Can't You See?

People, people, people...

Can't you see?

We always want what we cannot hold.
Some mad perversity has afflicted our soul.
No torment, save dissatisfaction, was ever so bold.

Our sensibilities, by lust, are hastily sold.
Desire consumes us like some cancerous hole.
We always want what we cannot hold.

Our heart is the problem (truth be told).
Unchained from logic, we forget our goal.
No torment, save dissatisfaction, was ever so bold.

Such beasts are not banished when we grow old;
still they howl and threaten our self-control.
We always want what we cannot hold.

Such inane delusions will never unfold.
Nights of fruitless dreaming exact a heavy toll.
No torment, save dissatisfaction, was ever so bold.

The wayworn wanderer can scarce drive out the cold.
Who holds the brazen censer of coal?
We always want what we cannot hold.
No torment, save dissatisfaction, was ever so bold.

Returning Home

Finally home from a semester's work,
I stretch my legs to December's cold smirk.
The skies foretell of a perfect e'en,
slate blue and heavy with moisture unseen.

I pull on my boots, wool socks and coat,
then cinch up my belt for the fowls' heavy load.
I don my waxed cap and head for water far and remote.
The heavy, tumbling flakes a good hunt forebode.

Weather-worn walnut and bright polished steel,
my shotgun, like a leopard in my hand feels.
She leaps with agility as I mount for sport.
Yet, no bird rises to meet her roaring report.

I tromp through the prairie grass with her alone as my cohort.

I reach the pond dam with daylight to spare.
Breaking my double, I check the pair of high-brassed 4's.
Iridescent green lights the sky as mallards flare.
A day at the university never compares to one on the moors.

The Misfit Academe

I shouldn't be writing this blog.

I should be writing an essay. I don't want to write the essay. Why? I find it boring. That may sound ridiculous considering the fact that I picked the topic. But, even with the boon of picking my own topic, scientific writing doesn't thrill me. It is a spiritually thankless art. Sure, a skilled scientific writer may do better in grad school or be more likely to get published in a prestigious journal. However, that is a different kind of fulfillment that what one gains when the muses strike a chorus of thunder and the pen boldly writes of inner thoughts.

I deeply tempted to write the essay in the form of a scholarly personal narrative (SPN). As an undergrad I was lucky enough to have a great professor introduce me to this form. The SPN blends the virtues of traditional scientific writing (credibility, attribution, review, and process) with the voice of the author. I know that it can be done and what is more--I have already done it. So what is holding me back? Put simply, guts. I wasn't given the slightest guideline for this essay. Essentially, it was "go west, young man, and prosper!". So, there are no explicit warnings against writing in this style. Yet, I am savvy enough to read between the lines. The essay is for a course in a department in which I am an outsider--a department in which engineering and design and numbers take precedence. Literary creativity would at best be seen as nothing more than a misguided attempt to fill up pages with words and at worst would be seen as a failure of a liberal arts hack to adapt to the realm of science. Yet, the SPN offers a unique opportunity to enliven a dreary topic.

Relatability. All of politics, success and life is based on relatability. What good are all those numbers, coefficients, r-squares, and chi-values without application and context? They are absolutely worthless. Science exists not to exclude the layman from a social circle, but to improve his life through defined procedure. Yet, the layman does not readily translate Pearson coefficients into money, joy, or love. Science is the slave to art. Art may have value on its own, but without art science cannot be digested by the multitude.

You know what? I am writing an SPN tomorrow!

The Highwall Speaks!

Today was my best day of hunting in a long, long time. The conditions were terrible this evening. The temperatures were in the 70's, the moon was full, and the wind was howling. I had jumped some deer off of a hillside earlier in the day and decided to set up there this evening. I sat in an unmowed strip of prairie grass and scrub on the side of the hill and watched a hay meadow from 3:00 p.m. to about 5:30 p.m. I had already decided that nothing was going to come by, so I began to fold-up my collapseable shooting sticks. When I looked up there was a doe probably 40 yards away running at full blast. I told myself to not to shoot her yet (I am a meat hunter) and then I realized that now 10 ft. behind her was this brute. I bleated and he paused momentarily and then took off running again. I swung my 1885 and let her rip as the crosshairs passed over the shoulder. He continued up the hill, as did I (all the while jamming a .405 round in the falling-block). Once I crested the hill I saw him roll and kick. Today, like every other day, I am a blessed man.

Waging War Against the Blight of Drugs and Alcohol

About once a month I get into an argument with someone about the legalization of drugs. Partially this is because I frequent circles that are inhabited by both Republicans and Libertarians. Inevitably, my Libertarian friends will regurgitate the platitude that the government should have no control over your personal life. I am sympathetic to this viewpoint, but I must contest their logic. In the case of drugs, there are extenuating circumstances.

In today's time of Tea Party politics and Libertarian fervor the topic of freedom is trendy. Boiled down, all of politics is really about how much freedom we should have. This brings into question where I fit in the political spectrum. I've had people (and tests) tell me that I am a Republican, Conservative or a Libertarian. In truth? This matters little. For my purposes, I am going to call myself a "Sensible" Libertarian.

Why the superlative? Because I believe in the following level of liberty;

Every person should have all conceivable liberty is his or her life up until said liberty threatens the well-being of others.

It is a proven fact that drugs alter your ability to control your actions. The extent of this phenomena is wide-ranging, depending on the drug in question. While marijuana may debilitate your reflexes and decision-making ability, hard drugs may very well lead you to kill someone in order to support your habit. At this point I am certain that there are recreational drug users reading this very post and disagreeing with my last observation. Look it up! NO. Don't trust your personal experience. That is not logical. If a drug really does alter your consciousness, how would you know that it didn't by taking it? According to the Office of National Drug Control Policy (http://www.whitehousedrugpolicy.gov/publications/pdf/Marijuana.pdf), marijuana has the following effects: "distorted perceptions, impaired coordination,
difficulty in thinking and problem solving and problems with learning and memory... increased rates of anxiety, depression, suicidal thoughts, and schizophrenia". If you experience these symptoms you are undoubtedly a threat to not only yourself, but to the people around you.

What is more, ONDCP also points out that since 1998 the potency of seized marijuana has doubled. ONCP further mentions that the 2009 National Survey on Drug Use and Health found that 16.7 million people used marijuana in the month preceding the survey. Keep in mind, this is a self-reported statistic. The actual usage of this drug likely far exceeds this number. As I write this, media sources are indicating that California's Proposition 19, which would legalize marijuana in the state, has failed(http://abcnews.go.com/Politics/proposition-19-results-california-votes-reject-marijuana-measure/story?id=12037727, http://www.politico.com/news/stories/1110/44590.html).

