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Halleluja!
1/2/10I’ve been struggling with this whole thing. In fact, THE WHOLE THING, that is life. In terms of this blog, and the Vicarious Living Project, there are a couple of things that are a little more poignant though. One of them is finding things to write about which will be of use to someone reading it. I’m trying to stay away from posting the journal type shit here, but this one here is an exception. Maybe it will serve as a window into my humanity, which in turn might help others who are struggling in this world as well. One of the main issues that I’ve been trying to cope with and find a solution to is how to deal with honesty and disclosure with this blog, and with the VLP. I really feel like the power of the internet, and the VLP lies within the sharing of our experiences as we navigate our way through the vast ocean of life. The smog of our society seems to have blotted out our navigational aids in the roiling waters, but with some sharing, we might find ways to relocate those stars and make it home just yet. So, one of the questions that I’ve been asking myself, is just how much of my personal life do I share. Do I share the fact that sometimes I drink until dawn and sleep in the back of my truck. Do I share that I use substances that our government deems illegal. Do I share these things that might be read by a future employer, and if I do, to what end is it serving?? I guess that I had pretty much decided to share everything, and that the purpose it would serve is to illustrate that a lot of us apparently functioning humans are struggling with demons of our own, and maybe by acknowledging that, we might actually confront this shit eye to eye. Demons: I’ve been drinking since I was 12. I was dosed with acid at the same age. I began smoking pot regularly, you guessed it, at 12 as well. When I was 14, I acknowledged that I was an alcoholic. I quit drinking for a year or so, relying on pot as my sole party enhancer. After a while though, having to explain my not drinking, and not wanting to be different, or maybe just not being strong enough to really confront the issue, I started drinking again. For a while, all I drank was vodka. I was trying a special diet for my first time, and vodka was the cleanest way to get drunk. Later, I realized that if I stick to beer the likelihood that I might end up in jail on any given night goes way down, so I stopped buying hard liquor. Whiskey is a real problem for me. Somehow I learned early on, how to fool everybody. My parents. My teachers. The SAT. Somehow I managed to get my work done and maintain. The problem with that is, while one might maintain, and even function, one seldom reaches their real potential when half of the time they are drunk. I wouldn’t say that lately that has been the case, in terms of defining my drinking. If I look at the past two months lets say, about two weeks of that time has been spent partying every night, but the rest of the time looks a lot more casual, maybe 2-5 beers per night, maybe none. I haven’t ever required the constant presence of alcohol in my system to function, but I have required the constant availability of it in times of need. I’ve quit before. I’ve gone as many as 6 months without a drop. I’ve been able to rationalize that I have functioned well, and can do so with some booze in my life. I love making wine, and how do you make wine and enjoy it if you don’t drink?? I’ve never sought help in this, other than from lovers or close friends, and I really don’t think that I can relate to the AA thing, I don’t even know of I want to say that I’m quitting drinking. Is it possible for someone like me to have a drink of wine once in a while?? Is it worth trying? I’m not going to end up homeless, in an alley, or am I? I’m kind of always on the verge of being homeless anyway. But I guess, I’m sort of solving one of my disclosure problems. I no longer will have to worry about whether or not to tell people about drinking all night while on my adventures. I hope it doesn’t mean that my voice won’t be enjoyable to people who drink all the time, and I’m certainly not trying to preach. I do wish that I’d dealt with this sooner, fuck, I don’t know. Life is life. A quotation, ” Insanity is doing the same thing over and over, while expecting different results.” - Einstein 12/26/09Well, it’s the day after Christmas. I had a fun holiday with one of my roommate’s family out in the sticks. It was great because about two hours before serving dinner, the power went out. The Wii addicted people had to put down the remotes and communicate with each other, and the food preparers had to figure out some contingencies. All was done with a smile, and a Christmas dinner for 20 or so was pulled off with out electricity. We got a giant bon fire going, and just as everyone was filing in to pile their plates, the lights came back on. And here is another Christmas miracle for your enjoyment. When I was building my cabin, I was actually living in it for some time while working on it. The first thing I did after painting was decorate, even though it was still a total construction site, I had to put some stuff on the walls. I like to surround myself with treasures from various adventures, it helps remind me that everyday is an adventure, and without dwelling on past experiences, these souvenirs help tie past experiences to my present existence. Anyway, this one thing I picked up in Cusco, Peru, the naval of the world, was made out of clay and mounted on a small piece of Eucalyptus wood. The object in total weighed perhaps 2.5 pounds. I had it hanging above my door, on the inside of my cabin, and one day while working, a 2X4 knocked it from its nail as I entered