By Greg Evans
Being that it is the 4th of July, Independence Day here in America I feel it is appropriate to talk about a conflict that occurred around the era of the revolution against the Cherokee Indians. The battle occurred on December 16th, 1780 when the frontiersmen who had been settling in the East Tennessee area had finally grown tired of the regular raids by the Cherokee Indians. The Cherokee felt the white settlers were encroaching on their hunting territory. The name of the creek Boyd was named after a Virginian settler who was killed by a Cherokee raiding party and his body tossed into the creek. Colonel John Sevier had been worried about rumors of the Cherokee planning a large scale attack. Two traders working the area also heard news of such an incident in the making. History has a tale that the daughter of one of the chiefs, Nancy Ward, had been passing information to the white settlers indicating when the Cherokee warriors were planning specific raids. Supposedly her and her daughter helped to save many of the settlers lives and with it allowed new settlers to move into the area. In a way, if this was true, in an attempt at saving the lives of the innocent settlers she doomed her own people, but it can also be placed on their shoulders a portion of the burden of guilt because they could have found a common ground and learned to live along side the settlers and vise-versa. But that isn't how the world works and in most societies where cultures are blended together and cultures disappear and everyone begins to live as everyone else, societies break down, crime increases, the economy self-destructs and academics sit around and try to find theoretical solutions. But that is all beside the point.
In December of 1780 an expedition of Cherokee warriors were on the move and located an area in the grass where they formed a horseshoe shaped skirmish line in preparation for the attack on supposedly oblivious settlers. But the settlers had caught wind of their attack and were armed and waiting for the Cherokee. Around 170 men met at Stockdon's Mill to await the orders of Colonel Sevier. Initially a small platoon was sent forward and came upon the large Indian forces. The men fired at the encamped Indians and retreated back to the mill. A second group was sent ahead to attempt to lure the Indians into a firefight. The men fired on the Indians and retreated and as the settlers had hoped the Indians began pursuing them. The settlers waited until they were in range and opened up on them killing 28 and wounded countless more. The Indians retreated and fled into a swamp saving them from annihilation. Had they not engaged in guerrilla warfare they would have lost many more men. The settlers lost not a single man nor any wounded. It was the ultimate victory and was a tremendous moral builder for the settlers of the area and those who were intending on moving to the area. There is now a memorial set up at Boyd's Creek near the spot of the actual battle.
Simple Life
Thursday, July 4, 2013
FOREVER AND A DAY
By Greg Evans
It was during our wanderings recently in Europe when we came across a series of a magnetic figurative art creations on giant canvas that captivated us and drew us into the gray modernistic edifice that turned out to be a museum situated warily on a steep cliffside overlooking a combination of history and eternity. I entered the building feeling anxious and unsure of what I was getting myself into. I have always been an art museum junky and enthusiast and I have traveled widely in search of all the great works as well as those artists that I have never heard of but mesmerize me with a fleeting glance. The artist we discovered that day was Alex Katz, an American whose giant colorful works jumped into the room with you like an explosion. Each piece had its on aura and intensity. For over an hour we studied the works and discussed them and thoroughly enjoyed them.
Born in 1927 in Brooklyn, New York, Katz studied first at The Cooper Union and then the Schowhegan School of Sculpture and Painting in Maine. Over the first ten years of trying to become a painter and developing a style Katz had mentioned that he destroyed thousands of paintings that he didn't feel was representative of a style for which to build his legacy. His collections have been in museums all over the world including Hawaii, Washington D.C., Chicago, New York, Salzburg, Paris, Madrid, Berlin, Munich, Tokyo, and I have only just discovered him!
His work is not just a reflection of a specific decade capturing the scenes and styles of any one point in a century but is an entire century. One of his paintings from the 60's or 70's could easily have been painted in 2013, or better yet 2060. Is that jumping out of the fryer into the fire? Depends on how critical you are of art and it's meaning in society. Art, in my opinion, is as important to life as automobiles. Many people may say that that is absurd, but my reasoning is that it provides the world with beauty and pleasure and without such distractions, the grind and monotony and agony and sadness of life would drive each person, one-by-one insane or into the grave. As a society we need the ability to lose ourselves in things that are pleasant. Everybody does and those that don't, die young, end up in jails or hen houses. That is only a supposition. Creating a style for the ages is difficult and attempted by many, successfully achieved by only a few.