I often encounter proponents of drug legalization that cite two defenses to my argument. The first defense is to point out that we allow personal ownership of firearms and that firearms are considerably more dangerous than drugs. This is a shallow and illogical defense. Firearms do not cause accidents, nor do they cause people to harm other people. Firearms are simply tools. The same logic that would ban firearms would also ban steak knives, sharp sticks and panes of glass. If a person picks up a firearm, he or she is not suddenly possessed by the perverse desire to wantonly commit violence and destruction. Conversely, the usage of a drug well may subvert the rational capacity of the human mind and lead to acts that directly harm other individuals. Whereas a firearm is a tool, a drug is a disabling agent. I would like to point to the fact that if I purchase and use $10,000 worth of firearms I will not necessarily harm myself or my fellow man. However, I purchase and use $10,000 worth of a given drug, I most certainly will leave a wake of harm.

The second defense brings alcohol into the dialogue. According to a recent study alcohol is in fact, the most harmful drug (http://www.cnn.com/2010/HEALTH/11/01/alcohol.harm/index.html?eref=rss_us&utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+rss%2Fcnn_us+%28RSS%3A+U.S.%29&utm_content=Google+Reader). I have some faith in this decision, but I have not read the actual scientific article, nor examined in-depth the criteria by which these drugs were ranked. Regardless, the consumption of alcohol can be dangerous. So then, am I a prohibitionist? Perhaps not, but I am a teetotaller. I can find no just reason to encourage any person to drink. Drinking has never solved a personal problem and has never resulted in a positive long-term outcome in someone's life. Because of this, I am an advocate of temperance. At this point my critics will suggest that I either allow for the legalization of drugs or support the ban of alcohol. I will do no such thing. By legalizing drugs we would only encourage negative behavior and by prohibiting alcohol we would only encourage the criminal enterprise.

What then, is the solution? Education and moderation! Very rarely are those two things not the solution to a problem! We must educate the public about the dangers of the consumption of alcohol. According to the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism the immoderate usage of alcohol can lead to: difficulty walking, blurred vision, slurred speech, slowed reaction times, impaired memory, brain damage, and liver disease (http://pubs.niaaa.nih.gov/publications/aa63/aa63.htm). This does not even begin to describe the crippling psychological effects of alcohol.

One of things that bothers me most is society's view on alcohol. Too many people see it as a "social lubricant", as a personality enhancer, or as an escape mechanism. What is worse, we have structured our society in such a way that it is difficult for the teetotaler to participant in healthy social interaction. We have brought an unhealthy, disabling habit into the mainstream and made it acceptable. I find it disturbing when people tell me that alcohol makes it easier for them to be themselves. What this really tells me is that they are uncomfortable in their own skin and that their behavioral filters are such that they are incapable of expressing themselves effectively. Alcohol is not a solution to this problem. Rather, we should encourage self-confidence in our peers by listening to them and by actively engaging them in meaningful discussion. We must fundamentally change what we value in a person as a society in order to do this. Consider for a moment reality television. Based on it, what is it that society values? Lewdness? Idiocy? Repulsive behavior? We now see that the problem with drugs is not just a physical one or an economic one, but a philosophical one. We must strive for a more complex evaluation of what is good in a person. We must seek the inner light in our companions and bask in that glow, not in the distributing facade that is created by the narcotic or the liquor.


Find the true value in people by dedicating yourself to knowing their natural beauty preserved in their inner-spirit.

Balm in Gilead

"And as he rode himself alone, it's there he saw the milk-white hind. The hind she broke, the hind she flew, the hind she trampled the brambles through. First she'd melt, then she'd sound, sometimes before, sometimes behind. Oh what is this? How can it be? Such a hind as this I ne'er did see. Such a hind as this was never born, I fear she'll do me deadly harm."

From Famous Flower of Serving Men, Laurence Price, 1656

As hunters and as men we all seek the milk white hind. We grasp for the untouchable, and yearn for unknowable. We seek out that which we cannot have for its sibylline nature. This is not completely our fault. While we would have that which cannot be brought to bear, we are drawn to the spectre of its presence-- a presence that darts from the past, to the present, to the future without even a moment's consideration. This visage emerges from the foggy depths of our subconscious and makes its way, beguilingly, into our realities. In the drunkenness of our nostalgia we make more out of a such a hallucination than what was. Where we might have seen a glimpse of silvery moonlight in our peripheral, our recollection is that of graceful form bounding through night's whispering realm.



Such sightings are bound neither by geography nor time. One may just as easily behold such a vapor in the dancing stalks of grass as on a busy street corner. Try as you may, you can never regain the first vision, though those that follow are no less sweet. So then, we spend our lives enchanted---recalling what was and praying for what is to come. Yet,we are no better than the gambler, who coming off his hot-streak recounts his former glory (or the facade of such). Our vices are not counted as the gambler's though. They are far too dearly bought, and far too private to be broadcast in hopes of redemption. They are, in the Tolkien sense, "our precious". They are rooted too deep and watered too well for any steely axe to chop. These roots delve beyond the soil of our consciousness and into the bedrock of all eternity. They exist in our very biology.



We are but slaves to the omnipotent consideration of "What could have been". Less kindly writers before have referred to such phenomena as the "black dogs" of our subconscious. Dogs they are not. While they may nip at our heels and howl in our dreams, we are too fond of them to kick them like some mischievous cur. Nay, we nurture them with each progressive delusion of possibility. We feed them our best store---golden grains, ruby wines, and shimmering fruit all in hopes that some day they may mature in reality. But we are always grasping at the wind. They melt and they sound at leisure, and our ability is not to summon or bide them, but to embellish them. Embellishing them makes us seem more sane, and less irrational. So we polish these visions. We buff them until they shine like starry orbs and when we finally see our reflection in them, we realize how long they have had hold of us.

You Have to Stand for Something: The Most Divisive Issue Facing Hunters Today

I was intrigued today by a headline posted on Field & Stream's website. The article mentions that North Dakota is bringing forth a referendum on banning hunting in high-fenced areas (http://www.fieldandstream.com/blogs/hunting/2010/10/north-dakotas-possible-high-fence-ban-garners-national-attention). This is an issue of much contention in the hunting community and I have friends that fall strongly on each side of the aisle. If one is to approach this topic rationally, there are weighty pros and cons on the issue.

