It's been a long while since I've gotten up on my soapbox here in the world of the 'net. Without much of note occurring there isn't much of note to write about, even in such a casual format. Usually I write about climbing, but there hasn't even been much of that until very recently. I'm midway through my yearly pilgrimage to Joshua Tree and have been surprised to find it much like last year; in fact, it's practically identical. In a lot of ways, this is a good thing. The park has been a much needed retreat for me for many years, a place for mental and physical regrouping and it's nice to see that this changes little from year to year.
Sometimes, though, it's hard to just experience it. The wheels start turning too much when there's nothing I'm supposed to be doing, no responsibility except to feed myself and enjoy the climbing I do almost every day. Despite feeling the fluency coming back into my climbing, there's still something unsatisfying about it although I can't figure out what that is. Sitting in the library, I watch as an older man apparently act out his obsessive-compulsiveness on the bookshelves, strangely measuring space between the books, moving them slightly until they suit some arbitrary, abstract concept of order, organizing without organizing; then it seemed that he indeed works here, that he indeed was itemizing the books and checking their shelving order. It's hard to concentrate on putting some sparse words to the page. There is little difference, sometimes, between our daily lives and a feedback loop of compulsive actions. There is so little time and we use it in such baffling, useless ways, attempting to store it for later or burning it so hot that we mortgage all that we have left.
On that note, I'll waste but a little time under the fluorescents of the library. A sunny December afternoon is far more appealing and a mere dozen footsteps away. Burned by the sun, my hands torn from climbing the grainy rock and the dirt staining my feet, how is it possible to feel discontent? Then again, that's all out there; the gearbox of my psyche grinds away unfettered, safe from any placation. But then, that's always the problem, I think, the feeling of necessity, the incessent pulse of progress beating at the doors of perception. What really is left, then, but the experience? If the processing is always done in such a refractory, ignorant manner, it's no fault of the world. In any case, that's all I have for today.