

    Buddha on the Bounty

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + + – + + The house Jim Thompson left behind in Bangkok is gorgeous, but the real charm is the garden and its orchids. I wandered around the gardens which really aren't that large for some time and then found a bench near a collection of orchids, where I sat for the better part of an hour, occasionally taking a photograph or two, but mostly thinking about how human orchids are. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Brink of the Clouds +
    +

    Brink of the Clouds

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + + – + + "The city is a cathedral" writes James Salter, "its scent is dreams." Salter may have been referring to New York, but his words ring true in Bangkok. And the best place to feel it at night is on the river or from the top of the Baiyoke Sky Hotel — where a circular, revolving observation deck offers 360° views of the Bangkok nightscape. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Are You Amplified to Rock? +
    +

    Are You Amplified to Rock?

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + + – + + It's a new year, are you amplified to rock? Ready, set, go. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/thailand/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/thailand/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9d883ae --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/thailand/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,241 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Thailand + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Thailand

    +
    +
    + Closing Time +
    +

    Closing Time

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + + – + + Headed back to Europe: I started to write a bit of reminiscence, trying to remember the highlights of my time in Asia before I return to the west, but about halfway through I kept thinking of a popular Buddhist saying — be here now. Most of these dispatches are written in past tense, but this time I want to simply be here now. This moment, on this train. This is the last time I'll post something from Southeast Asia. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning of the End +
    +

    Beginning of the End

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + + – + + I wasn't expecting much from Ko Kradan, but in the end I discovered a slice of Thailand the way it's often describe by wistful hippies who first came here twenty years ago. Tong and Ngu and the rest of the Thais working at Paradise Lost were the nicest people I met in Thailand and Wally was by far the most laid back farang I've come across. I ended up staying on Ko Kradan for the remainder of my time in the south. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Going Down South +
    +

    Going Down South

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Koh Phi Phi, Thailand + + + – + + The Phi Phi Island Resort, where some friends were staying, is nestled on the leeward shore of Koh Phi Phi Island and posts a private beach, beautiful reef, fancy swimming pools and rooms with real sheets. Unheard of. I sauntered in a day early, acted like I owned the place, rented snorkel gear, charged it to a random room number and spent the afternoon on the reef. If only I could have put it on the Underhill's credit card. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Doi Inthanan National Park, Thailand + + + – + + The light outside the windows was still a pre-dawn inky blue when the freezing cold water hit my back. A cold shower at six thirty in the morning is infinitely more powerful, albeit not at long lasting, as a cup of coffee. After dropping my body temperature a few degrees and having no towel to dry off with, just a dirty shirt and ceaseless ceiling fan, a cup of tea seemed like a good idea so I stopped in at the restaurant downstairs and, after a cup of hot water with some Jasmine leaves swirling at the bottom of it, I climbed on my rental motorbike and set out for Doi Inthanan National Park. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You and I Are Disappearing +
    +

    You and I Are Disappearing

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Chang Mai, Thailand + + + – + + The all night bus reached Chiang Mai well past dawn, the city already beginning to stir. I considered trying to nap, but in the end decided to explore the town. What better way to see Buddhist temples than in the dreamy fog of sleeplessness? Chiang Mai has over three hundred wats within the somewhat sprawling city limits, most of them reasonably modern and, in my opinion, not worth visiting. I narrowed the field to three, which I figured was a nice round one percent. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Buddha on the Bounty +
    +

    Buddha on the Bounty

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + + – + + The house Jim Thompson left behind in Bangkok is gorgeous, but the real charm is the garden and its orchids. I wandered around the gardens which really aren't that large for some time and then found a bench near a collection of orchids, where I sat for the better part of an hour, occasionally taking a photograph or two, but mostly thinking about how human orchids are. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Brink of the Clouds +
    +

    Brink of the Clouds

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + + – + + "The city is a cathedral" writes James Salter, "its scent is dreams." Salter may have been referring to New York, but his words ring true in Bangkok. And the best place to feel it at night is on the river or from the top of the Baiyoke Sky Hotel — where a circular, revolving observation deck offers 360° views of the Bangkok nightscape. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Are You Amplified to Rock? +
    +

    Are You Amplified to Rock?