Pros
-Wildlife management is much easier on high-fenced properties
-Selective breeding can lead to large trophies
-Deer farming (not to mention exotics) is a multi-million dollar industry that reintroduces money into the outdoor sphere
-Access to public land and free-use private land is dwindling
-Hunts may be set up so that the handicapped or special needs hunter can enjoy the experience

Cons
-Promotes "trophy-centric" attitudes
-Compromises wild nature of game animals
-Detracts from the overall experience of hunting by limiting difficulty
-Creates a negative image for anti-hunters to feed on
-May lead to increased spread of potentially deadly diseases
-Promotes instant gratification when hunting
-Belittles the unique history that hunting has with regard to the development of mankind
-Promotes emphasis on monetary value of a living animal
-May limit hunting access to only the wealthy

I have to say that my experiences with high-fenced hunts have been very negative. I have never paid for a high-fence hunt, but I have had them given to me and they have never left me with a warm and fuzzy feeling. Rather, I was left angry, saddened, and with a uneasy feeling deep in the pit of my stomach. With that being said, I have friends who raise deer for such enterprises. They themselves are not unethical when it comes to hunting.

Society changes. This is what has driven and created this craze of high-fenced hunting. There once was a time not so very long ago when a person could walk countless miles across private property and the landowners would gladly allow you to do so. That time has come and gone. Now landowners frequently charge obscene trespass fees. The natural alternative is to hunt public land. The problem there lies in the fact that much of the public land is literally crawling with other hunters. A recent trip with friends to Deep Fork WMA found us bumping into two other hunters, with additional vehicles piling into the area as we were leaving. Was there game in the area? Absolutely. Did we see any? Absolutely not. This is the conundrum of hunting in modern times. Hunting, whether we like it or not, is quickly becoming a rich man's sport.

What is the solution to such a problem? I cannot claim to have the answer. It is tempting to say that when acreages are large enough that high-fence hunting can be legitimate. I am not going to say that. There comes a time when we must discern the difference between game and stock. If you purchase an animal and release it into an enclosure it cannot by any reasonable means be considered game. If we accept this fact can a person who kills such an animal in an enclosure call himself (or herself) a hunter? No. The title can only be butcher. Again, it is tempting (oh so tempting!) to say that hunting in an enclosure by a youth or otherwise special needs person is legitimate. We must consider what actions are taken by these "hunters" in the course of harvesting their animal. Do those actions truly fall in line with those most associated with a hunter? Did they scout the area, build a blind or hang a stand, spend countless hours sitting without avail? The ugly truth is that they often do not. Instead, they write a check. They let the guide or ranch hand drive them to a stand that they have never seen before and shoot an animal whose granddaddy was named "Cowabunga", cost $450,000, and scored 567 3/4" Boone & Crockett.

I am sometimes frustrated by hunting. Strike that, I am often frustrated by hunting. For example, I am on a bit of a hard streak right now and haven't seen a deer in quite some time (over two weeks). This is not the first time that this has happened to me. There have been years when I literally hunted until I was on the verge of hypothermia and did not see any deer. Oftentimes I would simply quit for a while and go back later. After successfully harvesting my quarry later (sometimes much later) I always looked back and appreciated how hard I had worked to put my hands on such a glorious animal and how this rare gift was a true treasure. Who can say that when they shoot an animal in a pen?

In the end there are only a few suggestions I can give.

>Learn what it is to appreciate the entire process of the hunt, not just the killing or the antler size

>Promote restoration and conservation so that future generations can enjoy public land

>Resurrect the lost art of hunting small game. This is a suggestion that I feel strongly about. When I was a child people lived to hunt different small game species. You would know certain people as a "squirrel-hunter" or a "rabbit-hunter" or a "coon-hunter". Where have all these people gone? No one pays any attention to small game these days.

>Learn to make use of the full bounty of a harvested animal. Sure, a big rack looks good on a wall, but what about a backstrap seared perfectly on the grill or a pair of moccasins made of out of supple buckskin? If we utilize the full bounty we will appreciate the animal much more than just admiring antler measurements.

Autumnal Baptism Revisited: The Spoken Version

In the Midnight Hour

My Research Methods course is one of those scary classes that wields science like some leaden sword. You may duck it quite often and avoid the blows most of the time, but if it strikes you, you are in for a severe wound. I say this not to complain, but to make the point that it requires WORK. Academic work is one of those things that I have in the past been able to deftly avoid by luck, grace, or another means. Much of the work in this course has been reading. Such reading is often dry and uninteresting. But, there has been one theme that has emerged several times in the readings that I wholly agree with and am interested by.

We do not take time to think.

We may answer questions and solve problems, but much of this is stock and store. Rarely do we ever think. As I walked across campus tonight I took in the smell of incoming rain and the dances of lightning streaking across the clouds. I thought, this is a beautiful night. Admittedly, I did not immediately set to immerse myself in the nocturnal splendor. I did what I normally do, I get on my computer and dive into the social media to see who is doing what, and what issues they are grappling with. One of my friends mentioned that she was listening to the rain with book in hand and hot tea sitting by. What a novel idea! Hopefully by citing her ambiguously I am not plagiarizing her brilliance, but I did the exact same thing.

Assam tea was steeped in my earth-toned mug and granules of stevia were introduced. I dragged a raggedy wood chair (complete with paint splatter) onto my "porch" and began to read. I'm reading Francis Chan's "Forgotten God" currently. The book is about how Christians in today's society largely neglect the Holy Spirit. The book reinforces much that I already knew---that some people fear the Spirit as an emotional manifestation, others abuse its existence to attempt to edify themselves, and still others (who nonetheless claim to be Christian) are completely unaware of its existence. Granted, my spiritual background includes time spent in so-called "Charismatic" churches (labels, labels). But this issue grieves me seriously. The author confesses that he once openly denied the word of any person prophesying in modern times. I know many who are like this today. Yet, I have (and will continue to be) witness to such prophesying. I have seen an elderly woman speak with such boldness, authority, textual correctness and power that it was completely beyond her mortal ability. There was no denying it, just as there is no denying the importance of the Holy Spirit to the Christian faith. Unfortunately, so many churches are dead in the Spirit. There is no passion in their belief and there is no boldness and inspiration in their lives. Likewise, on the other end of the spectrum, there are churches that are full of passion and worship, but they do so not for the edification of God, but for their own ego and entertainment.

I was struck by such an image when I purchased "Forgotten God". I was in Ruth's bookstore in Quail Springs Mall shopping with some friends when I came upon this:


Who is being edified by this image? I confess that I am not familiar with this man's works (and they may very well be good). However, the portrayal of him on this book cover should make the practicing Christian shudder. There is no room for ego in the Christian heart. This brings me back to our lack of thinking. Chan quotes 1st Thessalonians 5:21-23 in his book and it made me sit up and pay attention:

"But examine everything carefully; hold fast to that which is good; abstain from every form of evil. Now may the God of peace Himself sanctify you entirely; and may your spirit and soul and body be preserved complete, without blame at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ."

