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philo
Trad climber
Somewhere halfway over the rainbow
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Topic Author's Original Post - May 13, 2010 - 11:07am PT
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Just for fun. Post up the random stuff that oozes out of your synapses.
Here is one. It just popped into my head and oout my fingers, wierd.
I had a peanut butter and banana sandwhich and I thought of you. And all the time spent in your blue canoe. Like bonobo monkeys locked in the city zoo. Exactly what else were we supposed to do?
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Norwegian
Trad climber
Placerville, California
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May 13, 2010 - 11:19am PT
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caffeine reflections.
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Anastasia
climber
hanging from a crimp and crying for my mama.
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May 13, 2010 - 11:29am PT
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I climb to where there is nothing but the wind
and all that I am is judged on a single hold
all I am holding on to is revealed
as love takes me farther than most would dare to go
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philo
Trad climber
Somewhere halfway over the rainbow
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Topic Author's Reply - May 13, 2010 - 11:29am PT
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Whoa that was GOOD Anastasia.
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Jaybro
Social climber
Wolf City, Wyoming
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May 13, 2010 - 11:50am PT
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It's time
good day for something
sometimes I get tired just smiling
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Anastasia
climber
hanging from a crimp and crying for my mama.
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May 13, 2010 - 01:17pm PT
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I feel him reaching through me across time and memory. Sometimes what we leave behind meets us in the future. I can smell him in the room though it's empty. My hands shake from nervousness as I try to write. I have seen more than most but it's only one part of the story. Writing it down feels invasive, incomplete as the past burns brighter than the present. He is not here to tell his part, yet I feel his hand on my shoulder, encouraging. I feel myself shaken to the core. You are not suppose to feel the hand of a ghost as something warm and securing. I wonder again how death follows me.
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TwistedCrank
climber
Ideeho-dee-do-dah-day boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom
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May 13, 2010 - 01:19pm PT
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I'm tripping balls.
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FeelioBabar
Trad climber
One drink ahead of my past.
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May 13, 2010 - 01:32pm PT
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A piece I wrote for The Drake Magazine:
The Junkie: An Addiction to Streamer Fishing
He has a serious problem, this man. Some would call it a sickness. He's a junkie of the worst kind and he knows it, lying and cheating to get what he needs, reckless in the pursuit of his much-needed fix.
He is the Streamer Addict. Bunny fur and Marabou drive him wild. River. Lake. Crappy urban pond. Anytime, anywhere—when he needs it, he needs it. Casting like he's shooting a 12-gauge, his presentation is anything but delicate. Stuffing it into the rocks on the far bank. Flipping it out there. His flies hit the water like depth charges, sending feeble specimens fleeing in terror.
He serves it up simple and the fish respond like any well-evolved creature: fight or flight. You've seen him, fishing by himself, laughing, screaming, and leering at you on the water. Moving quickly around your position, you can't help but wonder what he's up to. Stripping wildly, cursing, all the while that smug-ass grin spread across his face.
The junkie covers lots of water, while you stand in the same hole for three hours. The afflicted tosses a middle finger to tradition. Sunny? Midday? Hatch? The junkie doesn't care. All day, every day, chump. His box of flies looks like a truck hit the Muppet band. He talks in tongues about "applying the voodoo," "street-fighter flashes," and "30-foot handshakes." And who wears a stripping basket on a trout river anyway?
But it's not easy, being a dedicated fiend. There are slow days, too. Tough days. Frustration. Stripping till the arm hurts. Crazy action with no hook-ups. Sticking to the guns is sometimes difficult. But then there are the other days, where the junkie's as high as a Georgia pine. He's kind of a dick, really, laughing at the sad faces you make as he strips one through the run you just flogged and then lifts the local thug out of the water to show what you missed. You ask what he's throwing, and can only muster a confused gaze when you see the size of it. "Is that a saltw#ter hook?" you stammer. "And what's with the fighting butt?" The junkie just smiles, eyes glazing.
To many, he makes no sense. Breaks all the rules. A step away from spin fishing, some say. They just don't get it. But perhaps it's better that way. Many just don't have the fortitude for the charms of streamer fishing. Best you just stick to your little bugs and 6x. As you part ways with the junkie, he flips you a five-inch fly with huge red eyes like his own. He staggers off, and with a booming laugh says, "First one's free kid, now shorten up that leader and get in there!"
