After a nine and a half hour delay, we finally board the aircraft. Our eyes roll around from muggy thoughts of delays and poor customer service to gazes of bewilderment as we approach the aircraft. Almost a gift for being positive space interns, we were given the oppurtunity to sit first class. We overhear disgruntled passengers and worried mothers and exhausted agents, but we let that all fall behind us, as we regathered our composure in first class seat.
And off we were, accelerating into the night, with exhausts of relief and sighs mixed with ignited kerosene and high-velocity air. Take-off into the Memphis humidity and the moist sky that was painted with overcast and bellowing clouds added to the shear rush of the experience. Even after long, continuous sleepless nights, we could not just let this pass by without glimpses into our futures.
Then, the lightening and thunder. My poor girl, she was mad today. Angered by the fact that I haven't flown with her very much, distraught by the fact that I had to wait in an airport to escapre her humid fury, and saddend by the thought that we last touched was a couple of months ago. But she had forgiven me tonight, and she brought me a show that I will never forget like meaningless blink of an eye. The show lasted all night, with the exciting characters that danced furious lightening and sung harsh thunders. Right off the left winglet, she kept directing them to appear closer and closer to me, almost to the point where I can feel once more what it was like to fly in the cockpit at night with her. The hairs on the back of my neck began to react with the shocking intensity, and I could feel shudders of heat run up and down my spine, almost to control my dance to match the lightening.
Wa approached the anvil, and proceeded to fade away in the distance. My girl kept the flight smooth and with minor shocks of turbulence, to constantly remind me that I am still hers. Don't worry baby, I won't forget. You gave me a first class show, so I'll be your first class man. I'm here for your girl, I'm here. I am yours always, and always you, mine.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Must Have Blacked Out Again
So intense, it overwhelms me. It devours my mind and I begin to lose myself into darkness. Ambushes my soul with anguish, pain, and above all, aggression. There is no rush like this that I feel. I fall into the abyss, and I carve a grin from ear to ear.
My mind becomes retarted to only one emotion. I focus on the hunger, the new power, and those against me. My mind begins to pollute the rest of my bloodstream with blackness, throwing my body up and down the room with violent contorsions, and uncontrollable reality. I starve for the taste of dry skin, mixed in with the crunch of bones and chewy veins and arteries. My mouth saturates to the lack of blood, and I start begin to crave for more. Nothing would be able to satiate and satisfy my hunger and thirst. I begin to concentrate on my new-found power. This unrelentless concentration, on strength and aggression aligned, flowing through every inch of my body. The flow becomes almost unbearable, and the lack of control is shown with my heavy breathing and ravenous drool. My whole body begins to pulsate, and I start losing control, and my body starts shivering to the darkness running up and down my spine. Thoughts transition over to my enemies and those who hate me. They will be the ones to satisfy my need for more. They will be the ones to allow me to fill my hunger, and quench my thirst. I am coming.
I see them, all over there. Smiling and laughing to their own demise. Every extra breath they take, I begin to contort, and my eyes squint to two vertical squints. The blood rushes in, and fills in my pupils. The rings around my eyes blow bloodshot purple, and the blood begins to pulse through my eyes, and I begin to shed teared blood. It's an overflow. Their smiles turn to open mouths, and saliva mixed with blood fires out of every cry. And the weather begins to slowly blacken. The mood becomes dark...must have blacked out again.
I smell their fear. It smells of fresh roadkill and barely aged carcass. The aroma flows in deeply through my nostrils, and fills my lungs. My stomach begins to react, and I become even more hungry. I smell their cheap perfume and over-damped cologne, and I smell their fear. I love it. Follow the scent for miles until I find them. The perfume and cologne begins to reek of death and bloodshed. Smell it for miles on end, only to make me even more hungry. The stench pollutes the air, and oxygen is no more than dark, hazardous gas... must have blacked out again.
I hear their laughter and their voices. All sound so naive to their fates, unknowing that I am listening to each word said. Their words become music to my ears, with each wave ounding on my eardrums. Gives me a beat and a time to unleash my fury within. Their laughter become cries. My favorite tune. They scream for aid, deafening my sense of hearing. But I love this song. Their shrills of pain and agony symphonizes across my mind, as I start to become more and more at a loss of hearing...must have blacked out again.
I feel their pores open and their spines tremble. Their fear runs up and down their thin and weak necks. Their arms begin to flail voer my body, trying to damage me and prevent from my rampage. My massichism turns me on to each tear into my own skin. She claws and scratches her way through my flesh, toughening my already calloused skin. He punches and kicks, and tries to choke me. I only laugh, and I feel my body begin to contort again. I violently lash back at her. Rip open her flesh and take her life away. I forcefully bash my fist through his skull, a quick kill. Their warm blood streams across my arms, and splatters all over my face and my chest...must have blacked out again.
I lick what is on my lips, suck off what red is on my hands. I begin to nibble on her skin, so soft and so delicious in my mouth. I start chewing on his brain, enjoying every bite. Their blood tastes so good, like I haven't eaten such before. I taste salty tears and sweat, mixed in with sweet blood and bitter bone. This is the best meal I ever had...must have blacked out again.