One of the things that interests me greatly when becoming interested in one's work is always learning about their lives as people. It's as if you are sitting on a park bench observing life, studying the humanity around you and the interesting lives that are out there. It is the small accounts of people's everyday life that I find fascinating. Over the years my interest has been perked by different people and who they were and everybody is different, for the most part, and each story interesting. I remember reading about Glenn Gould, the famous pianist who would go to the same restaurant in Toronto every night and order the same dish off the menu, scrambled eggs. I love that! Of course I then started to wonder how the scrambled eggs were cooked, with clarified butter and salt and wondered if that played any part into the strokes that killed him at the young age of 50. I remember reading a 1929 biography of Michelangelo and how he would sleep in the cloths and shoes he wore that day, eating not out of pleasure but simply to survive and then went on to live into his 80's which back then was rare. Benjamin Franklin once said that if you want a long life than eat small meals. He was obviously wise beyond his years. Cicero the ancient philosopher was terribly concerned during his lifetime about how his work would be received long after he was dead and gone. Many of us in life wonder if we will leave a lasting mark in this world. Some people are interested in leaving something that will be recognized by a large population though some people only care to be remembered in their immediate circle, an intimate remembrance through family stories and scrap books or paintings they may have done hanging anonymously in private collections of descendants never to be seen by the prying eyes of the hungry art world. There is the story of how Van Gogh loved to eat in the same restaurant everyday and when in season loved to order the fried fish which he claimed was the best in the world. Mozart for example was extremely vain about his hair and was always aware of how it was tended. These little tidbits of great people bring out the humanity in them. Otherwise they are simply songs, or poster images or slight of tongues. Stories of Shakespeare indicate that he was a savvy business man when not writing investing in real estate and enjoyed having a laugh and a beer in the local pub. He was just a human being with a larger than life mind. Isaac Newton and Albert Einstein, revered in academic circles were terrible at academics themselves. You are probably familiar of story of Einstein being so poor at his studies that he wasn't admitted into an institution of higher learning. Before Isaac Newton stumbled upon Calculus he was a miserable failure. He failed at school and nearly bankrupt his father's farm. William Porter better known as short story writer O Henry became tired of his life as a regular working man, struggling with his writing and fled down to Honduras for adventure and a change in lifestyle. F Scott Fitzgerald of The Great Gatsby fame was conscripted into World War I and was so troubled about being killed before having left behind a literary mark he quickly put together an early first novel which was eventually rejected by Scribner and Sons. Luckily for him the war ended before he was deployed and he went on to have a successful career as an author before suffering a massive heart attack at the age of 44. If you think you are the only ones out there who have struggled or been kicked around by life in any facet of it, be assured that all those people who you look at and say, "I wish I had their lives," once lived a life like you. They enjoyed simple things and had anxieties and frustrations and broken hearts and kept pursuing their dreams until they reached the stars, though some perished before they were ever recognized for their brilliance.
Alex Katz for ten years struggled to find his own style but eventually did and it is a wonderful style for him and enjoyed by millions of people around the globe. Go check it out, jump into his world for a while.
It was during our wanderings recently in Europe when we came across a series of a magnetic figurative art creations on giant canvas that captivated us and drew us into the gray modernistic edifice that turned out to be a museum situated warily on a steep cliffside overlooking a combination of history and eternity. I entered the building feeling anxious and unsure of what I was getting myself into. I have always been an art museum junky and enthusiast and I have traveled widely in search of all the great works as well as those artists that I have never heard of but mesmerize me with a fleeting glance. The artist we discovered that day was Alex Katz, an American whose giant colorful works jumped into the room with you like an explosion. Each piece had its on aura and intensity. For over an hour we studied the works and discussed them and thoroughly enjoyed them.
Born in 1927 in Brooklyn, New York, Katz studied first at The Cooper Union and then the Schowhegan School of Sculpture and Painting in Maine. Over the first ten years of trying to become a painter and developing a style Katz had mentioned that he destroyed thousands of paintings that he didn't feel was representative of a style for which to build his legacy. His collections have been in museums all over the world including Hawaii, Washington D.C., Chicago, New York, Salzburg, Paris, Madrid, Berlin, Munich, Tokyo, and I have only just discovered him!
His work is not just a reflection of a specific decade capturing the scenes and styles of any one point in a century but is an entire century. One of his paintings from the 60's or 70's could easily have been painted in 2013, or better yet 2060. Is that jumping out of the fryer into the fire? Depends on how critical you are of art and it's meaning in society. Art, in my opinion, is as important to life as automobiles. Many people may say that that is absurd, but my reasoning is that it provides the world with beauty and pleasure and without such distractions, the grind and monotony and agony and sadness of life would drive each person, one-by-one insane or into the grave. As a society we need the ability to lose ourselves in things that are pleasant. Everybody does and those that don't, die young, end up in jails or hen houses. That is only a supposition. Creating a style for the ages is difficult and attempted by many, successfully achieved by only a few.