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + + – + + It's a new year, are you amplified to rock? Ready, set, go. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Merry Christmas 2005 +
    +

    Merry Christmas 2005

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + + – + + Seasons Greeting from luxagraf. I'm in Bangkok, Thailand at the moment. I am taking a short break from traveling to do a little working so I don't have much to report. I've seen the two big temples down in the Khaosan Rd area, but otherwise I've been trying to live an ordinary life in Bangkok, if such a thing is possible. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/thailand/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/thailand/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9d883ae --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/thailand/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,241 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from Thailand + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from Thailand

    +
    +
    + Closing Time +
    +

    Closing Time

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + + – + + Headed back to Europe: I started to write a bit of reminiscence, trying to remember the highlights of my time in Asia before I return to the west, but about halfway through I kept thinking of a popular Buddhist saying — be here now. Most of these dispatches are written in past tense, but this time I want to simply be here now. This moment, on this train. This is the last time I'll post something from Southeast Asia. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Beginning of the End +
    +

    Beginning of the End

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Koh Kradan, Thailand + + + – + + I wasn't expecting much from Ko Kradan, but in the end I discovered a slice of Thailand the way it's often describe by wistful hippies who first came here twenty years ago. Tong and Ngu and the rest of the Thais working at Paradise Lost were the nicest people I met in Thailand and Wally was by far the most laid back farang I've come across. I ended up staying on Ko Kradan for the remainder of my time in the south. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Going Down South +
    +

    Going Down South

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Koh Phi Phi, Thailand + + + – + + The Phi Phi Island Resort, where some friends were staying, is nestled on the leeward shore of Koh Phi Phi Island and posts a private beach, beautiful reef, fancy swimming pools and rooms with real sheets. Unheard of. I sauntered in a day early, acted like I owned the place, rented snorkel gear, charged it to a random room number and spent the afternoon on the reef. If only I could have put it on the Underhill's credit card. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The King of Carrot Flowers +
    +

    The King of Carrot Flowers

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Doi Inthanan National Park, Thailand + + + – + + The light outside the windows was still a pre-dawn inky blue when the freezing cold water hit my back. A cold shower at six thirty in the morning is infinitely more powerful, albeit not at long lasting, as a cup of coffee. After dropping my body temperature a few degrees and having no towel to dry off with, just a dirty shirt and ceaseless ceiling fan, a cup of tea seemed like a good idea so I stopped in at the restaurant downstairs and, after a cup of hot water with some Jasmine leaves swirling at the bottom of it, I climbed on my rental motorbike and set out for Doi Inthanan National Park. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + You and I Are Disappearing +
    +

    You and I Are Disappearing

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Chang Mai, Thailand + + + – + + The all night bus reached Chiang Mai well past dawn, the city already beginning to stir. I considered trying to nap, but in the end decided to explore the town. What better way to see Buddhist temples than in the dreamy fog of sleeplessness? Chiang Mai has over three hundred wats within the somewhat sprawling city limits, most of them reasonably modern and, in my opinion, not worth visiting. I narrowed the field to three, which I figured was a nice round one percent. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Buddha on the Bounty +
    +

    Buddha on the Bounty

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + + – + + The house Jim Thompson left behind in Bangkok is gorgeous, but the real charm is the garden and its orchids. I wandered around the gardens which really aren't that large for some time and then found a bench near a collection of orchids, where I sat for the better part of an hour, occasionally taking a photograph or two, but mostly thinking about how human orchids are. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Brink of the Clouds +
    +

    Brink of the Clouds

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + + – + + "The city is a cathedral" writes James Salter, "its scent is dreams." Salter may have been referring to New York, but his words ring true in Bangkok. And the best place to feel it at night is on the river or from the top of the Baiyoke Sky Hotel — where a circular, revolving observation deck offers 360° views of the Bangkok nightscape. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Are You Amplified to Rock? +
    +

    Are You Amplified to Rock?

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + + – + + It's a new year, are you amplified to rock? Ready, set, go. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Merry Christmas 2005 +
    +

    Merry Christmas 2005

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Bangkok, Thailand + + + – + + Seasons Greeting from luxagraf. I'm in Bangkok, Thailand at the moment. I am taking a short break from traveling to do a little working so I don't have much to report. I've seen the two big temples down in the Khaosan Rd area, but otherwise I've been trying to live an ordinary life in Bangkok, if such a thing is possible. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/united-kingdom/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/united-kingdom/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2283920 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/united-kingdom/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,95 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from United Kingdom + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
    +
    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from United Kingdom

    +
    +
    + London Calling +
    +

    London Calling

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + London, United Kingdom + + + – + + London: The British don't want me -- no money, no proof I'm leaving and no real reason for coming, good lord, I must be a vagabond, up to no good, surely. Eventually the customs agent relents and lets me in, a favor I repay by nearly burning down one of London's bigger parks. Seriously. + +