An uncontrollable anger fills me. An aggression blackens my heart, and engages my madness to full force. My eyes become shadowed over with darkness. Black out...come back to me.
My mind becomes retarted to only one emotion. I focus on the hunger, the new power, and those against me. My mind begins to pollute the rest of my bloodstream with blackness, throwing my body up and down the room with violent contorsions, and uncontrollable reality. I starve for the taste of dry skin, mixed in with the crunch of bones and chewy veins and arteries. My mouth saturates to the lack of blood, and I start begin to crave for more. Nothing would be able to satiate and satisfy my hunger and thirst. I begin to concentrate on my new-found power. This unrelentless concentration, on strength and aggression aligned, flowing through every inch of my body. The flow becomes almost unbearable, and the lack of control is shown with my heavy breathing and ravenous drool. My whole body begins to pulsate, and I start losing control, and my body starts shivering to the darkness running up and down my spine. Thoughts transition over to my enemies and those who hate me. They will be the ones to satisfy my need for more. They will be the ones to allow me to fill my hunger, and quench my thirst. I am coming.
I see them, all over there. Smiling and laughing to their own demise. Every extra breath they take, I begin to contort, and my eyes squint to two vertical squints. The blood rushes in, and fills in my pupils. The rings around my eyes blow bloodshot purple, and the blood begins to pulse through my eyes, and I begin to shed teared blood. It's an overflow. Their smiles turn to open mouths, and saliva mixed with blood fires out of every cry. And the weather begins to slowly blacken. The mood becomes dark...must have blacked out again.
I smell their fear. It smells of fresh roadkill and barely aged carcass. The aroma flows in deeply through my nostrils, and fills my lungs. My stomach begins to react, and I become even more hungry. I smell their cheap perfume and over-damped cologne, and I smell their fear. I love it. Follow the scent for miles until I find them. The perfume and cologne begins to reek of death and bloodshed. Smell it for miles on end, only to make me even more hungry. The stench pollutes the air, and oxygen is no more than dark, hazardous gas... must have blacked out again.
I hear their laughter and their voices. All sound so naive to their fates, unknowing that I am listening to each word said. Their words become music to my ears, with each wave ounding on my eardrums. Gives me a beat and a time to unleash my fury within. Their laughter become cries. My favorite tune. They scream for aid, deafening my sense of hearing. But I love this song. Their shrills of pain and agony symphonizes across my mind, as I start to become more and more at a loss of hearing...must have blacked out again.
I feel their pores open and their spines tremble. Their fear runs up and down their thin and weak necks. Their arms begin to flail voer my body, trying to damage me and prevent from my rampage. My massichism turns me on to each tear into my own skin. She claws and scratches her way through my flesh, toughening my already calloused skin. He punches and kicks, and tries to choke me. I only laugh, and I feel my body begin to contort again. I violently lash back at her. Rip open her flesh and take her life away. I forcefully bash my fist through his skull, a quick kill. Their warm blood streams across my arms, and splatters all over my face and my chest...must have blacked out again.
I lick what is on my lips, suck off what red is on my hands. I begin to nibble on her skin, so soft and so delicious in my mouth. I start chewing on his brain, enjoying every bite. Their blood tastes so good, like I haven't eaten such before. I taste salty tears and sweat, mixed in with sweet blood and bitter bone. This is the best meal I ever had...must have blacked out again.
An uncontrollable anger fills me. An aggression blackens my heart, and engages my madness to full force. My eyes become shadowed over with darkness. Black out...come back to me.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Cabin Juice
Flowed down, through my throat, and ran vivdly through my veins with no hesitation to depress my synapses, and have me succumb to the feelings of relaxation and happiness. An escape from life itself it had seemed. Not only to give credit to the hard alcohol mixed with juices of crushed, freshly-picked blackberries and Coke, but to my friends and the nature itself. Floated away into the abyss of my eyelids. Deep, so deep, with not much to gaze, but the figments of my reminiscent mind. My body now laid useless on the blanketed ground, but my mind still drunk, and still remembering.
The first night shot off with a crisp opening of a can of beer, and fizzled and popped, mirroring the night sky. Shot of hops and bubbles escaped the dark hole, and meteors burned across the night, leaving only seconds of gaze and bewilderment. They left minute scars on my girl, the sky, but she did not mind that night. The intensity of our love seduced her and I to gentle and silent breathing, sadistic focus of quick pain, intoxicated to high cirrus mist and beer, and her stars and my eyes gazed into each other, with no other thought in mind, but love. My three companions and one older urged me to speak and show excitement, but I only replied with a sigh. I did not want to bother the love that my girl and I had that night. We never have felt this kind of attraction before. Virgin to our own love. It only happens when I am in the aircraft, but this was something that we had not done before, and her and I were flowing with the moment. That night she painted her face in constellations and bejewling scars. I had nothing to offer but my naked face, scarred and serious. But we only stared, quietly, and let our souls reach to Heaven.
