deeplyshallow // bearing down

bearing down

This weekend is going to be a note-for-note repeat of the previous one, it appears. Tomorrow I am subjecting myself a second time to this ’spinning’ nonsense, and now that I know just how not easy it is, I am dreading it even more than the first time. And Saturday morning, like last weekend, another hike — although this one, thankfully, appears to be a horizontal hike, not a vertical one. The destination is not locked in but looks like it’ll be the Hearst coast, which is roughly a twenty-six-mile round trip. My guess: we do no more than ten. My other guess: my ass is going to hurt just as much as it did last week. Spinning is not good for asses.

Today was a day of musical haywiredness. iTunes 7 does not like to play nice with iTunes 6, so the few people in the office who tend to obsess over my library (maybe two, tops) kept sending me insanely outraged IMs all morning: dude what the hell is up with your music and What is going on, I need my ‘Jg’ (which is the name of my shared music files — creative, no?). I left my Nano with one poor incompatible soul, and tried to turn N. on to William Shatner’s album; she listened to one song for about thirty seconds and declared it the worst thing she had ever heard, like “elevator music that some jerk won’t stop talking above”. (To be fair, she is just a college kid and has no idea who William Shatner is. Which just makes me feel older than I should.) With my entire music collection now digitally archived, I’ve gotten into the habit of giving away CDs; when last my cousin visited, I sent him on his way with a stack of the good shit; I am passing them out like candy to anybody who expresses interest. CDs are useless to me now.

Last week the other N. at work asks me if I ski, and I say yes. I have no idea why this came up, but now that it has, there is talk of a winter escape to Tahoe or elsewhere, a cabin, some skiing. It is flighty as hell at this point, nothing certain, but I am chomping at the bit already. The last time I skiied was late 1998, and I remember it very clearly because it was also the worst time I ever had at the slopes. It took awhile, but I had finally talked my ex-wife into going skiing. I eased her in slow, took her to Hilltop (read: half-assed within-city-limits three-run slope) instead of Alyeska (read: wonderful beautiful distant glowing mmmmm), carefully explained the motions, successfully exited the ski lift, etc. It took an hour to make the first run down the slope, and when we finally reached bottom, she declared herself finished with skiing, and that was that.

Between 1995 and 1997 I probably skiied a thousand times. I cut school to go skiing. I ditched college classes to go skiing. I left work early whenever possible and went skiing. I skipped church and went skiing. I would spend entire days on the slopes, toes completely numb, face painfully windburned. I would be there when the lift started up, and I would be there for its last haul up the mountain. My cousin and I would start sing-a-longs on the lift after dark, with surprising success. I loved to ski. And yet I just quit. I never made a conscious choice, really. It just sort of happened without my noticing. So now here I am, and an entire decade has gone by, and I cannot bear the idea of going one more day without skiing. I don’t own skis, it’s only September, so what the hell? But there it is. My hopes are sky-high right now for something that probably isn’t going to happen. If it doesn’t, I can totally see myself striking out for the mountains alone. Hell, that’s how I spent those two years way back when. It’s a Zen thing, skiing alone. You are one with everything, including that tree you keep ricocheting off of. It’s just a completely pleasant way to spend one’s time. Mellow shit.

Tomorrow is my art director’s last day on the job. It’s kind of disappointing that he’s bailing out on us, but he can’t be faulted for the opportunity he’s pursuing, because anybody with half a brain would be doing the same thing. It’s also the second straight day of a massive client seminar we’re hosting, so his exit is going to be overshadowed to a degree by the hordes of strangers milling around, talking too loud, looking for extra chairs, more sandwiches, where are the beers, etc. There is a rumor of a big party at his place this weekend or next, or drinks tomorrow after work, but who knows; the clients are being taken on wine-tasting tours and to golf courses, which might drain available bodies from the pool. It’s going to suck to see you go, Mr. B. I’ll use the word “fully” whenever possible. Somebody’s gotta keep that mellow shit alive.