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FeelioBabar
Trad climber
One drink ahead of my past.
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May 13, 2010 - 01:51pm PT
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He did...and thanks. Was yours for Tom as well? Good stuff. cheers.
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philo
Trad climber
Somewhere halfway over the rainbow
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Topic Author's Reply - May 13, 2010 - 02:04pm PT
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Fly-errrr
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Anastasia
climber
hanging from a crimp and crying for my mama.
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May 13, 2010 - 02:54pm PT
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I really like. :)
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The Wolf
Trad climber
Martinez, CA
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May 13, 2010 - 03:45pm PT
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"Still"
If you're still, you can hear the lightening strike the wishing star as the quarter moon dances across the crimson horizon of late October.
The clouds fall, piece by piece an apocalypse for life forms of a different dimension.
When it rains, emotions evolve. At the end of and era time slows down. Investigate the wind and witness the future erupt. Reality commands a focus of illusion. Voices are barriers in the communication of thought. Words are not experience, volume is not wisdom. Time and space are important yet don't exist. Life is a paradox a confusing dilemma, but it all becomes feeling, and you can feel the thunder roll if you're still.
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Chiloe
Trad climber
Lee, NH
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May 13, 2010 - 05:16pm PT
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Random poetry I've written lately sounds more like this.
Table 1: Mixed-effects linear regression of mean winter temperature on year (1970–2007), to estimate common and region-specific trends. Model with unstructured covariance matrix fit by maximum likelihood, based on n = 646 winter temperature means (38 years × 17 weather stations) in rural regions of nine states.
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MisterE
Social climber
Across Town From Easy Street
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May 13, 2010 - 05:50pm PT
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Edit: This one is better...
Jazzy Woodpecker
A woodpecker that lives somewhere near
has taken up an odd habit.
It flies around to various metal objects,
tapping out its once-wooden staccato beat.
A small aluminum plate attached to a telephone pole, 3492234765,is the tinny high-hat, then
a quick flight across to the road "T" sign for a 10-minute slam of the mid-cymbal range,
so off it must be jazz.
I get out my drum, laughing
and begin to play along
Flickerbird with Ashiko accompaniment.
The little bird seems to prefer
the 10-12 fast beats with a 16-20 beat spacing.
Soon, it flies away.
I set down my drum,
thinking the show is over.
Then: From the huge steel powerline supports
above my property,
I hear the structurally amplified
and familiar rat-tat-tat-tat!
For the phonic finale:
amazing reverberation for a smallbeak's effort.
-EW, Nason Ridge 2005
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cowpoke
climber
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May 13, 2010 - 06:20pm PT
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Table 1: Mixed-effects linear regression of mean winter temperature on year (1970–2007), to estimate common and region-specific trends. Model with unstructured covariance matrix fit by maximum likelihood, based on n = 646 winter temperature means (38 years × 17 weather stations) in rural regions of nine states. beautiful prose. for me, it was a latent variable model, today. with figures!
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Largo
Sport climber
The Big Wide Open Face
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May 13, 2010 - 07:16pm PT
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Southern Paiute Indians first appeared around 900 A.D., fleeing the desert lowlands for the water, plants and game in Red Rock’s winding canyons. Roasting pits, grinding holes and countless petroglyphs still recall the hunter-gatherers, nothing so much as the dark shadows stretching off 8,154 foot high La Madre Mountain, so often featured in the Indian’s fiercesome rock art. These shadows, now stretching over Hannah’s Place, have not changed in twelve hundred years, and reminded Rose, as they once reminded ancient Paiutes, that light may boast of blinding speed, but shadows always catch it in the end.
From Resistance
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Norwegian
Trad climber
Placerville, California
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May 13, 2010 - 08:02pm PT
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your soul is your own worst critic.
-morphed from a robert hunter lyric in eyes of the world.
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Anastasia
climber
hanging from a crimp and crying for my mama.
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May 13, 2010 - 11:02pm PT
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Your beauty is a truth that can't be hidden. All lies look foul when placed upon you.
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philo
Trad climber
Somewhere halfway over the rainbow
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Topic Author's Reply - May 13, 2010 - 11:33pm PT
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In 4X4 daring with rock music blaring and bright headlights glaring at dazed bovine staring we Gunnistoners blew brazenly into North Chasm View campground unerring. If there had been any witnesses, it must have seemed like the four riders of the apocalypse had come for an extended stay.
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