through the door with it. The object fell, and hit the floor. It was not forced down by the wood, but simply knocked from its hook. Now, I need your concentration for the next part. Total concentration. The distance that the object fell was but 77 inches, but when it hit the ground, a barrage of pieces screamed past me, most hitting the far wall and coming to rest on my counter top, and in my sink. The horizontal distance from the point of impact on the floor was 141 inches, and the vertical gain was over 30. I know that it happened, because I saw it, but I can’t wrap my head around the physics of it. Is it possible that enough potential energy was stored in the bonds of the clay, that when they were broken they released enough kinetic energy to propel it twice the distance the object fell, and gain 30 inches in elevation. The particles were anywhere from a couple of grams to 6 ounces in weight. Now that you have your answer, I will explain a little further. I am an agnostic. I certainly do NOT believe that Jesus Christ of Nazareth had/has anything remotely to do with my life. I’m not even convinced of his existence, as I am not convinced of Robin Hood’s existence in the real world. There is much more evidence that Sasquatch exists. That said, I am fascinated with religious imagery, especially the gruesome stuff, and this particular clay object from Peru was an especially bloody and grotesque Jesus, crucified on this piece of Eucalyptus wood. Is this a miracle?? 12/19/09Well, I'm four days past when I was hoping to launch the Vicarious Living Project. Can't help but feel like I'm blowing it, and shit is slipping through my fingers, but I'm trying to get a grasp. So many responsibilities and projects, but not losing site of the main goal, which is launching the VLP by the first of the year. I am really excited about collaboration with friend and phenomenal artist Ryan Robideux, who is known as evoker in some circles. Ryan is the poor man's Shep Fairey, talent and watershed history included. He is helping out with an insane prize pack which will be available to members of the VLP. Having to move, and take care of my cabin has taken its toll on my available time for creating the Vicarious website. Also, the mounting bills, some of which actually have to be paid require me to work a bit. I'm jazzed though that I have over 40 pocket notebooks ordered, and will be producing those today. It's the beginning of the trickle that will eventually tear apart the earthen dam that's been holding back my talent from the world. The notebooks are great, and I think they will be a real and welcome addition to those who keep notes on critters, or daily observations. Anyway, I suck at managing a million things at once, which is ironic, because I am basing my future on the ability to do exactly that, but I figure if you throw enough shit against the wall, some is bound to stick. Speaking of, new beer coozie line coming out this week!!!!! Wicked Radical. 12/11/09The Splitting of the Chickens The last time I had to do this, it was the hardest thing I had ever had to do. Like that time, dealing with the chickens is a very real punctuation on the sentence, "my life is once again changing in a radical way, and a dream is coming to an end." That said, some dreams end in panic and fright, some end with lugubrious sleep, and some end with a new dream sweeping up the old one, and engulfing the rest of the night. I think that's what's happening here, so I'm not too bummed. Buddy, Nicole, Tituba, Victoria, Barrett, Tammy Wynette, Winona Ryder, Goldie Hahn, Big Mama 2, and Quasi Modo will all wake up in a strange and new land in the morning. I am very thankful that they will be going to good homes, and glad that I'll be able to maintain some visitation rights with the move. As it sits right now, the flock will be split in two, with the Rhode Island Reds and Barred Rocks going to Cory, and the Auracanas and Wyandottes going to my buddy Matt. My chickens aren't really regular chickens, not that anything in my life has ever been normal, but... They spent the first two months of their lives in my cabin, growing up in a kiddy pool. We have spent a lot of time together, and accordingly, they like me. All of them more or less "allow" me to pick them up, less reluctantly than most cats would be, and once they are held, they seem to really enjoy the close company. I don't know, maybe I make it all up, but I love my chickens, and wish that it didn't have to end this way. Turns out, the kind of life that I strive to live just isn't possible with a one man team. On to the next dream. 12/02/09An Ode to Fungus Yesterday was the last day. I should have taken advantage of it and made an earnest effort to search out that which will be no more. With the coming high pressure, and the general flow of the weather from the northerly, it was certain that the frost would come. Under the full moon, with mists in the low ground pasture, and coyotes mischievously meandering and doling out cruel fates to soft bunnies. They madly yowl their viciousness into the still night, the first crystals of the killing frost begin to form on needle and blade alike. Hark A Poem The mushrooms will come no more. The Bishop’s Mitre succumbs to hoar Standing firm in proud virtue They soon know a cold that's all and true The Marasmius fairy rings do crack and brown Nipples held aloft will Soften, then lay down In short cropped pasture In long neglected lawn The night time dancing fairy rituals Which go unseen are gone. Chanterelles, which have heroically parted and plied the duff Will soften, ooze and rot, Having said enough is enough. My dear Cyanescens Who seem to know their part, Will brown, blue, black Thus finishing their art. Solace does show on