    +
    +
    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/united-kingdom/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/united-kingdom/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2283920 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/united-kingdom/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,95 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from United Kingdom + + + + + + + + + + +
    +
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    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from United Kingdom

    +
    +
    + London Calling +
    +

    London Calling

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + London, United Kingdom + + + – + + London: The British don't want me -- no money, no proof I'm leaving and no real reason for coming, good lord, I must be a vagabond, up to no good, surely. Eventually the customs agent relents and lets me in, a favor I repay by nearly burning down one of London's bigger parks. Seriously. + +

    +
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    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/united-states/1/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/united-states/1/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..52fbc8e --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/united-states/1/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,515 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from United States + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    +

    Walk Slowly

    +
    + +
    + +
    +

    Writing from the United States

    +
    +
    + Oysterman Wanted +
    +

    Oysterman Wanted

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + + – + + The world of oystermen and local fishing industry is doomed. Even the people resisting the transition know they’re no longer fighting for their way of life. They’re just fighting to keep the thinnest resemblance of what they’ve always known around until they leave this world. They’re fighting to keep from having to watch the death of everything they know. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + All the Pretty Beaches +
    +

    All the Pretty Beaches

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + + – + + St. George is just off the Gulf Coast of northwest Florida, only about 7 hours from where I live. There are better places if you're looking to dive or snorkel. Ditto if it's nightlife you're after. But if you're looking for a seemingly endless amount of gorgeous white sand beaches you'll share with only a few migratory birds, St. George is the place to be. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Consider the Apalachicola Oyster +
    +

    Consider the Apalachicola Oyster

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Apalachicola, Florida, U.S. + + + – + + If you know the name Apalachicola at all it’s likely because of its eponymous oysters. Very few things, let alone culinary things, are as attached to place as oysters. In fact, once you get beyond the Rockefeller, ordering “oysters” is akin to walking in a bar and ordering “a beer.” But unlike beer, oysters don’t have brands, they have places — Pemaquid, Wellfleet, Blue Point, Apalachicola. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Things Behind the Sun +
    +

    Things Behind the Sun

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + My grandparents left the home they lived in for 60 years today. I don't know how much of my life was spent in that house, probably well over a year if you added up all the holidays and family gatherings. And now I'm thousands of miles away and someone is clearing out the house. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Street Food in Athens Georgia +
    +

    Street Food in Athens Georgia

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + Cheap food, made fresh, in front of you. Served hot, wrapped in newspaper. Street food is the people's food, it removes the mystery of the kitchen, lays the process bare. It's also the staple diet of people around the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + We Used to Wait For It +
    +

    We Used to Wait For It

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + When we first came here, there was nothing. Downtown Los Angeles was an empty husk of a place fifteen years ago. Now it's reborn, alive and kicking. Yet there is something in the older buildings, something in the old walls, something lost in the bricks, something in the concrete, the marble. Something you don’t find anymore. Something we need to find again. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The World Outside +
    +

    The World Outside

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + The world outside the house is blanketed in snow, a monochrome of white interrupted only by the dark, wet trunks of trees, the red brick of chimneys, the occasional green of shrubs poking through. The roads are unbroken expanses of smooth white, no one is out yet, no footprints track their way through the snowy sidewalk. The world outside is the same as it was last night, before the snow began, and yet, it feels totally different. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Charleston A-Z +
    +

    Charleston A-Z

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Charleston, South Carolina, U.S. + + + – + + Charleston alphabetically. For example, Q is for quiet, Charleston has a lot of it. Just head down to the Battery area, walk through the park and starting walking down the side streets. Take one of the many alleys and walkways that weave between the massive, stately houses. Get lost. It doesn't take much to find a quiet place of your own. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + This is the only real way to see Dinosaur National Monument — you must journey down the river. There are two major rivers running through Dinosaur, the Yampa, which carves through Yampa Canyon, and the Green, which cuts through Lodore. Adventure Bound Rafting runs some of the best whitewater rafting trips in Colorado and I was lucky enough to go down the Green River with them, through the majestic Lodore Canyon. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + Dinosaur National Monument was poorly named. The best parts of it are not the fossils in the quarry (which is closed for 2010 anyway) but the canyon country — some of the best, most remote canyon country you'll find in this part of the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone +
    +

    The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming, U.S. + + + – + + There is wilderness in Yellowstone, even if it's just inches from the boardwalks that transport thousands around the geothermal pools. It may not be wilderness on a grand scale — the sweeping mountain peaks or wild rivers of other parks — but in some ways that makes it more enticing. As one Ranger told me, Yellowstone isn't about the big picture, the grand scenery, it's about the tiny details within each pool. To really see Yellowstone, he said, you have to take your time, move slowly and look closely. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Backpacking in the Grand Tetons +
    +