Our society largely lacks critical analysis with respect not only to our everyday lives, but also with respect to our spiritual beliefs. We cannot claim to be in the rank-and-file of Christendom with thinking about and applying the whole text of the Bible, not just those passages that are convenient. I myself am guilty of such, as are many others. This applies totally to the Holy Spirit. One cannot except a part of the Trinity and lead the full life of a Christian. This does not mean that it is easy. There are many stumbling blocks in the way. I personally have had such negative experience with people who fake the presence of the Holy Spirit that I abandoned attending church for some time. We cannot let such stumbling blocks ensnare us. Always ask, who does this edify? If the answer is not God, then the legitimacy is not there.

Soda Review: Boston Tower Root Beer

VESSEL: 12 oz. dark brown bottle. No characteristic markings. Label is contrasting black, orange and white. Marketed as “Ye Olde Fashioned” and “Better Than the Rest • Pure Water Used”. Visually striking package convinced me to purchase.

SMELL: Strong odor of root beer, but seemingly inorganic; akin to root beer flavored Dum-Dums



HEAD: Pours well and forms decent head that disappears quickly and lacks cream characteristics.

APPEARANCE: Dark brown, almost black. Considerable opacity.



TASTE: Taste unimpressive with standard root beer flavoring. Lacks distinct tones of other high quality root beers (cream, honey, vanilla, etc). Flavor lacks depth and is discernable in only limited regions of the palate.

FINISH: Quick finish. Taste disappears after 6 seconds of swallowing.

MOUTH FEEL: Light to moderate thickness, no syrupy quality

NOTES: This root beer disappointed me quite a bit. I tasted it from both the bottle and poured into glass, after seven hours of refrigeration. I expected a hand-crafted artisanal product that would merit its relatively high cost ($2.19). Instead of this I found a generic, monotonous flavor with few inspirational notes. There was no “pop” to this beverage and as previously mentioned the flavor was borderline chemical, being very similar to that of root beer flavored candies. I purchased this soda at the Mecca of soft-drinks, "Pops" in Arcadia, Oklahoma in the absence of my preferred “Henry Weinhard’s Famous Root Beer”. In hindsight, I should have picked up one of “Virgil’s Root Beers” (which were available). While this beverage may be enjoyable to children, it is far surpassed by other premium beers and fails to compare economically with mainstream commercial brands.

OVERALL RATING: C

Truth Be Told

"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation. From the desperate city you go into the desperate country, and have to console yourself with the bravery of minks and muskrats. A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind. There is no play in them, for this comes after work. But it is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things."

Henry David Thoreau



In quiet desperation we mortals do roam.
We lack an essential that has yet to be bestowed.
Spendthrift and hoarder alike do bemoan,
the terrors of loneliness that haunt our abode.

We race hither and thither in search of some joy.
Ravenous and desirous, we walk all alone.
Night’s shades of gloom our façades destroy,
When we find that one occupant lays claim to our home.

We search out our friendships for an inkling of light,
some gleaming bright ray that could divulge our ploy.
For our appearance of resilience is deceiving to sight,
and under the veil hides the terrified boy.

He thinks, he wonders, he prays all aloud.
His wishes are simple, pure and to the point.
Could there be one stranger that will emerge from the crowd,
and his fears of solitude in old age disjoint?

What measure of time has gone since that prayer
that he sent so earnestly to yonder cloud?
He looks skyward, the cosmos to stare.
Humility his demeanor, no reason to be proud.

His spirit, downtrodden, and yet he endures.
A match of wit and beauty is terrible rare.
He cannot be satiated by the coarser of lures
(not even the majesty of flaming auburn hair).
Stoic and silent he goes on each day,
Hoping that God will show him the way.

Cody B.
(I know more people than would ever admit feel like this, but it is good to talk and write of such things).

Ode to Expectations

Expectations :
The forecast of an optimist!
Where does reality bind hope?
Should such hope be constrained?
We cannot achieve without goals.
Yet, “shoot for the moon” falls on tired ears.

Expectations:
The folly of the naive!
When will we learn the lesson?
Can we ever realize fantasy?
We may not tread on the water.
But if we do not try, nothing will keep us afloat.

Expectations:
The bonds of a naysayer!
How can we fail to strive?
Would daring gain us ground?
We should not be cowed by fear,
though such oft is the case.

Expectations:
The savior of our spirit!
What would we do without?
Could the dreamer be right?
The risk is wondrous great.
Each path has its own destiny.

Autumnal Baptism

The crunch of leaves underfoot is heard.
Gazing intently, I behold the form.
I freeze in hope and utter no word.

I ease up my rifle, my soul is stirred.
My cheek rests on walnut, scratched and warm.
The crunch of leaves underfoot is heard.

I whisper “Quiet!”, though my voice is slurred.
Deep inside my chest there rages a storm.
I freeze in hope and utter no word.

My heart is aflutter, like some startled bird.
Where once there was control, chaos is the norm.
The crunch of leaves underfoot is heard.

I regain my senses and my confidence gird.
I kiss gently the trigger and death’s rites perform.
I freeze in hope and utter no word.

My quarry stricken, my senses are blurred.
To eons of tradition, I willingly conform.
The crunch of leaves underfoot is heard.
I freeze in hope and utter no word.

On Finding (and Keeping) the Kindred Spirits

It is 2:00 A.M. on a Thursday night. I don't have class tomorrow (thankfully), but there is no real reason why I should be up. I am awake largely because I have been thinking. Many college students, like myself, would be shutting down the bars about now. In recent days I've asked myself, why not do the same? Why not use that means to broaden my network of friends? You see, things change once you graduate from college. Friends that once were as thick as thieves move off, live their lives, and become pleasant memories. That, for me, is a tough pill to swallow. I suppose that it would be naive of me to think that anything else would happen, but I did regardless. Again, I am the begrudging slave to nostalgia.

Perhaps what has deprived me of sleep most is the sense that I have missed out on spectacular opportunities. I refer specifically to those opportunities to deepen and improve such bygone friendships. In looking back on my undergraduate years it is apparent that I had the blessing of being friends (sometimes only an acquaintance) with a host of truly exceptional individuals. It is an unforgivable shame that for many our friendship have withered and all but died. One must not allow such rare gifts to lay fallow in the field!

Now, having "conquered" my undergraduate goals I am in quite a different position. Freer, perhaps, but less socially capable due to my somewhat limited exposure to new social groups. All of my life I have been a proponent of quality over quantity---the Taurus, the ISTJ, the traditionalist. Yet now it seems that those quality relationships that I so gladly nurtured have been whisked away on a southernly wind. What is the thinking man to do?

I mentioned previously the consideration of taking a foray into the bar scene. I say that knowing well that such an affair would be a lost cause. My biases and my dislikes run far too deep for any real attempt at such. No, I will always dislike the drunkard, the crowded room, the coarse individual and the stench of cigarette smoke. No amount of nostalgia will ever change that.