One of the things that interests me greatly when becoming interested in one's work is always learning about their lives as people. It's as if you are sitting on a park bench observing life, studying the humanity around you and the interesting lives that are out there. It is the small accounts of people's everyday life that I find fascinating. Over the years my interest has been perked by different people and who they were and everybody is different, for the most part, and each story interesting. I remember reading about Glenn Gould, the famous pianist who would go to the same restaurant in Toronto every night and order the same dish off the menu, scrambled eggs. I love that! Of course I then started to wonder how the scrambled eggs were cooked, with clarified butter and salt and wondered if that played any part into the strokes that killed him at the young age of 50. I remember reading a 1929 biography of Michelangelo and how he would sleep in the cloths and shoes he wore that day, eating not out of pleasure but simply to survive and then went on to live into his 80's which back then was rare. Benjamin Franklin once said that if you want a long life than eat small meals. He was obviously wise beyond his years. Cicero the ancient philosopher was terribly concerned during his lifetime about how his work would be received long after he was dead and gone. Many of us in life wonder if we will leave a lasting mark in this world. Some people are interested in leaving something that will be recognized by a large population though some people only care to be remembered in their immediate circle, an intimate remembrance through family stories and scrap books or paintings they may have done hanging anonymously in private collections of descendants never to be seen by the prying eyes of the hungry art world. There is the story of how Van Gogh loved to eat in the same restaurant everyday and when in season loved to order the fried fish which he claimed was the best in the world. Mozart for example was extremely vain about his hair and was always aware of how it was tended. These little tidbits of great people bring out the humanity in them. Otherwise they are simply songs, or poster images or slight of tongues. Stories of Shakespeare indicate that he was a savvy business man when not writing investing in real estate and enjoyed having a laugh and a beer in the local pub. He was just a human being with a larger than life mind. Isaac Newton and Albert Einstein, revered in academic circles were terrible at academics themselves. You are probably familiar of story of Einstein being so poor at his studies that he wasn't admitted into an institution of higher learning. Before Isaac Newton stumbled upon Calculus he was a miserable failure. He failed at school and nearly bankrupt his father's farm. William Porter better known as short story writer O Henry became tired of his life as a regular working man, struggling with his writing and fled down to Honduras for adventure and a change in lifestyle. F Scott Fitzgerald of The Great Gatsby fame was conscripted into World War I and was so troubled about being killed before having left behind a literary mark he quickly put together an early first novel which was eventually rejected by Scribner and Sons. Luckily for him the war ended before he was deployed and he went on to have a successful career as an author before suffering a massive heart attack at the age of 44. If you think you are the only ones out there who have struggled or been kicked around by life in any facet of it, be assured that all those people who you look at and say, "I wish I had their lives," once lived a life like you. They enjoyed simple things and had anxieties and frustrations and broken hearts and kept pursuing their dreams until they reached the stars, though some perished before they were ever recognized for their brilliance.
Alex Katz for ten years struggled to find his own style but eventually did and it is a wonderful style for him and enjoyed by millions of people around the globe. Go check it out, jump into his world for a while.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
SYMPHONY FOR THE TASTE BUDS
By Greg Evans
Call me Furst!
For those with a sweet tooth and those who pretend not to have one, no confectionary creation is as penetrating to the palate, satisfying and down right erotic as Paul Furst's 1890 concoction when it first hit the shelves of his store at 13 Brodgasse in Salzburg. It was a hit then and soon found it's way to the great city of Paris in 1905 where it was awarded a prestigious gold medal. Yes! I have personally tasted the "original" recipe of nougat, pistachio marzipan, and dark chocolate at the little shop with the blue awning and silver lettering located on a tight corner on the Getreidegasse at the base of the Festungsberg Mountain a ninety degree sheer cliffside streaking up into the clouds. It was an exceptional confectionary wonderment. It had a smoothness and richness, creating a euphoria that reminded me of Christmas and it is the kind of treat you nibble on and then allow to melt on your tongue as the flavors engulf your palate. The original Mozartkugel recipe is still made by hand and over a million are made annually "by hand using the original technique." The best analogy I can use to describe the perfection of the taste of the Mozartkugel would be the equivalence of capturing the Golden Snitch.
It is the little things in life that make it special, isn't that an age old adage? Nibbling on a 100-year-old chocolate recipe that was served to you by a lovely girl in a blue Dirndl, while a group of people stand around singing and a small coterie of musicians strum their lutes. What would Shakespeare have said to describe such a moment? Something far more poetic, far more introspective and possibly racy! Ho, ho! Around the corner another young woman stands beneath a tent selling her homemade loaves of bread that I would enjoy every night accompanied by a variety of cheese and wine. The amenity of the confectionary had a likeness to Mozart's piano sonata number 23 2nd movement. It could be a morning stroll along the Salzach to the sounds of chirping birds and kids on their way to school. It is the gentle snow falling over a serene cemetery adorned with fresh flowers and silence. It the sounds and smells of an old mother cooking before a stove she could move around without sight so familiar is she that it has become an art as the chisel in Michelangelo's hand. "If only people knew how hard I worked to master my art, they wouldn't look upon it with such fascination," he had said. That is not a direct quote. I can find assurance in the fact that Mozart grappled with the perfect combination of musical notes and Paul Furst tussled with the perfect combination of flavors and sweetness. Should it be absurd to recommend a few thousand miles of travel for the sole purpose of eating a delectable piece of chocolate? Leave common sense to the accountants, and lucky for you Salzburg has much to offer, but shouldn't be left without devouring at least one Mozartkugel though I don't presume you can only eat one.