    Backpacking in the Grand Tetons

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming, U.S. + + + – + + Hiking into the wilderness empties your mind. You fall into the silence of the mountains and you can relax in a way that's very difficult to do in the midst of civilization. The white noise that surrounds us in our everyday lives, that noise we don't even notice as it adds thin layers of stress that build up over days, weeks, years, does not seem capable of following us into the mountains. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Great Sand Dunes National Park +
    +

    Great Sand Dunes National Park

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Great Sand Dunes National Park, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + Something about the desert inspires me to get up early and watch the sunrise. The cool mornings seem worth getting up for out here in the high plains of Colorado, especially when there's the chance to watch the sunrise from the largest sand dunes in North America, here in Great Sand Dune National Park. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Comanche National Grasslands +
    +

    Comanche National Grasslands

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Comanche National Grasslands, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + To say the Comanche National Grasslands is off the grid would be an understatement. With the exception of Highway 50 in Nevada, I've never driven through such isolation and vast openness anywhere in the world. And it's easy to get lost. There are no signs, no road names even, just dirt paths crisscrossing a wide, perfectly flat expanses of grass. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks +
    +

    Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Amarillo, Texas, U.S. + + + – + + There are many reasons, but here's the one I currently consider most important: National Parks never close. Take Palo Dura State park outside of Amarillo, Texas. Were it a National Park, I would be there right now. But it's not, it's a state park and so I'm sitting in a hotel room in Amarillo because everyone knows nature closes at 10PM. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Legend of Billy the Kid +
    +

    The Legend of Billy the Kid

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Hico, Texas, U.S. + + + – + + History rarely offers neat, tidy stories. But the messier, more confusing and more controversial the story becomes, the more it works its way into our imaginations. The legend of Billy the Kid is like that of Amelia Earhart or D.B. Cooper — the less we know for sure, the more compelling the story becomes. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Dixie Drug Store +
    +

    The Dixie Drug Store

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + + – + + New Orleans is it's own world. So much so that's it's impossible to put your finger on what it is that makes it different. New Orleans is a place where the line between consensus reality and private dream seems to have never fully developed. And a wonderful world it is. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Begin the Begin +
    +

    Begin the Begin

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Gulf Port, Mississippi, U.S. + + + – + + It's travel time again. This time I'm driving my 1969 Ford truck out west, to Texas, Colorado, Utah and more — a road trip around the western United States. The first stop is Gulf Port, Mississippi. It's hard to believe, sitting here on the deserted beaches of Gulf Shore, watching the sun break through the ominous clouds, but soon this beauty will be gone. The BP oil spill is somewhere out there, blown slowly ashore by the storm hovering over us, waiting to drown the beaches in crude. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Los Angeles, I'm Yours +
    +

    Los Angeles, I’m Yours

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + Los Angeles is all about the car. Shiny, air-conditioned comfort, gliding you soundlessly from one place to another without the need to interact with anything in between. But I have discovered that if you abandon the car for the subway and your own two feet, the illusion that L.A. is just a model train set world — tiny, plastic and devoid of any ground beneath the ground — fades and you find yourself, for a time, in a real city. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + (There'll Be) Peace in the Valley +
    +

    (There’ll Be) Peace in the Valley

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Death Valley, California, U.S. + + + – + + Sometimes you ignore the places close to home because, well, there's always next weekend. Which is why I never made it Death Valley in the twenty-five years I lived in California. It took being all the way across the country to get me out to Death Valley. Which might explain why I actually got up before dawn just to watch the sunrise at Zabriskie Point. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + So Far, I Have Not Found The Science +
    +

    So Far, I Have Not Found The Science

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Okefenokee Swamp, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + A canoe trip through the Okefenokee Swamp down in the southern most corner of Georgia. Paddling the strange reddish and incredibly still waters. Begging alligators, aching muscles and the kindly folks of Stintson's Barbecue all getting their due. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + How to Get Off Your Butt and Travel the World +
    +

    How to Get Off Your Butt and Travel the World

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + How do you make the leap from cubicle daydreams to life on to the road? You want to travel the world, but, like me, you have a million excuses stopping you. How do overcome the inertia that keeps you trapped in a life that isn't what you want it to be? Here's a few practical tips and how tos designed to motivate you to get off your butt and travel the world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + No Strangers on a Train +
    +