The viable alternative is then the religious group. But, again, this poses some problems as well. While I have never felt truly unwelcomed by any Christian organization, the comfort level certainly varies. With any group (religious groups are no exception) there are always expectations to be met. Most of them are apparent, but many others are unspoken and bear the true weight of acceptance. Christians are for the most part a loving lot and one that is well-intentioned. I preface this next statement by saying that is does not apply to all such groups. They also can a be a cliquish, judging lot. I have participated in numerous such groups throughout my life and while some were indeed enjoyable and productive, many compromised the person for the sake of the Christian. What I mean by this is that one could not discern the true personality of the individuals in the group, rather, they were reflective of the group-think of the establishment.

In retrospect it appears that I have alienated both the social drinkers and the conservative Christians in this article. That certainly wasn't my intention. But the question still remains, what is the thinking man (or woman) to do? Are the days of the intellectual-social group all but gone from our society?

Having lived in a city of five years now I am well aware that my days of continual wilderness rambling have all but disappeared. There will be no more basking in the grandeur of the wilderness every day. Such a pleasantry makes solitude not only tolerable, but enjoyable. This is not the case of the city life. One may very well sit under the bows of a pine and hear the secrets of life pass o'er until the sun bids adieu, but the same person cannot do such in an apartment devoid of the beauty of nature.

Fundamentally, I feel that my problems boils down to two aspects of my personality: (1) a radically different perception of value than my peers and (2) an unwillingness to compromise on those things that I believe strongly about. Whether that makes me a philosopher or a fool I will not speculate, but it does put me in an unique situation.

One half-hour later, I still don't have the answers that I sought to find. Such answers never do come easily. Yet, the process of self-exploration through writing holds a great value to any person who observes life through the lens of self-reflection. Until next time,

Be true to your work, your word, and your friend.

Zombie Survival Sheet

Choices, choices...

Jock O'Braidosly, A Hunting Tale

I have made two videos in two days! This has to be some sort of record!

College Apartment/The Coming of Autumn/She Moves Through the Fair

The Golden Window

The manner in which one is wakened each morning has a tremendous impact on the way that the day proceeds. Too many of us, unfortunately, are awakened by the obnoxious buzz of an alarm clock or the overbearing tones of a clock-radio. As a result, our days reflect these annoyances. Instead of revealing the smiles that we all keep veiled we snarl and stare and approach life as one whose very existence is an inconvenience to nature. Yet, life does not have to be this way.


I am a great connoisseur of slumber. I rarely have trouble sleeping and make the most out of each opportunity to do so. Yet, Thoreau reminds me that “It is unwise to keep the head long on a level with the feet.” As usual, he is correct. Given the stark settings of the city and its bothersome noises I tend to shut myself up in my abode and sleep until the latest possible hour. But in the country where nature provides the apparatus for waking, there is a different tale to be told.
This morning I lay nestled in my bed, swaddled in comfortable quilts and resting with great peace. I awoke with joy like few people have the opportunity to do. This was my gift from September. The breeze that caressed me as I slumbered told me a story that few people can narrate. Nature is changing. She is coming!
Now, I know that in my pseudo-mystical nature-child rambling I have completely lost you. “She” is the one. Earlier today I would have said that she was my (and many others’) mistress. But, after deeper contemplation that simply would not be befitting. In fact, it is potentially blasphemous. “She” is more than mere words can relate: a muse, a mentor, a lover, a provider. She is the enigma of inspiration, motivation, admiration and adoration.
She is fall. She is coming.





Nature does not tell lies. I have sworn by this and have been called idiotic on several occasions for saying it. The morning breeze today brought the song of a new season from afar. It foretold of change, and beauty, and long-awaited promise. This breeze was tinged with the spirit of ripening apples, of curling chimney smoke, of shaking corn husks and of the song of flights of geese. Likely many of you were up much earlier than I was this morning and did not discern any of these qualities. Nature may not lie to you, but she does dabble in the art of subtlety. Sure, it is 95 degrees now and the sun still beams with an inescapable intensity. Regardless, the wind continues to whip and the secrets of autumn hang like awaiting birds over the crop ready for harvest.





Besides the wind, what else foretells the coming fall? Why, my demeanor, of course! Had I not been rousted by the rejuvenating gale this morn I would like many others stomp and demean the very ground that I walked upon. Summer to me is like a family relative that while not disliked, must be tolerated with some difficulty. No longer! Let them be gone on to greener pastures! My domain is now my own.

Bend the Bow: An Archer's Paean

This is an older poem that I thought need resurrected. I wrote it in October of 2009 and thought that with the approach of archery season it would be appreciated.





An Archer's Paean

Timber, slender and elegant---
Refined by man's reverent hands!
How I love to see thee flex under steely grey skies!

Wood-grain---
A thousand stories in one piece of maple!
How thy arc moves my soul!

Sinew, resonating and alive---
Make this stave reverberate once more!
How thy sweet twang sings to my ears!

Feathers, barred and crisp---
An eager bird perched upon the shaft!
How thou guidest my wishes!

Vision, sharp and true---
My very existence focused on one point!
How the weary world leaves my mind!

Arms, brawn and might---
Bend the form to my design!
How thou drawest the world into perspective!

Impact, distinct and remarkable---
Fulfill the purpose of my endeavor!
How thou gladden my heart!

Quarry, sacred and divine---
God has given thee to me!
How thy death brings life!

In archery, all of life and death is witnessed.
Breath for breath, hunter and game entwine!

On Summer & Flyfishing

The Oklahoma summer is a broiler searing all life. I am not hot; I am denatured. Is it truly worth going outside? The rational mind says no, but there is an oasis that beckons. A farm pond breaks the monotonous landscape and parts the crackling sea of dried grass.

Willows! They are my summer friends. They know what others do not, that when Hyperion rises high in the noon hour that there is still refuge to be sought. I step into the mossy shallows and fry scatter like olive missiles seeking a distant shore. My ankles sink into the oozing grime and I am instantly refreshed. Mind you, not in the manner of a frosted glass of lemonade; I am refreshed because I have found a place of comfort and of (arguable) productivity even during nature’s harshest tantrum.

With straw hat atop my head and bamboo rod in hand I smirk at what I must look like; an absurd westerner’s attempt to recreate a Vietnamese farmer tramping through a rice paddy. I am after fish, not grain, so once I commit fully and venture waste deep in my wilderness spa I begin to whip and weave my rod through the air and miraculously my fly falls perfectly. It skitters and dances as I bring in line—a hapless grasshopper frantically treading water. Then, with the stealth of a prowling leopard, an iridescent sunfish flies from the underwater jungle of a weed-bed, calls my bluff, and mauls my fly in a violent splash. Of course in my listless contemplation I am taken completely unaware by this occurrence and heave my rod, knee-jerk style. My yellow popper whizzes by my head, missing by the smallest of margins. I see the perch fly back into the jungle in a flash of gold, orange and yellow. The leopard has shown the “Great White Hunter” who is the true predator.