Morning came too soon, and I crept the woods prowfully, without purpose, but to breathe. The rest of the camp had awoken later, and quickly brushed off the nightly dust. The oldest cared to the cabin, and made sure there was food for our young and fastened stomachs. The other two close friends carried off into chopping wood, and freeing their spirits with every strike of the axe. She and I carried to our own goofiness, as we cheerfully shot videos of memories to not be forgotten. As she wrote away into her diary and own storytelling, I carried off and ventured into the old rotting cabin. Its windows and wood frame broken and torn into from mysterious acts of erosion, aggression, and carelessness. The floors creeked, beckoning my daring soul to gaze in deeper into what stories the cabin would tell. However, the walls, doors, and roof bellowed over the floor's whispers, and shunned me from entering. The fear was shuddering but so enticing, and I carried on into its mystery.
The afternoon chased railroads. She and I walked at paces slower than the rest of the adventuring group. As we always do, we demonstrated that our friendship is not comparable to the average eye. We strolled under the sunlight that kissed each pine and leaf that casted shadows on the rusty railroad, and that glistened rays into our eyes. The railroads left imprints of the far-ahead crew, and we continued our pace, analyzing and painting only copies, slight masterpieces to what vision truly held. Then, the King's Hole welcomed the whole-hearted and cheer. The three of us wrestled and swam in water that was second only to the Arctic seas. The two calmer souls watched us with happiness and wonder, pondering thoughts of like why three men would be so crazy to jump in such chill, and of why we do what we do.
We laughed ourselves into the night, reminiscent of high school, its joys, pains, flows, tedious. My girl kept to herself that night, as she blushed away behind the magnificent tree heights, showing only the slightest of stars. The fire crackled warmth and memories. Each pop beckoned another teacher, another student, another event, and another thought. I gazed into the fire, not blinking, just staring at its passion and dance. Reminded me that I feel for these people that sat around me, and those that should have been sitting around the fire. I am passionate that all of our frendships that circled around the fire were so warm and concerning. I only thought that thought, because that was all there was to think about, it was the only thought that seemed true and right for the moment.
The morning came too fast again, and it flowed back to what teens do best, party. We unrevealed the alcohol and beer, and began our drinking to our hearts' content. Loud and boisterous, disturbing the peace that was there. But we didn't care, we took shots to friendship and more. We danced and played the games that we knew would help us in our goals to inebriation. Some of us slept, while some of us walked restless, chasing off the alcohol and the river and the bridges and the bushes of blackberries. But we met up again in the night, circled one last time around the fire. Cabin juice...a little drink she and I made. Five freshly-picked, alcohol-marinated blackberries, crushed with two to three shots, and mixed with Coke. And it flowed down my throat, and without hesitation to soothe my body and mind.
I laid there, staring into my eyelids. Ran away from reality, and ran away from stress. Laid there useless. Ran towards thoughts of my friends who were there and not, and ran towards the amazement of how I am so lucky and happy to be who I am. Cabin juice, cabin juice, cabin juice. Probably the best drink made, and probably one of the most memorable trips I had taken .
The first night shot off with a crisp opening of a can of beer, and fizzled and popped, mirroring the night sky. Shot of hops and bubbles escaped the dark hole, and meteors burned across the night, leaving only seconds of gaze and bewilderment. They left minute scars on my girl, the sky, but she did not mind that night. The intensity of our love seduced her and I to gentle and silent breathing, sadistic focus of quick pain, intoxicated to high cirrus mist and beer, and her stars and my eyes gazed into each other, with no other thought in mind, but love. My three companions and one older urged me to speak and show excitement, but I only replied with a sigh. I did not want to bother the love that my girl and I had that night. We never have felt this kind of attraction before. Virgin to our own love. It only happens when I am in the aircraft, but this was something that we had not done before, and her and I were flowing with the moment. That night she painted her face in constellations and bejewling scars. I had nothing to offer but my naked face, scarred and serious. But we only stared, quietly, and let our souls reach to Heaven.
Morning came too soon, and I crept the woods prowfully, without purpose, but to breathe. The rest of the camp had awoken later, and quickly brushed off the nightly dust. The oldest cared to the cabin, and made sure there was food for our young and fastened stomachs. The other two close friends carried off into chopping wood, and freeing their spirits with every strike of the axe. She and I carried to our own goofiness, as we cheerfully shot videos of memories to not be forgotten. As she wrote away into her diary and own storytelling, I carried off and ventured into the old rotting cabin. Its windows and wood frame broken and torn into from mysterious acts of erosion, aggression, and carelessness. The floors creeked, beckoning my daring soul to gaze in deeper into what stories the cabin would tell. However, the walls, doors, and roof bellowed over the floor's whispers, and shunned me from entering. The fear was shuddering but so enticing, and I carried on into its mystery.
The afternoon chased railroads. She and I walked at paces slower than the rest of the adventuring group. As we always do, we demonstrated that our friendship is not comparable to the average eye. We strolled under the sunlight that kissed each pine and leaf that casted shadows on the rusty railroad, and that glistened rays into our eyes. The railroads left imprints of the far-ahead crew, and we continued our pace, analyzing and painting only copies, slight masterpieces to what vision truly held. Then, the King's Hole welcomed the whole-hearted and cheer. The three of us wrestled and swam in water that was second only to the Arctic seas. The two calmer souls watched us with happiness and wonder, pondering thoughts of like why three men would be so crazy to jump in such chill, and of why we do what we do.