    No Strangers on a Train

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + We mythologize trains because they harken back to an age of community travel, a real, tangible community of travelers, not just backpackers, but people from all walks of life, people traveling near and far together in a shared space that isn't locked down like an airplane and isn't isolated like a car; it's a shared travel experience and there are precious few of those left in our world. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies +
    +

    Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Birmingham, Alabama, U.S. + + + – + + A few pages from Leonardo Da Vinci's notebooks make a rare trip outside Italy, to Birmingham, AL, of all places. But the Birmingham Museum of Art is home to far more alarming works of art, works which depict the eventual, inevitable, bunny takeover, after which all the elements of our reality will be replaced by bunnies. Seriously. You heard it here first. + +

    +
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    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/united-states/2/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/united-states/2/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..64c5882 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/united-states/2/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,426 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from United States -- Page 2 + + + + + + + + + + +
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    +

    Walk Slowly

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    + +
    +

    Writing from the United States

    +
    +
    + Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains +
    +

    Elkmont and the Great Smoky Mountains

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Great Smoky Mountains, Tennessee, U.S. + + + – + + Pigeon Forge is Myrtle Beach in the mountains. Redneck weddings cascade straight out of the chapel and into the mini golf reception area. Pigeon Forge is everything that's wrong with America. But we aren't here for Pigeon Forge, it just happens to have a free condo we're staying in. We're here for the mountains. Smoky Mountain National Park is just a few miles up the road. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Rope Swings and River Floats +
    +

    Rope Swings and River Floats

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Mountain Cabin, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + Two weekends ago we went up to the mountains, just outside of Dahlonega GA, and floated the Chestatee River using inner tubes, various pool toys and one super-cool inflatable seahorse. Unfortunately, proving one of my travel mottos -- you can never go back -- a return trip proved disastrous. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + In Love With a View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty and Living Well +
    +

    In Love With a View: Vagabonds, Responsibilty and Living Well

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + Why all the vitriol about a seemingly innocuous concept -- that traveling doesn't have to cost a lot of money, isn't all that difficult and hey, you can even go right now? People like us, who feel tied down by responsibility, find the suggestion that we actually aren't tied down patronizing and yes, elitist. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Fall +
    +

    Fall

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + The trees are in full technicolor swing. The land is slowly dying, and not just because it's Fall, we're also in the middle of a prolonged drought and this year the leaves are opting for a James Dean-style, leave-a-good-looking-corpse exit. If you're a leaf and you've got to go, do it with class. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + On The Other Ocean +
    +

    On The Other Ocean

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Catalina Island, California, U.S. + + + – + + Consider what would happen if your house were tilted 30 degrees to the left, how this would complicate ordinary activities -- like say walking. Now throw in a bouncing motion that lifts the floor five or six feet up and down in a seesaw-like motion on a perpendicular axis to the 30 degree tilt -- things become more like riding a seesaw that's attached to a merry-go-round which is missing a few bolts. That's sailing. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Being There +
    +

    Being There

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Myrtle Beach Airport, South Carolina, U.S. + + + – + + Myrtle Beach does not exist. Nearly everything in Myrtle Beach is a paltry derivative of some original form. For instance, most of the country has golf courses, in Myrtle Beach there are endless rows of putt-putt courses, where most towns attempt to draw in big name musical acts for their tourist venues, Myrtle Beach is content with impersonators. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Sailing Through +
    +

    Sailing Through

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Charleston, South Carolina, U.S. + + + – + + The rumors are true. I moved back to the south; Athens GA to be exact. But I hate staying in one place for too long, so after a month or two in Athens I headed up to Charleston to visit a friend. The south is curious place. If you've never been here I couldn't hope to explain it, but it's not so much a place as an approach. A way of getting somewhere more than anywhere specific. Perhaps even a wrong turn. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Goodbye to the Mother and the Cove +
    +

    Goodbye to the Mother and the Cove

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + It's strange how you can plan something, go through all the motions of making it happen without ever really understanding what you're doing. I've been doing this for the better part of three years now. I realized recently that I have no real idea how I came to be here. + + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Everything All The Time +
    +

    Everything All The Time

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + I don't know if I'm just overly paranoid but when I call up memories in the dark hours of the Beaujolais-soaked pre-dawn, I see a collection of mildly amusing, occasionally painful series of embarrassments, misunderstandings and general wrong-place, wrong-time sort of moments. Which isn't to imply that my life is a British sitcom, just that I'm not in a hurry to re-live any of it. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Sun Came Up With No Conclusions +
    +