Pumpkinseed Sunfish
http://www.dictionaryoffish.com/freshwater_fish_directory.htm

Undeterred I once again wave my rod towards the cover and I don’t even have time to blink—the panfish is incensed and swallows my fly whole. This time I manage to arc my rod correctly and feel the surge of the fish on the line. I forget the heat. I forget my allergies. I forget where I am. All that I know is that I am locked with something powerful beyond reason. This tiny fish, ounce for ounce, is unfathomably determined. I manage to bring him to bear without capsizing myself (quite a feat) and behold him in the August sun. What a trophy! The sheen and color of a sunfish outshines any bird of paradise. I gently lower him back into the depths and he parts company hastily. I continue my antics until dusk. Somehow, despite it all, I have found my own small paradise.

If you want to try your hand at panfishing, this is one of the most productive patterns ever. I think I paid .35 cents a piece for mine (I bought them in bulk).



[Picture from D's Flies http://www.dsflies.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&products_id=66]

The Most Hated Demographic

I am a white, Republican, straight, Christian male who lives in rural Oklahoma. Now that I’ve got that out, I’d like to tell the few of you who remain (countless others have fled away in fear, no doubt) that I am not the embodiment of evil. Really, I don’t jest. I know what you are thinking, and no, this is not some cunning plot for me to take your land and forcefully convert you to my religion.

The assumption these days is that if you are like me you are practically born with a silver spoon in your mouth and that your success is practically guaranteed by the structure of our society. What is more, common knowledge would have you believe that such an individual as myself is wholly incapable of understanding what your life is like. This is especially true if you happen to be a homosexual, feminist or an ethnic minority. You and I (again, according to common knowledge) are as alien to each other as conceivably possible. I’m sure that you’ve been told that if you sit next to be in a coffee shop the sheer vastness of my own sense of superiority and self-worth would instantly combust you into flames.

That is a complete and total load of horse crap.

I know that you don’t think so, but hear me out. First of all, I would like you to consider the innumerable experiences that every person has in their life—there are millions upon millions of personal interactions that each of us experience. How then, are you able to account for all of my experiences and know with certitude that I have not had at least a minor experience that is similar to those that define you or define the difficulties that you face in your life path? The simple answer is that you can’t. To do so would be to act in the greatest measure of egotism and arrogance. We cannot account for all of each of our peers’ experience no more than we can trace the life of a drop of water. Now, certainly each of us may or may not have an experience with racism or sexual discrimination, but each and every person has an experience somewhere in the hazy depths of their memory where they were wronged because of a personal trait, be it physical or ideological. The gist of these experiences is the same.

We have forgotten the true meaning of the word equality. Equality once was a concept of level-footing and equal opportunity. Equality now is a perverse rendering of this concept. Instead of focusing on equal opportunity and fair chances we are geared towards equal results. That is not the same thing. In fact, by pursuing equal results we corrupt our purpose to the point that we have in our efforts created the very thing that we sought to forego, inequality. This concept is one that is extremely controversial and I have no delusions that I will convince you of what I am advocating. Nonetheless, I would like to demonstrate this concept to you with an example. Equal opportunity would be me running a marathon and starting at the line with everyone else at the beginning of the race. Equal results would necessitate that I (a large, slow, clumsy oaf) should begin the marathon 100 yards from the finish line. Now, I wouldn’t want to do this for numerous reasons (the least of which is that I hate running). Firstly, I would be altogether denying real competitors their deserved victory. These individuals would have been the people who lived to run, who practiced daily and who had the will and determination to win. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t do this for any reason. In the end, pursuing equal results in our society is the same thing. Let us, instead pursue equal opportunity.

White men in our age are far too often portrayed as Rhodes dominating Africa, or as the sneering, greedy industrialist who seeks only his own gain. This is by no means the truth. Humanity is shared experience. We all have experiences that we can share to find a common ground. That is how progress is made. I recently revisited Ayn Rand’s writing on racism and found myself nodding in agreement as I read. You may or may not view Ayn Rand with any love, but I would highly suggest that you read her thoughts on the subject. The overall theme of Rand’s view can be summarized thusly: “Racism claims that the content of a man's mind (not his cognitive apparatus, but its content) is inherited; that a man's convictions, values and character are determined before he is born, by physical forces beyond his control” (http://freedomkeys.com/ar-racism.htm). Rand also contends that racism is a form of collectivism. In essence collectivism assesses human worth, value, and bases societal actions around the group. The problem is that such a group is composed of individuals. It is the individual, not the group that we must examine and assess in our daily ventures. If we accept Rand’s concept of racism as a form of collectivism it is apparent that by assigning the white, male, Christian, and heterosexual demographic a specific personality (or set of beliefs) then we ourselves are guilty of racism. Even though I am a member of the demographic I am wildly different than my peers. I love poetry, sing to myself all the time, quite enjoy musicals, and really don’t find sports that interesting. How well does that fit into the schemata of the white, male, Christian, heterosexual? It doesn’t. That is because such schematas are inherently flawed. If you take anything away from reading this, let it be the following:

WE ARE ALL INDIVIDUALS
NO ONE IS EXACTLY LIKE US
OUR VALUE IS DETERMINED BY WHAT WE DO

Now that I have spoken my peace I would like to say that you are welcome to disagree with me, and I still would like to sit down and have a cup of coffee with you.

Song of the Whippoorwill

A poem of nature and folklore---of me, really!



As I lay fighting the descent of sleep,
A voice, like soothing waters begins to weep.
A dapple grey with mottled wing,
Nature’s own lullaby so sweetly sings
The lament of summer and lofty things,
Like time.

Echoes from my country home,
What spirit roams these woods
And brings to me this enchanting psalm,
Which June alone provides?
I roust and wake and seek her song,
In dew and darkness dwell,
What can this fowl of holler and crick,
mean to raise the frail?

A well worn path I trod and search,
My prying eyes can’t find
This soulful and beguiling bird
Whom flies o’er hill and dale.
Come forth to me,
O Guard of Night,
Whom nature’s secrets keep!
What in thy voice,
Thy riveting tune,
Doth wake me from the deep?

I wouldst not cage thee,
For my own gain,
But suffice to behold thy grace.
Why dost thy fly from oak to pine
The nocturn air to taste?

From on high,
A flittering glance,
A leaf cast by the wind---
Or twas some angel passing by
In haste, abrupt, descend?
Not leaf nor seraph,
But holy fowl,
alights on yonder post,
I kneel to it to hear its plight,
How Will gave up the Ghost.