We laughed ourselves into the night, reminiscent of high school, its joys, pains, flows, tedious. My girl kept to herself that night, as she blushed away behind the magnificent tree heights, showing only the slightest of stars. The fire crackled warmth and memories. Each pop beckoned another teacher, another student, another event, and another thought. I gazed into the fire, not blinking, just staring at its passion and dance. Reminded me that I feel for these people that sat around me, and those that should have been sitting around the fire. I am passionate that all of our frendships that circled around the fire were so warm and concerning. I only thought that thought, because that was all there was to think about, it was the only thought that seemed true and right for the moment.
The morning came too fast again, and it flowed back to what teens do best, party. We unrevealed the alcohol and beer, and began our drinking to our hearts' content. Loud and boisterous, disturbing the peace that was there. But we didn't care, we took shots to friendship and more. We danced and played the games that we knew would help us in our goals to inebriation. Some of us slept, while some of us walked restless, chasing off the alcohol and the river and the bridges and the bushes of blackberries. But we met up again in the night, circled one last time around the fire. Cabin juice...a little drink she and I made. Five freshly-picked, alcohol-marinated blackberries, crushed with two to three shots, and mixed with Coke. And it flowed down my throat, and without hesitation to soothe my body and mind.
I laid there, staring into my eyelids. Ran away from reality, and ran away from stress. Laid there useless. Ran towards thoughts of my friends who were there and not, and ran towards the amazement of how I am so lucky and happy to be who I am. Cabin juice, cabin juice, cabin juice. Probably the best drink made, and probably one of the most memorable trips I had taken .
Friday, July 17, 2009
Football
Football..."Life is like a football game...you always hit the line hard," Theodore Roosevelt. Blood, sweat, tears, my life, and I can't ask for any more perfect.
I bled on the field today. I hit, was hit, hit, was hit...and only back at it again. Two-a-days, three-a-days, whatever-a-days, been going at it and bleeding out of almost every pore imaginable. Damn line stance... get too low for my own good. Fingers chipped and slashed away by the long blades of dry grass, nails broken and torn off to every foward burst of movement I make. Mouthgaurd proved useless, my teeth still grind against each other to every push, and I taste the white bone and enamel, only to start chewing on my own gums for comfort. Contacts dried up to the heat, and I cry blood, as the dehydrated lenses carved into my sockets. Legs popped at every command, kneecaps showed white faces, and the red seems to replace the darker yellow of my skin. But I bled on that field today. I bled because every pint of blood was worth all my effort. Aggression...I was addicted to the pain, and I loved the taste of my own blood. My vampiric yearn for my own blood was too great for me to shudder behind shadows, and I let my beast free. The physical violence and the power is what I sought with every tear in my body. I loved it when they tried clawing into my calloused skin, and I loved it when they bled bellowing screams of pain into my ears. Masachist they called me... every single drop meant I was getting better. If I wasn't bleeding, I wasn't trying my best or pushing hard enough. If I wasn't bleeding, I wasn't feeding. I bled on that field today because that field was now a part of me, and I, it.
I sweat on that field today. Oh... did I sweat...Neither the rush of Niagra Falls, nor the flow of the Mississippi can compare to what came out of my brow. The heat only fell second to Death Valley, and that field was covered in a visual mirage of luscious green, a facade of the sand and dryness it held. Helmet black, jersey black, pads black, girdle black, gear black, and shoes black, I guess I was asking for more heat, but my passion for my colors surpassed the tick marks on the thermometer. My head burned a fiery blaze, with my helmet only to cover my true identity under skin. My hair seered off as my mind and skull were beated with the hot California sun, mixed with the aggression and love for the game. My cleats smelled of burnt rubber. The bottoms slowly melted away, leaving my soles naked to run with the burning grass. Steam flew off my neck, almost as if the sweat itself were trying to escape the unbearable heat that laid upon my skin. I sweat on that field today because I love the game. I sweat because dehydration was a sign of weakness, and I never succumbed to such level. I sweat on that field today because if I didn't, I sure as hell, didn't show my true expression of passion.
I cried on that field today...Oh I cried, to the pain and the anguish that I felt. I cried to the loss, and I cried to the failure. Men...oh...my brothers...I tried to lead you into victory, but I have only led you to the one thing you did not want, and for that I am sorry, I am so sorry. But my remorse will not heal your pain, I know it can't, the scoreboard still reads the very numbers we refuse to look at. I cried for my brothers at arms. Our tears trickled down our cheeks, and chose the path down onto the cold, wet grass. I cried because every inch we earned, we were sent back only further, and dominated at our own. I told myself that I will not let them down, and I know that I made sure my enemies shuddered at my fiery cry, but I still cannot shake away the tears that I cry. The emotional pain could only be represented what men of the game should not do. My pads, my helmet, and my boys were all I had to lean on for comfort. And I as always, the last one on the field. The lights shined only onto me, providing warmth and invision. I circled, and circled, entrailing every second of the game that just happened and the games of past. Put a smile on my face, and my lips blocked away those salty tears. I remember my first touchdown on ym first year of playing football. I remember my years of trying to find my position and where I belong to the game. I remember this year, when I was voted captain of my brothers, the hard-to-the-bone linemen, these were my men. And I led them through the thickest and the thinest, to the now. And now here we are...