Call me Furst!
For those with a sweet tooth and those who pretend not to have one, no confectionary creation is as penetrating to the palate, satisfying and down right erotic as Paul Furst's 1890 concoction when it first hit the shelves of his store at 13 Brodgasse in Salzburg. It was a hit then and soon found it's way to the great city of Paris in 1905 where it was awarded a prestigious gold medal. Yes! I have personally tasted the "original" recipe of nougat, pistachio marzipan, and dark chocolate at the little shop with the blue awning and silver lettering located on a tight corner on the Getreidegasse at the base of the Festungsberg Mountain a ninety degree sheer cliffside streaking up into the clouds. It was an exceptional confectionary wonderment. It had a smoothness and richness, creating a euphoria that reminded me of Christmas and it is the kind of treat you nibble on and then allow to melt on your tongue as the flavors engulf your palate. The original Mozartkugel recipe is still made by hand and over a million are made annually "by hand using the original technique." The best analogy I can use to describe the perfection of the taste of the Mozartkugel would be the equivalence of capturing the Golden Snitch.
It is the little things in life that make it special, isn't that an age old adage? Nibbling on a 100-year-old chocolate recipe that was served to you by a lovely girl in a blue Dirndl, while a group of people stand around singing and a small coterie of musicians strum their lutes. What would Shakespeare have said to describe such a moment? Something far more poetic, far more introspective and possibly racy! Ho, ho! Around the corner another young woman stands beneath a tent selling her homemade loaves of bread that I would enjoy every night accompanied by a variety of cheese and wine. The amenity of the confectionary had a likeness to Mozart's piano sonata number 23 2nd movement. It could be a morning stroll along the Salzach to the sounds of chirping birds and kids on their way to school. It is the gentle snow falling over a serene cemetery adorned with fresh flowers and silence. It the sounds and smells of an old mother cooking before a stove she could move around without sight so familiar is she that it has become an art as the chisel in Michelangelo's hand. "If only people knew how hard I worked to master my art, they wouldn't look upon it with such fascination," he had said. That is not a direct quote. I can find assurance in the fact that Mozart grappled with the perfect combination of musical notes and Paul Furst tussled with the perfect combination of flavors and sweetness. Should it be absurd to recommend a few thousand miles of travel for the sole purpose of eating a delectable piece of chocolate? Leave common sense to the accountants, and lucky for you Salzburg has much to offer, but shouldn't be left without devouring at least one Mozartkugel though I don't presume you can only eat one.
Monday, July 1, 2013
THE POLAR BEAR EXPRESS
By Greg Evans
I heard an interesting yet disturbing story that took place not so long ago in the northern reaches of Alaska. It was told to me by an automation engineer for one of the smaller oil companies near the arctic circle. For those who live and work at these oil fields there are many protocol that must be followed without fail ranging from smoking a cigarette to taking a stroll. As one would imagine Alaska is a feral uninhibited land of wild beasts, extreme elements, nomadic eskimos, outlaws, and life can be rough and brutal. One of the rules that oil workers must adhere to when exiting the grounds of the base camp is that they enter a fenced in area outside the main doors and must look around vigilantly for any sign of danger. The danger being, polar bears, moose, wolves and any other hostile creature. So one early evening a worker left the secure area and before he knew what was happening he was attacked by a large furious polar bear unprovoked. As the worker was being mauled to death he somehow was able to get his gun positioned and shot and killed the polar bear. Not long after the incident, the worker was located, identified as being the shooter of the polar bear, arrested, put on trial and subsequently convicted and is now serving a prison sentence. The prosecution's argument was that the worker didn't follow the proper protocol when being confronted by a polar bear. The correct action is first to yell in the direction of the hostile bear in an attempt to frighten them away. If that doesn't work you must load a noise cartridge and fire it in the hopes that it too may scare away the bear. If all fails only then are you allowed to shoot to kill. So even though you are being mauled, you can't defend yourself without first attempting to scare it. The whole thing is asinine and in my opinion is analogous with the changing of the times. Nowadays everywhere you turn are restrictions. They are suffocating and in my opinion 85% of them are terribly pointless and defending yourself against a wild animal attacking you should be the first priority. Where does the forcing restrictions down the throats of the populous end? Does it end or does it continue at the raging pace until finally everything implodes?