    The Sun Came Up With No Conclusions

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + "And so it is that we, as men, do not exist until we do; and then it is that we play with our world of existent things, and order and disorder them, and so it shall be that non-existence shall take us back from existence and that nameless spirituality shall return to Void, like a tired child home from a very wild circus." -- Robert Anton Wilson and Kerry Thornley. Good luck and Godspeed Mr. Wilson. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Give It Up Or Turnit A Loose +
    +

    Give It Up Or Turnit A Loose

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + Traveling soul. Soul is not something out there or in you, it's the place where you meet the out there; something very similar to what I think James Brown meant — a mixture of the secular and the spiritual, the profane and the sublime. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Homeward +
    +

    Homeward

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + New York, New York. John F Kennedy airport 1 am date unknown, sleepy looking customs guard stamps a passport without hardly looking at, without even checking to see where I had been. A light drizzle is falling outside and the subways extension to the terminal never looked so good. What is it like to be home? I don't know, I'll tell you when I get there. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Twenty More Minutes to Go +
    +

    Twenty More Minutes to Go

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Newport Beach, California, U.S. + + + – + + Well it's the night before I leave. I just got done pacing around the driveway of my parents house smoking cigarettes… nervously? Excitedly? Restlessly? A bit of all of those I suppose. I walk across the street, over the drainage ditch and head for the swing set at the park. Right now I'm swinging in a park in Costa Mesa California. Tomorrow France. Weird. [Photo to the right, via Flickr] + +

    +
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    +
    + Travel Tips and Resources +
    +

    Travel Tips and Resources

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Newport Beach, California, U.S. + + + – + + An overview of the things you might want to bring on an extended trip, as well as some tips and recommendations on things like visas and vaccinations. The part that was most helpful for me was learning what I didn't need to bring — as it turns out, quite a bit. Nowadays my pack is much smaller and lighter. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The New Luddites +
    +

    The New Luddites

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Newport Beach, California, U.S. + + + – + + An older, non-travel piece about Google's plan to scan all the world's books and Luddite-like response from many authors. Let's see, someone wants to make your book easier to find, searchable and indexable and you're opposed to it? You're a fucking idiot. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + One Nation Under a Groove +
    +

    One Nation Under a Groove

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + + – + + The sky is falling! The iPod! It's ruining our culture! Or, uh, maybe it's just like the Walkman, but better. And since, so far as I can tell, the world did not collapse with the introduction of the Walkman and headphones, it probably isn't going to fall apart just because the storage format for our music has changed. [Photo to the right via Flickr] + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Farewell Mr. Hunter S Thompson +
    +

    Farewell Mr. Hunter S Thompson

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + + – + + Hunter S. Thompson departs on a journey to the western lands. Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas delivered the penultimate eulogy for the dreams of the 1960's, one that mourned, but also tried to lay the empty idealism to rest. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + The Art of the Essay +
    +

    The Art of the Essay

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + + – + + I generally ignore internet debates, they never go anywhere, so why bother. But we all have our weak points and when programmer Paul Graham posted what might be the dumbest essay on writing that's ever been written, I just couldn't help myuself. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Farewell Mr. Cash +
    +

    Farewell Mr. Cash

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Northampton, Massachusetts, U.S. + + + – + + Johnny Cash heads for the western lands. + +

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    + + + + + + + + diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/writing/united-states/3/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/united-states/3/index.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ded9960 --- /dev/null +++ b/bak/oldluxpages/writing/united-states/3/index.html @@ -0,0 +1,77 @@ + + + + + Luxagraf | Travel Writing from United States -- Page 3 + + + + + + + + + + +
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    Walk Slowly

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    Writing from the United States

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    Writing from the United States

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    Writing from the United States

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    Writing from the United States

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    + Oysterman Wanted +
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    Oysterman Wanted

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + + – + + The world of oystermen and local fishing industry is doomed. Even the people resisting the transition know they’re no longer fighting for their way of life. They’re just fighting to keep the thinnest resemblance of what they’ve always known around until they leave this world. They’re fighting to keep from having to watch the death of everything they know. + +

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    + All the Pretty Beaches +
    +

    All the Pretty Beaches

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + St. George Island, Florida, U.S. + + + – + + St. George is just off the Gulf Coast of northwest Florida, only about 7 hours from where I live. There are better places if you're looking to dive or snorkel. Ditto if it's nightlife you're after. But if you're looking for a seemingly endless amount of gorgeous white sand beaches you'll share with only a few migratory birds, St. George is the place to be. + +

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    +
    + Consider the Apalachicola Oyster +
    +