Champions of the Art. Supreme rulers of the Arena. True Football players and Young Men.
Live your life like a football game. Be addicted to something, and push hard for it, push so hard. It may hurt now, but look back when in the lights of success, because you earned it all, and smile.
I bled on the field today. I hit, was hit, hit, was hit...and only back at it again. Two-a-days, three-a-days, whatever-a-days, been going at it and bleeding out of almost every pore imaginable. Damn line stance... get too low for my own good. Fingers chipped and slashed away by the long blades of dry grass, nails broken and torn off to every foward burst of movement I make. Mouthgaurd proved useless, my teeth still grind against each other to every push, and I taste the white bone and enamel, only to start chewing on my own gums for comfort. Contacts dried up to the heat, and I cry blood, as the dehydrated lenses carved into my sockets. Legs popped at every command, kneecaps showed white faces, and the red seems to replace the darker yellow of my skin. But I bled on that field today. I bled because every pint of blood was worth all my effort. Aggression...I was addicted to the pain, and I loved the taste of my own blood. My vampiric yearn for my own blood was too great for me to shudder behind shadows, and I let my beast free. The physical violence and the power is what I sought with every tear in my body. I loved it when they tried clawing into my calloused skin, and I loved it when they bled bellowing screams of pain into my ears. Masachist they called me... every single drop meant I was getting better. If I wasn't bleeding, I wasn't trying my best or pushing hard enough. If I wasn't bleeding, I wasn't feeding. I bled on that field today because that field was now a part of me, and I, it.
I sweat on that field today. Oh... did I sweat...Neither the rush of Niagra Falls, nor the flow of the Mississippi can compare to what came out of my brow. The heat only fell second to Death Valley, and that field was covered in a visual mirage of luscious green, a facade of the sand and dryness it held. Helmet black, jersey black, pads black, girdle black, gear black, and shoes black, I guess I was asking for more heat, but my passion for my colors surpassed the tick marks on the thermometer. My head burned a fiery blaze, with my helmet only to cover my true identity under skin. My hair seered off as my mind and skull were beated with the hot California sun, mixed with the aggression and love for the game. My cleats smelled of burnt rubber. The bottoms slowly melted away, leaving my soles naked to run with the burning grass. Steam flew off my neck, almost as if the sweat itself were trying to escape the unbearable heat that laid upon my skin. I sweat on that field today because I love the game. I sweat because dehydration was a sign of weakness, and I never succumbed to such level. I sweat on that field today because if I didn't, I sure as hell, didn't show my true expression of passion.
I cried on that field today...Oh I cried, to the pain and the anguish that I felt. I cried to the loss, and I cried to the failure. Men...oh...my brothers...I tried to lead you into victory, but I have only led you to the one thing you did not want, and for that I am sorry, I am so sorry. But my remorse will not heal your pain, I know it can't, the scoreboard still reads the very numbers we refuse to look at. I cried for my brothers at arms. Our tears trickled down our cheeks, and chose the path down onto the cold, wet grass. I cried because every inch we earned, we were sent back only further, and dominated at our own. I told myself that I will not let them down, and I know that I made sure my enemies shuddered at my fiery cry, but I still cannot shake away the tears that I cry. The emotional pain could only be represented what men of the game should not do. My pads, my helmet, and my boys were all I had to lean on for comfort. And I as always, the last one on the field. The lights shined only onto me, providing warmth and invision. I circled, and circled, entrailing every second of the game that just happened and the games of past. Put a smile on my face, and my lips blocked away those salty tears. I remember my first touchdown on ym first year of playing football. I remember my years of trying to find my position and where I belong to the game. I remember this year, when I was voted captain of my brothers, the hard-to-the-bone linemen, these were my men. And I led them through the thickest and the thinest, to the now. And now here we are...
Champions of the Art. Supreme rulers of the Arena. True Football players and Young Men.
Live your life like a football game. Be addicted to something, and push hard for it, push so hard. It may hurt now, but look back when in the lights of success, because you earned it all, and smile.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Grand Canyon, AZ
Couldn't think of a title that actually felt suitable to the adventure and the mind-blowing experience that I had encountered this weekend. When one thinks of the Grand Canyon, one thinks of majesty at its finest and most intense, only to depict a photograph of what it actually surmounts to be. But the trail, my friends, the trail...
Honestly thought I was not going to make this trip with Steve. He had asked me multiple times, and I simply replied with a shrug of my shoulders and a light grin, complementing a tilt of my head. The only reason that would aave prevented me from travelling with him was the fact that I may have a checkride soemtime soon this upcoming a week. Checkride equals hours of chair-flying and mental preparation, and not much time for fun. But as the Friday approached, I figured that I could use a break from flying and studying everyday, so we ventured out into the evening, winked with hints of sun and purple dust.