I heard an interesting yet disturbing story that took place not so long ago in the northern reaches of Alaska. It was told to me by an automation engineer for one of the smaller oil companies near the arctic circle. For those who live and work at these oil fields there are many protocol that must be followed without fail ranging from smoking a cigarette to taking a stroll. As one would imagine Alaska is a feral uninhibited land of wild beasts, extreme elements, nomadic eskimos, outlaws, and life can be rough and brutal. One of the rules that oil workers must adhere to when exiting the grounds of the base camp is that they enter a fenced in area outside the main doors and must look around vigilantly for any sign of danger. The danger being, polar bears, moose, wolves and any other hostile creature. So one early evening a worker left the secure area and before he knew what was happening he was attacked by a large furious polar bear unprovoked. As the worker was being mauled to death he somehow was able to get his gun positioned and shot and killed the polar bear. Not long after the incident, the worker was located, identified as being the shooter of the polar bear, arrested, put on trial and subsequently convicted and is now serving a prison sentence. The prosecution's argument was that the worker didn't follow the proper protocol when being confronted by a polar bear. The correct action is first to yell in the direction of the hostile bear in an attempt to frighten them away. If that doesn't work you must load a noise cartridge and fire it in the hopes that it too may scare away the bear. If all fails only then are you allowed to shoot to kill. So even though you are being mauled, you can't defend yourself without first attempting to scare it. The whole thing is asinine and in my opinion is analogous with the changing of the times. Nowadays everywhere you turn are restrictions. They are suffocating and in my opinion 85% of them are terribly pointless and defending yourself against a wild animal attacking you should be the first priority. Where does the forcing restrictions down the throats of the populous end? Does it end or does it continue at the raging pace until finally everything implodes?
Sunday, June 30, 2013
ALL'S WELL THAT DOESN'T KILL US
By Greg Evans
When I grow up I want to sit behind a desk or counter doing work I don't really like for a boss I despise, walking into work Monday morning thinking how darn short the weekend was and how far away Friday afternoon is which seems like a light-year. I do my time collecting a lousy or decent pay check that may be enough to allow me to save up for retirement at age 75 and then I will sit around watching reality television and eating chicken fingers until my children can't take it anymore and put me into an old person's facility where I can rot away or God willing before being shipped off to such a place a massive heart attack takes me." How many children have you heard say such things when they are asked what they want to be when they grow up?
T.S. Eliot once said, "This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper." I don't know if it had anything to do with the spider bite, the exceptional physical reaction or the fear of the unknown having never been speared by such a poisonous creature before, but I have found myself thinking much more about mortality than I ever had in the past. That moment when the bells toll. I sat down a few days after the attack, my wrist at the time still aching and slightly itchy, the flesh still being devoured by the hellacious venom and I rudimentarily pondered mortality. What is the meaning of life? Of everything or anything? Most people don't want to think about it. It is a scary thought when you start to get down to the nitty gritty. We are born, live fairly normal routine lives and then we pass on. But in those short years that we are living and learning and seeing and loving and hurting and thinking and planning and working and saving and spending and healing and soaring, at that moment when you gasp that last breath will you think to yourself, "I wouldn't have done anything different," or would you say, "thank heavens this execrable life is finally over!"
One thing I came to realize is that too many people lose their ability to believe in their dreams. The hard scrabble life, irking out a meager living, trying to guide contemptible children in the right direction in a world so seemingly filled with attractive and lurid vices. Go after those dreams, doesn't matter whether you are 16 or 69. I heard a story one day about a man in his sixties who was nearing retirement decided that he was going to quit his job and begin a new career. He was going to pursue the dream of his youth and become a practicing attorney. So this man enrolled into a law program and found going back to school was harder than he had thought it would be but he refused to quit. He studied with students most of whom were 45+ years younger than him. Three years later he earned himself a JD. The next step on his journey was the state bar exam. This man took the exam and failed. He took it a second time and failed. He took it a third time and failed. It wasn't until his sixth try that he finally passed the exam and became a licensed attorney and went on to have a successful law practice that spanned twenty years. He finally retired in his mid-eighties. His story is one I think about sometimes when I think life has hit a lull or I feel as if I am in my early nineties instead of my early thirties. The point of the story is to go after it because tomorrow you could take a step and a bolt of lighting may come out of the blue sky and have your number. The beauty of life is that we are given a freewill to go out and make this life what we want to make it. I see it all the time, people who speak of and see themselves as being trapped. The reality is that you are never truly trapped, you just aren't taking the correct angle. There is no point in looking at another's life and wishing that you had their life because how can life have any meaning if you aren't the one to carve it out, to recognize your talents, dreams and go after them with your whole heart and soul. Each and every one of you who wakes up tomorrow and decides that it is the day you are going to begin transforming yourself into that curious dreamer you were when you were five. You can bet there will be plenty of people putting you down, telling you to get your head on straight, telling you that you are down right nuts. Artist Jackson Pollock was the worst drawer in his class. His own brother was a more talented artist then he was but Jackson's paintings today sell in the Hundreds of millions. Walt Disney worked for a newspaper but was fired and told by his editor that he didn't have any creativity. These people who are everywhere spreading their poison trying to make you feel small. The same people who cut you off in traffic and don't pick up their dog's business in your front yard, they talk on cell phones in nice restaurants and steal your morning newspaper.