this frosty morning New light shimmers on bejeweled ice of night Crowned in gold, the sparrows As they spread their wings in flight. And yet, firm wine Russulas Continue in their way. In moist moss forests Feed Flying Squirrels by night Scaphinotus beetles in the day. The time of the fungus, again it’s come and gone. Cycle upon cycle, darkness spins to dawn. 11/29/09Living in Yelm The place that I’m house sitting sits in a part of the country and on such a road that I don’t have to take the truck out of second gear to pull out of the driveway, and onto the black top. Just as often as I roll out into the road without stopping, I also pause to survey the amazing scenery. To my left is a 3 acre sheep pasture, in which is contained an old but still productive orchard of Apple and Plum trees. On a clear day, looking east across the pasture sits Mount Rainier, a 14,000 snowcapped giant more reminiscent of the Himalayas, at least at this proximity. Also contained within the pasture is a small pond, which is now filling with the increasing fall rains. Often times at night, I can hear the cackling of ducks as they sit on the pond. In the pasture are three sheep; an old Ewe, whose name is unknown to me, and her two lambs, Smoothie and Houdini. The pasture contains more than enough forage for 5-8 sheep, but upon seeing me on my daily perambulations the sheep sprint over to me, hoping for some grain, as if they hadn’t eaten in days. I give them grain every other, or every third day. It keeps them wanting, and in that way, more approachable. They are tame enough that I can stroke their matted and musty wool, and I like to scratch them on their noses. At night, I often hear a troop of Coyotes as they maraud the area, seeming to concentrate a lot of their time in the sheep pasture. I imagine it is hard to sleep sometimes for those sheep. Also on this ten-acre plot, is a large yard and barn, which contains 45 hens and a rooster. My friend Steve is an ornithologist, and his love of birds extends from the wild avifauna into the realm of domestic fowl, common as well as extraordinary. Contained in this large flock of layers are specimens of English Wellsommers and Silver Laced Wyandottes and skittish mostly white Auracanas, which grace the nest boxes with pastel blue eggs. There are also several birds of unknown origin, including the bizarre rooster, who is iridescently black, with bluish spots and a more or less calm demeanor. Like the sheep, the chickens upon seeing me alight into the air as they gather close to the barn door to gain position for my daily toss of scratch and other goodies. The main focus of my attention here, maybe not in time spent, but certainly in the amount of worry apportioned in my brain are the two Peregrine Falcons, Louise and Trog. Steve has been a falconer since he was a teen, and hunting with hawks has been a passion of his ever since. These birds, though captive and imprinted on Steve, are not tame. They are unaccustomed to human presence enough that I can’t enter the mew in which they are kept, in fear of Louise’s sharp talons. My daily duty for the falcons consists of preparing a Coturnix Quail for each bird. These Quail are raised more or less for the purpose of feeding birds of prey, and Steve buys them in bulk lots and keeps them in a freezer. Each night I defrost two for the following day, and in the morning I prepare them for the birds. To this, I pull out all of their flight feather, and about half of their body feathers. They are beautifully marked little birds, similar to our Bobwhite Quail in appearance, and it is hard to tear at their small bodies with my fingers without feeling something akin to remorse, but less tangible. I then cut their feet off, above the ankle. The Peregrines are quite capable of plucking the feathers, and dealing with the feet, but doing this keeps down the amount of debris in their mew, as well as lessening the chances that they might choke on the bulk of added material in their diet. Louise, being a female is larger than Trog, a male. This is normal amongst raptorial birds and owls, but is extraordinarily displayed between Louise and Trog. Louise probably weighs 160% of what Trog weighs, and such always gets the largest Quail, and always gets it first. Upon seeing me carrying food, she often begins to jump back and forth at the barred window of their enclosure, jingling the bells on her jesses (leather leg hold straps) as she does. I coo to her in a soothing voice, and say something like, “hey sweetie, I’ve got something for you,” and if she begins to screech, I try and calm her, but am rarely successful until I finally toss her the Quail through the bars, which she deftly catches in her large yellow talons. She immediately mantles over the bird, spreading her wings protectively and begins to scold me, wanting me to leave. I walk around to the other side of the mew and place the other quail on a shelf for Trog, who rarely comes down to it in my presence. It’s wonderful to be in such proximity to such regal and amazing creatures, but also a bit sad to see them in an enclosure. It’s kind of like the allegory of the cave, except that these birds actually know what it’s like to be outside the cave from time to time, so their existence inside the “cave” may not be one of contentment through ignorance. Also on the homestead are 15 homing pigeons, which were 14 when Steve left for India 5 weeks ago. When he was running me through the daily routine, he expressed woe that in the four years in which he has had pigeons here, he has never raised a chick. Currently there is a 15-day-old chick, which is being watched over by a female Parlor Roller, its mother I presume. Parlor Rollers are a bizarre breed of pigeon, who, when startled by a