It speaks to me,
From ages past,
A sage beyond the years:
“Thou shouldst not rise,
with haggard eyes,
in dusk I come to call--
let all men know,
that moons may wane and cities fall,
but nature has no fears".

To really appreciate this poem you have to listen to a Whippoorwill for a bit:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GXnnfg1CepE

How beautiful!

Everything I Ever Wanted (Or Is It?)

Satisfaction.

Tires that don’t go flat.
A boss that doesn’t have bad moods.
A dog that doesn’t chew things.

Yeah right.

Why do we seek it when we know it will never be?
Like addicts---always grasping for more.
Never shall we be satiated.

Given Frankincense, Gold and Myrrh
I ask for salt.

Why isn’t there salt?

That’s all I really wanted.

Then I get salt.

What, no pepper?
See how it goes?

And worse---
I am cognizant of this flaw,
Yet fail to correct it.

I am told that God completes a person,
Fills the gaps.
Yet, there are many gaps to be filled.
I am a dam made of Swiss cheese.

See the waters rush through me?

I plug one hole,
And rupture ten others.

Desire.
The great crippler of man.
An old friend he is.

When will our wants cease?

A Taste of Serenity

Sharp-tailed Grouse Lek in Snow (HD) from Dawson Dunning on Vimeo.

I would offer this film with outcommentary, because it needs none. No words that I can muster can explain how beautiful, how unique and how majestic the scene is. With that being said, I must comment. I must offer my humble sentiments towards the grandeur of nature. My life, despite its thin veneer of complexity is in truth simple and elemental. There are three things that matter. (1) God, (2) Love and (3) Nature. In that order. Don't, however, let that third position fool you. Nature remains as a driving, shaping force in my life. It really saddens me that so few people get to experience it in its full glory. We are so caught up in our duties, our routines and our technology. I know full-well that such things make the world go around, and make our lives easier. Yet, these things are not what enriches us. God, love, and nature enriches us. I pray that my humble future is interwoven with all of these things.

I've never seen a grouse. There are not very many of them in Oklahoma. What we do have are wild turkeys. Dissimilar you say? Not really. Turkeys, like grouse, put on a very impressive courtship ritual. My part of Oklahoma (Green Country) has both Eastern and Rio Grande Wild Turkeys. Each are indescribably beautiful. There is really something about a big gobbler, strutting with bravado that is a defining character in the scheme of springtime in Oklahoma. Have you seen the colors? They are amazing! Blacks that glow an iridescent coppery hue in the sunlight, vibrant reds and blues that bespeak of America, and earthy creams and browns that make the tom seem like a regular part of the landscape. Few things so beautiful have ever crossed a spring wheat-field, or danced amorously underneath the shade of pecan tree. How can one help but smile at such an image?

The Deadliest Warrior: Not a Warrior at All?

Spike TV rarely quickens my heart, but there is one particular show that I do enjoy watching: The Deadliest Warrior. I suppose that it is a guy thing, but seeing a variety of ancient and modern weapons brandished is always exciting. I do like the fact that they TRY to be scientific with their measurements. The fact is that quite often they are not. However, the results are still quite impressive. A blade or bullet can do some interesting things to bone and ballistics gelatin. In the past I've rooted for the Samurai and William Wallace as my favorites, but I have one to top them all now!

I offer for you consideration the deadliest warrior of them all (who is not really a warrior):



Well, okay. Not Roosevelt HIMSELF, but African hunters in general (especially those dashing British army officers). First of all, hunters excel in bushcraft and deception. I would say even more so than most basic military forces. We are sneaky people by nature! Secondly, hunters bear very, very powerful firearms. Oftentimes these firearms are chambered in cartridges that are vastly more powerful than their military counterparts. Finally, the first white hunters in Africa were current or former British army, so they had both military and hunting experience. That is a combination that is dang tough to beat.

A man is only as good as his weapons though, and luckily for the African hunter of say, the 1920's the options were good!

Firstly, I present to you the Webley Mark VI Service Revolver:


Yes, it is old. It is also UTTERLY RELIABLE and fires a quite powerful round, the .455 Webley. How powerful, you may ask? How about a 265 gr. bullet at over 750 feet per second? The famed .45 ACP, of 1911 heritage, fires a 230 gr. bullet at 830 feet per second. That is not bad at all. The Webley also has a lot of other stuff going for it. As mentioned before, it is very reliable and performed excellently in the mud and trenches of two world wars. It also is a break-open revolver, which means the it loads quickly. In addition, there was a considerable amount of accessories for the pistol, including a bayonet, quickloader, and a carbine stock.

Next, I offer you the mainstay, the Lee-Enfield Rifle:


What can one say about the Enfield? Again, it was a British Army mainstay and different versions of it have been in service from 1895 to present. It is capable of considerable accuracy and was used effectively as a sniper rifle. It also has a large capacity for a bolt-action (10 rounds) and by using the "volley-fire" technique one can easy shoot a round per second. What is more, it is chambered in the .303 British cartridge, which fires a 150 gr. projectile at around 2770 feet per second. This approaches the velocity of modern the .308 Winchester (7.62 NATO) round. It was used to kill every imagineable enemy of the British Empire and even elephants by some (See Walter "Karamoja" Bell). What is more, it was even used by the Irish to kill the English. Suffice it to say that if you design a weapon and your enemies decide it is good enough to be used against you then you are onto a keeper.

For extremely close range the African hunter would have a panga or machete.



There isn't much that needs to be said. Whether you are felling trees, enemies, or beheading buffalo, the machete will get the job done.

That brings us to the final offensive weapon of the African hunter. What a dandy it is! I will preface this by saying that there isn't a single specific weapon, but rather a class of weapons that fit the bill. These are the classic British double-rifles chambered in cartridges intended to stop big game. These cartridges range from the .450-400 Nitro Express 3" to the behemoth .700 Nitro Express.



For our purposes I'll take the middle ground and standardize the .470 Nitro Express as the cartridge of choice. The .470 pushes a 500 gr. bullet at 2150 feet per second. That is enough to stop an elephant, hippo, or cape buffalo in its tracks. It is also enough to blow completely through an engine block. This makes it an effective choice for taking out light vehicles. What is more, you don't have to pack around some awkward RPG and can shoot from concealment much more easily. If the .470 isn't enough for you, you could easily go with the .700 Nitro Express, which actually has more energy at the muzzle than the .50 BMG. Either way, you've got a rifle that has loads of power and can be fired very quickly in succession.

Finally, the African hunter would wear a stylish pith helmet:



These helmets were first made out of pith and then later cork. Not only are they stylish, but there can be soaked in water to cool the wearer and can be camouflaged as necessary. It goes without saying that they are super-classy!

Well, there you have it! That is my nomination for the Deadliest Warrior! What can stand against that?