Let me tell you another quick story about a Chinese playwright named Gao Xingjian who in 1983 was diagnosed with incurable lung cancer. There was nothing he could do but wait to die. A few weeks later a second examination revealed that the cancer had gone away. Gao was given a second chance at life. Due to his inflammatory writing he was on the verge of being sent away to a prison farm because of the repressive government and he packed up a few belongings and took off on a soul searching journey. He traveled to ancient fortresses and climbed enchanting mountains. For five months he journeyed and took notes and upon returning to his home he wrote a novel called Soul Mountain that is a study as well as ponders the human soul. Gao went on to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. IT just goes to show you that sometimes taking a risk and wandering out to the edge uncovers things about you that you may not have realized or if nothing else creates satisfaction. Gao went in search of the meaning of life. I don't know whether or not he found it, but he "lived" and as far as I am concerned that there is the meaning of life. Get up tomorrow and really live.
When I grow up I want to sit behind a desk or counter doing work I don't really like for a boss I despise, walking into work Monday morning thinking how darn short the weekend was and how far away Friday afternoon is which seems like a light-year. I do my time collecting a lousy or decent pay check that may be enough to allow me to save up for retirement at age 75 and then I will sit around watching reality television and eating chicken fingers until my children can't take it anymore and put me into an old person's facility where I can rot away or God willing before being shipped off to such a place a massive heart attack takes me." How many children have you heard say such things when they are asked what they want to be when they grow up?
T.S. Eliot once said, "This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper." I don't know if it had anything to do with the spider bite, the exceptional physical reaction or the fear of the unknown having never been speared by such a poisonous creature before, but I have found myself thinking much more about mortality than I ever had in the past. That moment when the bells toll. I sat down a few days after the attack, my wrist at the time still aching and slightly itchy, the flesh still being devoured by the hellacious venom and I rudimentarily pondered mortality. What is the meaning of life? Of everything or anything? Most people don't want to think about it. It is a scary thought when you start to get down to the nitty gritty. We are born, live fairly normal routine lives and then we pass on. But in those short years that we are living and learning and seeing and loving and hurting and thinking and planning and working and saving and spending and healing and soaring, at that moment when you gasp that last breath will you think to yourself, "I wouldn't have done anything different," or would you say, "thank heavens this execrable life is finally over!"
One thing I came to realize is that too many people lose their ability to believe in their dreams. The hard scrabble life, irking out a meager living, trying to guide contemptible children in the right direction in a world so seemingly filled with attractive and lurid vices. Go after those dreams, doesn't matter whether you are 16 or 69. I heard a story one day about a man in his sixties who was nearing retirement decided that he was going to quit his job and begin a new career. He was going to pursue the dream of his youth and become a practicing attorney. So this man enrolled into a law program and found going back to school was harder than he had thought it would be but he refused to quit. He studied with students most of whom were 45+ years younger than him. Three years later he earned himself a JD. The next step on his journey was the state bar exam. This man took the exam and failed. He took it a second time and failed. He took it a third time and failed. It wasn't until his sixth try that he finally passed the exam and became a licensed attorney and went on to have a successful law practice that spanned twenty years. He finally retired in his mid-eighties. His story is one I think about sometimes when I think life has hit a lull or I feel as if I am in my early nineties instead of my early thirties. The point of the story is to go after it because tomorrow you could take a step and a bolt of lighting may come out of the blue sky and have your number. The beauty of life is that we are given a freewill to go out and make this life what we want to make it. I see it all the time, people who speak of and see themselves as being trapped. The reality is that you are never truly trapped, you just aren't taking the correct angle. There is no point in looking at another's life and wishing that you had their life because how can life have any meaning if you aren't the one to carve it out, to recognize your talents, dreams and go after them with your whole heart and soul. Each and every one of you who wakes up tomorrow and decides that it is the day you are going to begin transforming yourself into that curious dreamer you were when you were five. You can bet there will be plenty of people putting you down, telling you to get your head on straight, telling you that you are down right nuts. Artist Jackson Pollock was the worst drawer in his class. His own brother was a more talented artist then he was but Jackson's paintings today sell in the Hundreds of millions. Walt Disney worked for a newspaper but was fired and told by his editor that he didn't have any creativity. These people who are everywhere spreading their poison trying to make you feel small. The same people who cut you off in traffic and don't pick up their dog's business in your front yard, they talk on cell phones in nice restaurants and steal your morning newspaper.