Finally, we reached the site, our campgrounds. 9:05PM now. I only thought of how it was going to be another mosquito massacre during my sleep. I prayed for a gentle breeze to blow those annoying buzzards away. And the breeze came, kissing the top of our cups, filled with Cherry coke and Tattooed Rum. Drank about two full cups each, and felt and looked like the rocks themselves, faces blushed red with relaxation and joy. And I passed to the breeze, as the temperature continually dropped to a comfortable 60 degrees. Awoken then to an upcoming thunderstorm, Steve and I quickly saddled up the gear and accsesories, and hustled to the car. 4:00 AM. I am pretty sure Steve and I averaged about an even 2 hours each of sleep, not the healthiest sleep. We just gazed into the wndow, looking at the sky. The moon shown so bright, the clouds moving very rapidly, and the stars uncountable, could not think of a better night to be out.
4:30 AM, time to get ready for the hike down. We made it down to the Horseshoe Mesa in record time, traversing down 2,600 feet in less than 3 miles. 6:45AM-7AM, not sure, but definietly satisfied to reach goal. The rocks we walked on began to paint green and blue, beautiful turqouise. As we gazed in the best of what we can find, we found ourselves stumbling upon history. Not only ground that has been eroded with water and wind for thousands of years, but old prospected mines. Dark, mysterious, and almost fearful, my careful spirit flew with Steve's. Like old explorers we did, and the mine shivered cold and moist, welcoming the most daring souls.
And the souls came back out, only to remember the pace back upwards. Fatigue kicked in, and my body began to torment, and my mind resisting temptation to fall under cowardice and tear. Too much pride, I kept going up with Steve, making sure to soothe my mind with water. The summer monsoonal skies, cried and dropped few tears at our persistance, as my girl were praying that we make it back to the top. And her prayers answered, at 10:05AM.
Steve drove back into the afternoon heat, and I ventured into my own world. We stayed silent, both content and accomplished to the feat we had just conquered. I could only reminisce to when I only hiked a sixth of that trail with my family, only to come abckl again as deja vu, and add another couple of miles. The conquest seemed as only a symbolic virtue to me. Life is like the Grand Canyon, so immense and so large. Scarred and eroded away by years and years of experiences, but still beautiful, and still astonishing. These thought rushed behinf my retinas, painting maserpieces in front of me, only to wake up in my apartment, ready for another climb.
Honestly thought I was not going to make this trip with Steve. He had asked me multiple times, and I simply replied with a shrug of my shoulders and a light grin, complementing a tilt of my head. The only reason that would aave prevented me from travelling with him was the fact that I may have a checkride soemtime soon this upcoming a week. Checkride equals hours of chair-flying and mental preparation, and not much time for fun. But as the Friday approached, I figured that I could use a break from flying and studying everyday, so we ventured out into the evening, winked with hints of sun and purple dust.
Finally, we reached the site, our campgrounds. 9:05PM now. I only thought of how it was going to be another mosquito massacre during my sleep. I prayed for a gentle breeze to blow those annoying buzzards away. And the breeze came, kissing the top of our cups, filled with Cherry coke and Tattooed Rum. Drank about two full cups each, and felt and looked like the rocks themselves, faces blushed red with relaxation and joy. And I passed to the breeze, as the temperature continually dropped to a comfortable 60 degrees. Awoken then to an upcoming thunderstorm, Steve and I quickly saddled up the gear and accsesories, and hustled to the car. 4:00 AM. I am pretty sure Steve and I averaged about an even 2 hours each of sleep, not the healthiest sleep. We just gazed into the wndow, looking at the sky. The moon shown so bright, the clouds moving very rapidly, and the stars uncountable, could not think of a better night to be out.
4:30 AM, time to get ready for the hike down. We made it down to the Horseshoe Mesa in record time, traversing down 2,600 feet in less than 3 miles. 6:45AM-7AM, not sure, but definietly satisfied to reach goal. The rocks we walked on began to paint green and blue, beautiful turqouise. As we gazed in the best of what we can find, we found ourselves stumbling upon history. Not only ground that has been eroded with water and wind for thousands of years, but old prospected mines. Dark, mysterious, and almost fearful, my careful spirit flew with Steve's. Like old explorers we did, and the mine shivered cold and moist, welcoming the most daring souls.
And the souls came back out, only to remember the pace back upwards. Fatigue kicked in, and my body began to torment, and my mind resisting temptation to fall under cowardice and tear. Too much pride, I kept going up with Steve, making sure to soothe my mind with water. The summer monsoonal skies, cried and dropped few tears at our persistance, as my girl were praying that we make it back to the top. And her prayers answered, at 10:05AM.
Steve drove back into the afternoon heat, and I ventured into my own world. We stayed silent, both content and accomplished to the feat we had just conquered. I could only reminisce to when I only hiked a sixth of that trail with my family, only to come abckl again as deja vu, and add another couple of miles. The conquest seemed as only a symbolic virtue to me. Life is like the Grand Canyon, so immense and so large. Scarred and eroded away by years and years of experiences, but still beautiful, and still astonishing. These thought rushed behinf my retinas, painting maserpieces in front of me, only to wake up in my apartment, ready for another climb.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Dedication to a Mentor
Never thought that I would have one. Some of the greatest leaders can be thought of when asked, "Do you have a mentor?" Sure, but they are more of role models. And I could also say that I have a mentor, and they are my parents. But they are my parents, always have been behind me from day one to guide me through the world. And I could also say that I have a mentor, and they are my friends. But they are my relax. They help me when I am stressed, they are there to make life seem like a breeze in some of the toughest times. But I don't think that is quite a mentor. A mentor goes a little something like this:
SATs! Its that time of the high school career, when everyone that wants to go to college starts cramming for the SATs...that dreadful test that consists of hours on hours of multiple choice questions, and an essay that is graded on a scale of 1-6. Did not look forward to this test like any other test in high school. There were sections of math, reading, and writing. Math, of course, this part of me relates to the stereotype of being Asian. Reading, fine, I can read and talk about it alright. But writing...Lord, help me. Feelings of shuddering fear and despair tremble my spine, as if they took froms of hands, gripping the long column of bone and nerve, and jumbling it around and around, cauing my mind only the worst of stressed headaches.