    Consider the Apalachicola Oyster

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Apalachicola, Florida, U.S. + + + – + + If you know the name Apalachicola at all it’s likely because of its eponymous oysters. Very few things, let alone culinary things, are as attached to place as oysters. In fact, once you get beyond the Rockefeller, ordering “oysters” is akin to walking in a bar and ordering “a beer.” But unlike beer, oysters don’t have brands, they have places — Pemaquid, Wellfleet, Blue Point, Apalachicola. + +

    +
    +
    +
    + Things Behind the Sun +
    +

    Things Behind the Sun

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + My grandparents left the home they lived in for 60 years today. I don't know how much of my life was spent in that house, probably well over a year if you added up all the holidays and family gatherings. And now I'm thousands of miles away and someone is clearing out the house. + +

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    + Street Food in Athens Georgia +
    +

    Street Food in Athens Georgia

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + Cheap food, made fresh, in front of you. Served hot, wrapped in newspaper. Street food is the people's food, it removes the mystery of the kitchen, lays the process bare. It's also the staple diet of people around the world. + +

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    +
    + We Used to Wait For It +
    +

    We Used to Wait For It

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + When we first came here, there was nothing. Downtown Los Angeles was an empty husk of a place fifteen years ago. Now it's reborn, alive and kicking. Yet there is something in the older buildings, something in the old walls, something lost in the bricks, something in the concrete, the marble. Something you don’t find anymore. Something we need to find again. + +

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    +
    + The World Outside +
    +

    The World Outside

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + The world outside the house is blanketed in snow, a monochrome of white interrupted only by the dark, wet trunks of trees, the red brick of chimneys, the occasional green of shrubs poking through. The roads are unbroken expanses of smooth white, no one is out yet, no footprints track their way through the snowy sidewalk. The world outside is the same as it was last night, before the snow began, and yet, it feels totally different. + +

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    +
    + Charleston A-Z +
    +

    Charleston A-Z

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Charleston, South Carolina, U.S. + + + – + + Charleston alphabetically. For example, Q is for quiet, Charleston has a lot of it. Just head down to the Battery area, walk through the park and starting walking down the side streets. Take one of the many alleys and walkways that weave between the massive, stately houses. Get lost. It doesn't take much to find a quiet place of your own. + +

    +
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    +
    + Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Part Two: Down the River

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + This is the only real way to see Dinosaur National Monument — you must journey down the river. There are two major rivers running through Dinosaur, the Yampa, which carves through Yampa Canyon, and the Green, which cuts through Lodore. Adventure Bound Rafting runs some of the best whitewater rafting trips in Colorado and I was lucky enough to go down the Green River with them, through the majestic Lodore Canyon. + +

    +
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    +
    + Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park +
    +

    Dinosaur National Monument, Part One: Echo Park

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + Dinosaur National Monument was poorly named. The best parts of it are not the fossils in the quarry (which is closed for 2010 anyway) but the canyon country — some of the best, most remote canyon country you'll find in this part of the world. + +

    +
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    +
    + The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone +
    +

    The Endless Crowds of Yellowstone

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming, U.S. + + + – + + There is wilderness in Yellowstone, even if it's just inches from the boardwalks that transport thousands around the geothermal pools. It may not be wilderness on a grand scale — the sweeping mountain peaks or wild rivers of other parks — but in some ways that makes it more enticing. As one Ranger told me, Yellowstone isn't about the big picture, the grand scenery, it's about the tiny details within each pool. To really see Yellowstone, he said, you have to take your time, move slowly and look closely. + +

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    +
    + Backpacking in the Grand Tetons +
    +

    Backpacking in the Grand Tetons

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming, U.S. + + + – + + Hiking into the wilderness empties your mind. You fall into the silence of the mountains and you can relax in a way that's very difficult to do in the midst of civilization. The white noise that surrounds us in our everyday lives, that noise we don't even notice as it adds thin layers of stress that build up over days, weeks, years, does not seem capable of following us into the mountains. + +

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    + Great Sand Dunes National Park +
    +

    Great Sand Dunes National Park

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Great Sand Dunes National Park, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + Something about the desert inspires me to get up early and watch the sunrise. The cool mornings seem worth getting up for out here in the high plains of Colorado, especially when there's the chance to watch the sunrise from the largest sand dunes in North America, here in Great Sand Dune National Park. + +

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    + Comanche National Grasslands +
    +

    Comanche National Grasslands

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Comanche National Grasslands, Colorado, U.S. + + + – + + To say the Comanche National Grasslands is off the grid would be an understatement. With the exception of Highway 50 in Nevada, I've never driven through such isolation and vast openness anywhere in the world. And it's easy to get lost. There are no signs, no road names even, just dirt paths crisscrossing a wide, perfectly flat expanses of grass. + +