Let me tell you another quick story about a Chinese playwright named Gao Xingjian who in 1983 was diagnosed with incurable lung cancer. There was nothing he could do but wait to die. A few weeks later a second examination revealed that the cancer had gone away. Gao was given a second chance at life. Due to his inflammatory writing he was on the verge of being sent away to a prison farm because of the repressive government and he packed up a few belongings and took off on a soul searching journey. He traveled to ancient fortresses and climbed enchanting mountains. For five months he journeyed and took notes and upon returning to his home he wrote a novel called Soul Mountain that is a study as well as ponders the human soul. Gao went on to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. IT just goes to show you that sometimes taking a risk and wandering out to the edge uncovers things about you that you may not have realized or if nothing else creates satisfaction. Gao went in search of the meaning of life. I don't know whether or not he found it, but he "lived" and as far as I am concerned that there is the meaning of life. Get up tomorrow and really live.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
STOWAWAY TO SALZBURG
By Greg Evans
Nearly a month has passed since we sat in an astral medieval music room in the 900 year-old Hohensalzburg Castle and listened to an ensemble performing the enduring compositions of Mozart, Hayden and Dvorak as the sun set over the most beautiful and romantic city in Europe, Salzburg. An enchanting Baroque city on the banks of the Salzach river and the northern boundary of the Alps, it remains an absolute gem to those lucky enough to wander the ancient cobbled streets and speak with the kind and curious locals.
Almost every night I find myself dreaming of having coffee with Mom and Mary at the Cafe Tomaselli and eating fried fish and chocolates on the Getreidegasse stopping into small shops to chat with the pretty Salzburg girls working behind the counters. I strolled with the ghosts of Leopold and Wolfgang, shared communion with St. Rupert and scribbled lines of poetry in Mirabell garden while the sound of Mozart's piano concerto no. 21 floated through the warm balmy air. The sweet scent of blossoming flowers, that I longed to pick and place on the hotel window sill, carried in the breeze. Along the river we rode on a square barge against the racing green water flowing down from Bavaria, as the city, stoic and alert passed by eyeing us suspiciously. The ash gray stones of the old cathedrals, worn and tired, history written in the dust collected on the rafters and the echoes of the haunting organ. We sipped Austrian wine and dined on bread and soft sweet cheeses thinking slowly and speaking of music and Mozart, admiring the view from the Straatsbrucke, the padlocks placed for posterity clinging for dear life above the raging water. On the 26th exchange downstream is where ours is located, there forever. There for some great, curious mind to stumble upon one day and stare at it and wonder of the lives that were once lived, tired hands that placed that rusty lock there so many years before.
I have never in my life stumbled upon such an endearing place as Salzburg. Never have I left a city I only just met and experienced such terrible nostalgia. Never have I gazed into the eyes of a local population and felt as if I had known them somewhere before. The angle at which the fading light strikes the city and the eye, the manner in which the aromas catch the breezes and how the music of the people and the past ricochet off the stone walls and steep cliff sides, tales told by candle light and every day a new experience, a new emotion and a new memory. It is the last pure place on the planet and forever etched in my mind that first moment I stepped foot into the old town and for a minute I wondered if I was flying. Soaring over the rooftops like a sparrow, exploring the new town with the wistfulness of a young child, grasping a hold of every scent and sight, sound and sensation of touch and timeless dreaming. Humming The Sound of Music and dancing in the moonlight with a beautiful girl in a green Dirndl with green eyes and braided blond hair, soft hands and a gentle smile. A silver brooch glimmers in the lantern light, and the scent of a freshly lit cigar lingers.
Nearly a month has passed since we sat in an astral medieval music room in the 900 year-old Hohensalzburg Castle and listened to an ensemble performing the enduring compositions of Mozart, Hayden and Dvorak as the sun set over the most beautiful and romantic city in Europe, Salzburg. An enchanting Baroque city on the banks of the Salzach river and the northern boundary of the Alps, it remains an absolute gem to those lucky enough to wander the ancient cobbled streets and speak with the kind and curious locals.
Almost every night I find myself dreaming of having coffee with Mom and Mary at the Cafe Tomaselli and eating fried fish and chocolates on the Getreidegasse stopping into small shops to chat with the pretty Salzburg girls working behind the counters. I strolled with the ghosts of Leopold and Wolfgang, shared communion with St. Rupert and scribbled lines of poetry in Mirabell garden while the sound of Mozart's piano concerto no. 21 floated through the warm balmy air. The sweet scent of blossoming flowers, that I longed to pick and place on the hotel window sill, carried in the breeze. Along the river we rode on a square barge against the racing green water flowing down from Bavaria, as the city, stoic and alert passed by eyeing us suspiciously. The ash gray stones of the old cathedrals, worn and tired, history written in the dust collected on the rafters and the echoes of the haunting organ. We sipped Austrian wine and dined on bread and soft sweet cheeses thinking slowly and speaking of music and Mozart, admiring the view from the Straatsbrucke, the padlocks placed for posterity clinging for dear life above the raging water. On the 26th exchange downstream is where ours is located, there forever. There for some great, curious mind to stumble upon one day and stare at it and wonder of the lives that were once lived, tired hands that placed that rusty lock there so many years before.