My Addiction

I admit, I am addicted. There is nothing like the sound of a fast-paced Celtic tune to get the blood pumping! I have always loved listening to Bluegrass, but when you hear the original version of the tunes of the motherland it really stirs something in you. I am talking about listening to a song that makes you want to run, dance and fight at the same time. There are very few songs that are able to strike that chord. The two that I know best come from the Irish and Scottish traditions. One is about rambling and life in general, while the other is of the Jacobite repertoire.

If you need a bit of energy in your day may I present to you the best kick possible:

Rocky Road to Dublin, The Dubliners


Donald McGillavry, Silly Wizard

Neither Fish nor Fowl: Well, Maybe Fowl

As part of my Advanced Composition class today we were supposed to write a Villanelle poem. An excellent example of a Villanelle is Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night": http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15377 That poem was always one of my favorites! While my work certainly isn't of that caliber I enjoyed writing it. It may not even be a Villanelle, but it's about duck hunting, so it has to be good! :)

The steel grey skies are dark with wings.
A weather-worn barrel with bird-shot sings.
Chopped ice, cork blocks, gun dogs, cold socks.

A drake swings wide and circles the pool.
My hands are cracked; the wind bitterly stings.
The steel grey skies are dark with wings.

I squawk into the call and sound like a fool.
Snow falls downward like heavenly rings.
Chopped ice, cork blocks, gun dogs, cold socks.

I am coated in ice, pond scum and drool.
My fortune is great as fate rarely brings
the steel grey skies are dark with wings.

I sit here alone on this rickety stool.
I drop my shotgun and add to the dings.
Chopped ice, cork blocks, gun dogs, cold socks.

I sip at my coffee and gag 'cause its cool.
A shotgun shell bounces and pings.
The steel grey skies are dark with wings.
Chopped ice, cork blocks, gun dogs, cold socks.

Footsteps in the Darkness

Footsteps in the darkness,
how fondly I do recall them.
Guided by starlight, inspired by connection;
a conversation sung to the tune of the melody of the night.
Words. Emotions. Revelation.
The stony path unfolds before me,
but only in small strides.
Summer breeze provides refuge,
summer words relate experiences.
Darkness envelopes me;
I am not afraid.
What it hides I do not consider,
what it reveals I cannot deny.
A word here is worth a saga in the day.
Emotion is liberated,
anxiety is repressed.
Lapping waves absolve all troubles.
The potion of moonlight intoxicates my spirit.
Have I said too much?
A drunkard is always a drunkard,
whether be from moonlight or wine.
Words drift like cottonwood seeds in the dusk.
See them flutter, see them alight.
I cast them gaily,
but they always are given at a cost.
Pride.
Night is the slayer of pride.
May the darkness be eternal;
I have too much to say.

On Rifles & Women

One may ask how it has come about that men’s rifles, both sporting and combat, have been given feminine names. To me, to give them anything but a woman’s name would be absurd. Why is this? Because rifles embody women in every aspect. They come in all shapes and sizes, in differing worth, and in varying degrees of utility. But all of this doesn’t really mean anything. The real reason is that a man can fall in love with a rifle, just as he would a woman. This process (for either rifle or woman) very rarely makes any sense at all. I would contend that there exists not only a perfect female companion for each man, but a perfect arm for him as well. Obviously, tastes vary. Some men don’t mind the rough-edges of a woman who barks loudly, drinks too much, but is always there when the nightfall comes. These men buy Mosin-Nagants, or Kalashnikovs. Then again, there are men that don’t mind if a woman does anything but look stunning; even if she takes all that he has, won’t do anything he would like and stays at home more often than not—just as long as she is the hottest thing in the neighborhood. These are the men that purchase Blasers.

Women and rifles both evoke the most fundamental desires of men. To be free, to share experiences, to behold beauty, to connect. Who has more tales? The wife that lived through the Dust Bowl years and wears the sands of time like haggard jewelry or the Winchester 1894 that rode lovingly in the scabbard of some gaunt Texas Ranger? To be frank, it really doesn’t even matter about appearance, function or value. It is in the minutiae that we find rapture: a crooked smile, a shy glance, a wood-grain, the deep blue of polished steel (or her eyes). When a man ignites a rifle, the rifle ignites the man. The same goes for women. Even a painful retaliation (recoil or revenge) is received with open arms. Rifles, like women, are not always joyful though. Some are cold, distant, and impossible to relate to. These rifles (women) serve their own purpose, not to act at the behest of men. Far too often we love them anyways.

It is also true that most men do not know what they want or need in a companion. Perhaps it would be easier to decide on a rifle? Maybe that is the way to find your soul-mate in the first place. Decide on a rifle; then apply it to life! I sound pretty absurd, I admit. But, in this gun-nut/everything-is-interconnected mind of mine it actually makes sense. I personally have been trying to decide on a rifle for quite some time unsuccessfully. What does that say about me? I am getting better though. Let’s break my choice down to the fundamentals. Form over function, but not taken too far; I would like a rifle with good aesthetic appeal that still gets the job done, but it doesn’t have to be a tack-driver. Classic lines; I want something that bespeaks the days of yore, with taste, panache and a good degree of refinement. I can live without the modern contrivances that make everyone else’s head turn. Walnut and blued steel; again tradition reigns supreme (there is a reason why it is classic). Who needs stainless steel and synthetics when you can take care of a classic and it will look twice as good? High caliber; I want a rifle in a caliber that is powerful enough to do anything, whether it be taking down a Cape buffalo or grizzly, but not so powerful that it trounces me every time I set it off.

Much to the chagrin of my fellow gun-nut buddies I have pretty much decided on the Ruger No.1 Medium Sporter in 9.3 x 74R. This drives my buddy Andy crazy. Why? Because wearing a pink tutu to a job interview would be more practical. The rifle is a single-shot, which means you have to be absolutely certain of your first shot. It is also composed of walnut and blued steel; beautiful, but not necessarily resistant to adverse climes. But is so perfect! It is unbelievably handy and is light enough to go with you all day without it weighing you down. 9.3 x74R is an ancient caliber created by the Germans around 1910 to give their settlers something sufficient to deal with the fauna of the newly colonized African scene. The final world here is nostalgia. I am sucker for the whisperings of colonial Africa; of pith helmets, campfires, thorn-bush fences, and khaki. The Farquharson styling of the Ruger No. 1 and the Alexander Henry fore-end are simply too much for me to take!

I am reminded of the young British soldier sludging through the trenches of WWII, the American boy sweltering in heat of Vietnam, and the mujahideen hiding from a Hind behind a boulder. They all had girls, and they all had rifles. The Lee-Enfield named Mary. The AR-15 named Susan. The AK-47 named Badria. What shall I name my rifle and what adventures will we undertake? If I decide on your name I will let you shoot her!