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    + Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks +
    +

    Why National Parks Are Better Than State Parks

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Amarillo, Texas, U.S. + + + – + + There are many reasons, but here's the one I currently consider most important: National Parks never close. Take Palo Dura State park outside of Amarillo, Texas. Were it a National Park, I would be there right now. But it's not, it's a state park and so I'm sitting in a hotel room in Amarillo because everyone knows nature closes at 10PM. + +

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    +
    + The Legend of Billy the Kid +
    +

    The Legend of Billy the Kid

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Hico, Texas, U.S. + + + – + + History rarely offers neat, tidy stories. But the messier, more confusing and more controversial the story becomes, the more it works its way into our imaginations. The legend of Billy the Kid is like that of Amelia Earhart or D.B. Cooper — the less we know for sure, the more compelling the story becomes. + +

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    +
    + The Dixie Drug Store +
    +

    The Dixie Drug Store

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S. + + + – + + New Orleans is it's own world. So much so that's it's impossible to put your finger on what it is that makes it different. New Orleans is a place where the line between consensus reality and private dream seems to have never fully developed. And a wonderful world it is. + +

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    +
    + Begin the Begin +
    +

    Begin the Begin

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Gulf Port, Mississippi, U.S. + + + – + + It's travel time again. This time I'm driving my 1969 Ford truck out west, to Texas, Colorado, Utah and more — a road trip around the western United States. The first stop is Gulf Port, Mississippi. It's hard to believe, sitting here on the deserted beaches of Gulf Shore, watching the sun break through the ominous clouds, but soon this beauty will be gone. The BP oil spill is somewhere out there, blown slowly ashore by the storm hovering over us, waiting to drown the beaches in crude. + +

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    + Los Angeles, I'm Yours +
    +

    Los Angeles, I’m Yours

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Los Angeles, California, U.S. + + + – + + Los Angeles is all about the car. Shiny, air-conditioned comfort, gliding you soundlessly from one place to another without the need to interact with anything in between. But I have discovered that if you abandon the car for the subway and your own two feet, the illusion that L.A. is just a model train set world — tiny, plastic and devoid of any ground beneath the ground — fades and you find yourself, for a time, in a real city. + +

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    + (There'll Be) Peace in the Valley +
    +

    (There’ll Be) Peace in the Valley

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Death Valley, California, U.S. + + + – + + Sometimes you ignore the places close to home because, well, there's always next weekend. Which is why I never made it Death Valley in the twenty-five years I lived in California. It took being all the way across the country to get me out to Death Valley. Which might explain why I actually got up before dawn just to watch the sunrise at Zabriskie Point. + +

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    + So Far, I Have Not Found The Science +
    +

    So Far, I Have Not Found The Science

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Okefenokee Swamp, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + A canoe trip through the Okefenokee Swamp down in the southern most corner of Georgia. Paddling the strange reddish and incredibly still waters. Begging alligators, aching muscles and the kindly folks of Stintson's Barbecue all getting their due. + +

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    +
    + How to Get Off Your Butt and Travel the World +
    +

    How to Get Off Your Butt and Travel the World

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + How do you make the leap from cubicle daydreams to life on to the road? You want to travel the world, but, like me, you have a million excuses stopping you. How do overcome the inertia that keeps you trapped in a life that isn't what you want it to be? Here's a few practical tips and how tos designed to motivate you to get off your butt and travel the world. + +

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    + No Strangers on a Train +
    +

    No Strangers on a Train

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Athens, Georgia, U.S. + + + – + + We mythologize trains because they harken back to an age of community travel, a real, tangible community of travelers, not just backpackers, but people from all walks of life, people traveling near and far together in a shared space that isn't locked down like an airplane and isn't isolated like a car; it's a shared travel experience and there are precious few of those left in our world. + +

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    +
    + Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies +
    +

    Leonardo Da Vinci and the Codex on Bunnies

    +

    Scott Gilbertson

    + +

    + + Birmingham, Alabama, U.S. + + + – + + A few pages from Leonardo Da Vinci's notebooks make a rare trip outside Italy, to Birmingham, AL, of all places. But the Birmingham Museum of Art is home to far more alarming works of art, works which depict the eventual, inevitable, bunny takeover, after which all the elements of our reality will be replaced by bunnies. Seriously. You heard it here first. + +

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    + + + + + + + + -- cgit v1.2.3-70-g09d2