I have never in my life stumbled upon such an endearing place as Salzburg. Never have I left a city I only just met and experienced such terrible nostalgia. Never have I gazed into the eyes of a local population and felt as if I had known them somewhere before. The angle at which the fading light strikes the city and the eye, the manner in which the aromas catch the breezes and how the music of the people and the past ricochet off the stone walls and steep cliff sides, tales told by candle light and every day a new experience, a new emotion and a new memory. It is the last pure place on the planet and forever etched in my mind that first moment I stepped foot into the old town and for a minute I wondered if I was flying. Soaring over the rooftops like a sparrow, exploring the new town with the wistfulness of a young child, grasping a hold of every scent and sight, sound and sensation of touch and timeless dreaming. Humming The Sound of Music and dancing in the moonlight with a beautiful girl in a green Dirndl with green eyes and braided blond hair, soft hands and a gentle smile. A silver brooch glimmers in the lantern light, and the scent of a freshly lit cigar lingers.
BROWN RECLUSE SPIDER ATTACK
By Greg Evans
I was lying on the floor playing with my daughter when I felt a strange initially mild sting on my right wrist that quickly increased in intensity. Then a fairly intense burning sensation could be felt around the spot of the wound. I thought at first it was a wasp sting but the burning then began racing up my arm and into my chest area and back down my arm and the tips of my fingers began to tingle. My arm then felt extremely heavy and I looked at the wound and watch it morphing into different shapes and colors. It looked like a rotten fried egg, similar to a mosquito bite surrounded by a redness and I knew then that it wasn't a wasp sting but some kind of spider. I could see venom drainage being discharged by the wound and I washed it away with cool water. At first I feared angina pectoris and I phoned my mother-in-law and asked her to call me back in fifteen minutes and if I don't respond than I would probably be dead and to come pick up the kid. I searched the area of the attack for the culprit but I couldn't locate the wretched arachnid. For hours a mild burning and itchy feeling continued and the wound swelled considerably and then the venom began eating away my flesh at a rapid pace. Over the next three days the venom continued to feast on my wound and began eating into my wrist. Finally feeling frightened after a night of nausea and dizziness I went to the doctor and was prescribed a strong ointment. I have been using the cream now for multiple weeks and the wound is doing much better. I think one day it will heal completely but there will be at least a 1/2 inch scar in its place.
For those who think they may have been mauled by a similar demon the first thing to do is get ice directly on the wound but don't leave it on too long. You also want to try and remain calm because the anxiety will help the venom to travel faster through your system. Then get to a doctor as soon as possible. I should have also and because I didn't I will have a noticeable scar. The one thing I am thankful for is that I was gorged by the monster and not my daughter. After doing research on the creatures I learned that there are around four species of the spider and not all the attacks result in the horror stories their reputations carry. Most recluse attacks are mild and must be cared for as any poisonous spider attack but it is rare for it to be fatal in healthy adults unless you have some pre-existing condition. They live in dark undisturbed areas like closets, in unused beds, log piles, crawl spaces, etc. Stay vigilant my friends!
I was lying on the floor playing with my daughter when I felt a strange initially mild sting on my right wrist that quickly increased in intensity. Then a fairly intense burning sensation could be felt around the spot of the wound. I thought at first it was a wasp sting but the burning then began racing up my arm and into my chest area and back down my arm and the tips of my fingers began to tingle. My arm then felt extremely heavy and I looked at the wound and watch it morphing into different shapes and colors. It looked like a rotten fried egg, similar to a mosquito bite surrounded by a redness and I knew then that it wasn't a wasp sting but some kind of spider. I could see venom drainage being discharged by the wound and I washed it away with cool water. At first I feared angina pectoris and I phoned my mother-in-law and asked her to call me back in fifteen minutes and if I don't respond than I would probably be dead and to come pick up the kid. I searched the area of the attack for the culprit but I couldn't locate the wretched arachnid. For hours a mild burning and itchy feeling continued and the wound swelled considerably and then the venom began eating away my flesh at a rapid pace. Over the next three days the venom continued to feast on my wound and began eating into my wrist. Finally feeling frightened after a night of nausea and dizziness I went to the doctor and was prescribed a strong ointment. I have been using the cream now for multiple weeks and the wound is doing much better. I think one day it will heal completely but there will be at least a 1/2 inch scar in its place.
For those who think they may have been mauled by a similar demon the first thing to do is get ice directly on the wound but don't leave it on too long. You also want to try and remain calm because the anxiety will help the venom to travel faster through your system. Then get to a doctor as soon as possible. I should have also and because I didn't I will have a noticeable scar. The one thing I am thankful for is that I was gorged by the monster and not my daughter. After doing research on the creatures I learned that there are around four species of the spider and not all the attacks result in the horror stories their reputations carry. Most recluse attacks are mild and must be cared for as any poisonous spider attack but it is rare for it to be fatal in healthy adults unless you have some pre-existing condition. They live in dark undisturbed areas like closets, in unused beds, log piles, crawl spaces, etc. Stay vigilant my friends!
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