clap, or other such noise begin to flap and roll around on the ground uncontrollably as if in an epileptic seizure. It will be interesting to see what this chick turns out to be, having half Parlor Roller genes in its makeup. It has been a welcome, and necessary respite for me out here in the land of Ramtha, and couldn’t have come at a better time. 11/23/092009 MLS Cup Well, another year of MLS soccer has come to an end. I have to admit that my lifestyle has not lent itself to being a true fan this year, not owning a TV and such, and in all I may have only watched five or six games. Last night I settled in with a glass of wine to watch the finals, after talking to my father on the phone about the game. My father is a rabid MLS fan, and the rest of my family has held season tickets to the New England Revolution since the league's inception. My Dad was all fired up about the game, and had reason to be. With Seattle out, and New England out, I really didn’t care who won, but he shed some light on why the Wheelan’s were routing for Real Salt Lake, and it had nothing to do with Beckham. Andy Williams, arguably Real’s best player, has long history with my family, having begun his US soccer career at the University of Rhode Island, where we would go and watch him play. He is a Jamaican citizen and has played on their national team for years, but professionally, he played with New England in the beginning. After Real Salt Lake’s last game with New England, Andy came over to where my family sits to talk with his friend Tony Lopes, who sits next to my family. Andy’s wife is currently battling a form of Leukemia, and my mother is currently the chair for her local Relay for Life. She had brought a “hope” cancer necklace for Andy and was thrilled to have the chance to give it to him. With that connection, I watched with great emotion every time Andy touched the ball last night, and he played incredibly well. Another interesting connection came from an interaction my Father had with another of Real’s players, Yura Movsisyan after that same last game with New England. Yura is a Russian citizen, but ethnically he is Armenian. Oddly enough, my father’s friends growing up consisted mainly of Armenians, and from them he learned a bit of their language, as well as what it means to experience genocide. My father exchanged some words with Yura in Armenian, and it must’ve touched him, for he wrote about the experience in his blog. Pretty neat! The game itself was a pretty frenetic match, and neither team seemed to ever find a rhythm. Sometimes both teams want it so badly that they just keep pushing, and never form an organized approach to the match. That was the case last night, and I felt bad for the league and its seeming inability to dazzle the country and the world with a level of soccer that will once and for all establish it as a viable part of our culture. Having said that, I have to say that Landon Donavon’s pass for the Galaxy’s first goal was one of the best passes that I have ever seen in the game. Also, David Beckham played to his role as master distributor and set kick artist, but it failed to really add much to L.A.s effectiveness, though he did set up Donavan for his assist. I also have to mention the worst professional penalty shot I have ever seen, which was also served up by Donavon, which may have cost the Galaxy the game. In the end, Real Salt Lake, perhaps the biggest underdogs to advance to the MLS playoffs eeked out the win, and the Wheelans went wild!!! 11/20/09GRINDADRAP  Fishing in any situation is becoming one of our main issues as we address how we as humans forge our way into the future looking for sustainable ways to feed ourselves while trying to maintain cultural identities and traditional rights. For me it seems that with our knowledge of the intelligence of these creatures, and the social dynamics of their cultures and existences we must transcend the argument that because we have done this for so long it is a valid thing to do, and a valid way of sustaining ourselves. I am not an animal rights activist per se, and believe that some harvest of animals for food and other products MAY be an acceptable activity for humans, but there is a line somewhere that must be drawn.  Saying that maintaining certain cultural identities relies on the continuation of activities such as the dolphin slaughter in the Faroes, or Japan, or using leg hold traps to kill wolves is akin to saying that raping women, or owning black people, or dumping radioactive waste in streams is paramount to retaining my cultural identity because my ancestors perpetrated these activities which at one time were considered completely normal for my culture. It is time to embrace what we know is good, and finally, once and for all to reject what we know in our hearts is wrong. There is no right way to kill a Whale, or a Dolphin, but en masse with hooks and knives is certainly the wrong way.  Please embrace goodness, and in every action of your life take it upon yourself to choose the right choice, shunning evil and spreading love at every juncture in your existence. It is of paramount importance on the individual level, as well as the global. When we close our eyes for the last time, we will realize that there is no one else to ask forgiveness from but ourselves. Good luck with that. go here for a youtube video here to sign a petition to stop this! 11/18/09Check this amazing educational video about Salmon out!!! 11/16/09 |
All information is property of Drew Wheelan, unless otherwise stated. ©2009 |
I got it down, and then I filled that bottle half way, a full quart, and didn't spill a drop! The moment of truth happened right in the middle of the Hood Canal bridge. Me and that bridge have some sweet history.