So, like any other student that was worried about the SATs, I signed up for a class during the weekends. It was a writing class that intensely engages students in practing writing and reading sections of the SATs, taught by Miz Parmalee Cover. Please...she looked like a push over at first blush, and of course, I focused on other important things for the weekend: the football game the night before, the flight tomorrow morning, the homework that I should be working on, and when I was going to go swimming in the next bottle of achohol. I just ran trough the course, week by week, continually working at imporving my writing skills, and going through the motions of the practice SATs. At the end of the course, I was given a private note, and Miz Cover had said I was her favorite student. My heart shot through the ground, as if I had some responsibility to uphold the consequences of my actions of not trying my best.
The course only ended, and I find that I am staring at a horrible grade on my first essay in Honors english. Sighed...as I stared down that blood red mark, almost as if the paper were bleeding because of the pain it had to endure as I was writing the essay. Lost without options, I turned to the only help that I knew to salvage my academic progress in english, turned to Miz Cover. And every Saturday, from then on, we would meet in the ealry evening, to practice more writing and reading. Started out as private tutoring, killing two birds with one stone. I was saving my grade, and I was practicing for the SATs.
And every weekend, as I grew closer and closer to being a better writer and harnessing my inner art, we became more and more fond of one another, until meetings were more of times to hang out and read and discuss each other's writing pieces. Outside of flight training, I never had a closer mentor and tutor. She had taught me to channel my feelings outside the football field and outside the cockpit onto the paper. She had taught me that perseverence can actually lie in many aspects of life, outside of just intended goals. And she had triggered my addiction.
It is an addiction to writing pieces and works of art. It is an addiction to lighting my mind, and pourind acidic floods of emotions and experiences. It is an addiction to inhale life and blow out puffs of graphite dust.
Miz Cover...that is what a mentor is to me. Not only has she taught me how to write, but she introduced a new life, a new angle at which I live. Never has she sat me down, never has she jabbed her pointing finger at my nose, and never has she lectured me. Only through her teachings of writing. And to end this student mentor relationship is not possible, even as I am in Arizona and she in Oregon, to end with a period seems wrong, and so I break the rules of run-on sentences and proper mechanical sentence structure with this, to only signify what a mentor is
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Black Boots On
They laughed as they asked, "Jay, are those boots you're wearing? Why?!"
Well, I only answer with a simple remark of, " They mean a little more than just foot wear..."
It was a warm, Prescott evening. The fall season of Prescott always seems just about perfect for me. The sun goes down late, and still rises bright and early. And the late afternoons to evenings, touch with a blood red sun, and hint with dashes of midnight black and dawn purple. I was out with my Multi-Engine Commercial (and single engine add-on commercial) instructor, Stephen Von Fange. Steve...him and I always had enough time to go out one weekend and treat ourselves to the infamous Big Jack Daddy burger. Ever since he first introduced them to me, we seemed to grow another addiction outside of propellors and wings. As we joked and celebrated another hard-working week, I finally broke him the news.
I told him that I was an official commercial pilot of the ERAU Seminole. The declaration brightened his eyes, and he only could reminisce how much harder he was on me than his other students, and how we both traversed down some of the toughest paths unimaginable. We laughed, with our mouths wide open and juicy meat and onion rings, barely able to stay in. I then reminded him of our promise.
Every day, throughout a whole year of him and I flying, he would always schedule me to fly at 0530AM. He always said that it will happen when I become a CFI, and that as a freshman, it was my duty to be brutalized that way I am toughened for the harder challenges that flight sometimes brings in the future. Barely awake, I would always show up at 0515, having my attire, my flighgt bag, the most current Weight and Balance sheet, and the preflight instpection completed. I then allowed myself to get that last bit of heaven, 15 more minutes of sleep. "Oh please! I want to fly, but let me sleep a little bit more," I whispered under my sigh. Then as it felt as a second of sleep, I heard the boots. "Click, clack, click, clack"... it was Steve. Right then, I had to wake up because it was time for business. And every morning, 5 days a week, it proceeded the same nature.
As my training progressed to the end, Steve and I made a promise. We promised each other, that no matter what, when I became a Multi- engine commercial pilot, I would purchase a pair of boots. And in return, Steve would buy a pair of Nike Air Force Ones.
That promise, finally came, to the closure of the hands shaken. And after dinner, Steve and I went to the best shop for boots. Tried on a bunch, and finally, found my match with black Ariat boots. Felt awkward to walk in them at first blush, I couldn't swag my usual swagger. But they felt good. They felt, with every strike of the heel, like authority. And the following toe touch, cicked a sense of generosity. And with the heel-to-toe, ryhthm I could walk a different swagger. And Steve, he noticed that I felt it too. A sense of command, and a sense of compassion, senses of a certified flight instructor.
That night only carried on to my addiction to the boots. It attracted my eyes because of the uncanniness of an "asian cowboy", but I liked it, oh...I loved it.
The boots have been everywhere, and always with Steve. He was there to laugh and discuss life with me, he was there to smoke a cigar with me, and he was there to tread swamps of pain with me. And these boots have been there, and back, and back again. I have travelled much of Arizona, Austin, Texas, Los Angeles and Fremont, California, with these boots. I have flown with another excellent instructor, only with these boots on. Everytime I flew, (and fly), I wear these boots.
" So..., why Jay?"
"These boots are more than just footwear. Do you see these white laces? Each one is so rough, and forcefully pinched in through the leather, binding years of experience and knowledge into one leg. And take a step back. Do you see the designs? So beautiful, so confident. It represents my flights and experience wil my instructor. We have sewn these boots together, and bound a friendship so rare between instructor and student. Now, I am an instructor, only instructing like my instructors have. Boots of Steve, slacks of Ryan, polos of Jason, necklace of Ken, and finally headset of me."
These boots finish the professionalism that I strive. These boots show life. These boots teach laughter and pain. These boots fly with me.
"So, buddy, that's why."
Well, I only answer with a simple remark of, " They mean a little more than just foot wear..."
It was a warm, Prescott evening. The fall season of Prescott always seems just about perfect for me. The sun goes down late, and still rises bright and early. And the late afternoons to evenings, touch with a blood red sun, and hint with dashes of midnight black and dawn purple. I was out with my Multi-Engine Commercial (and single engine add-on commercial) instructor, Stephen Von Fange. Steve...him and I always had enough time to go out one weekend and treat ourselves to the infamous Big Jack Daddy burger. Ever since he first introduced them to me, we seemed to grow another addiction outside of propellors and wings. As we joked and celebrated another hard-working week, I finally broke him the news.
I told him that I was an official commercial pilot of the ERAU Seminole. The declaration brightened his eyes, and he only could reminisce how much harder he was on me than his other students, and how we both traversed down some of the toughest paths unimaginable. We laughed, with our mouths wide open and juicy meat and onion rings, barely able to stay in. I then reminded him of our promise.
Every day, throughout a whole year of him and I flying, he would always schedule me to fly at 0530AM. He always said that it will happen when I become a CFI, and that as a freshman, it was my duty to be brutalized that way I am toughened for the harder challenges that flight sometimes brings in the future. Barely awake, I would always show up at 0515, having my attire, my flighgt bag, the most current Weight and Balance sheet, and the preflight instpection completed. I then allowed myself to get that last bit of heaven, 15 more minutes of sleep. "Oh please! I want to fly, but let me sleep a little bit more," I whispered under my sigh. Then as it felt as a second of sleep, I heard the boots. "Click, clack, click, clack"... it was Steve. Right then, I had to wake up because it was time for business. And every morning, 5 days a week, it proceeded the same nature.
As my training progressed to the end, Steve and I made a promise. We promised each other, that no matter what, when I became a Multi- engine commercial pilot, I would purchase a pair of boots. And in return, Steve would buy a pair of Nike Air Force Ones.
That promise, finally came, to the closure of the hands shaken. And after dinner, Steve and I went to the best shop for boots. Tried on a bunch, and finally, found my match with black Ariat boots. Felt awkward to walk in them at first blush, I couldn't swag my usual swagger. But they felt good. They felt, with every strike of the heel, like authority. And the following toe touch, cicked a sense of generosity. And with the heel-to-toe, ryhthm I could walk a different swagger. And Steve, he noticed that I felt it too. A sense of command, and a sense of compassion, senses of a certified flight instructor.
That night only carried on to my addiction to the boots. It attracted my eyes because of the uncanniness of an "asian cowboy", but I liked it, oh...I loved it.
The boots have been everywhere, and always with Steve. He was there to laugh and discuss life with me, he was there to smoke a cigar with me, and he was there to tread swamps of pain with me. And these boots have been there, and back, and back again. I have travelled much of Arizona, Austin, Texas, Los Angeles and Fremont, California, with these boots. I have flown with another excellent instructor, only with these boots on. Everytime I flew, (and fly), I wear these boots.
" So..., why Jay?"
"These boots are more than just footwear. Do you see these white laces? Each one is so rough, and forcefully pinched in through the leather, binding years of experience and knowledge into one leg. And take a step back. Do you see the designs? So beautiful, so confident. It represents my flights and experience wil my instructor. We have sewn these boots together, and bound a friendship so rare between instructor and student. Now, I am an instructor, only instructing like my instructors have. Boots of Steve, slacks of Ryan, polos of Jason, necklace of Ken, and finally headset of me."
These boots finish the professionalism that I strive. These boots show life. These boots teach laughter and pain. These boots fly with me.
"So, buddy, that's why."
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