"Objects of Desire" Sentence Response
The video above depicts the colossal skeleton of a thirteen meter Bryde's whale on display at the Charles Darwin Research Station on Santa Cruz Island.
Long has the whale been a creature that has captivated and mesmerized. Elusive in nature despite their immense size, the gentle giants have embodied the vast and mysterious essence of the cosmos.
I gazed intently at the repeated curvature of ribs that had once encased the gears and levers that brought life to the ancient, milk-stained bones in front of me. It struck me, at one time crimson veins snaked through now absent tissue and cartilage, pumping the gooey essence of life and spirit through this beast. I have never come in contact with a whale. Perhaps this is why it seems almost incomprehensible that something so large could actually exist. Yet, here I was, gazing down in wonder at the foundation of this Bryde's Whale who met its end far too soon. Life, existence, in that moment seemed so incredibly small. It dawned then that these cloud-tinged bones bared stories and knowledge of a time far before their construction. Within them, the mysteries of life's origins and the boundless phenomena of the universe prevailed.
The relative physical dimensions of the structural body therefore, seem to remain as the primary basis to explore and interpret the vastness of the world.
The dust-filled Marmot tent has taken on a role of companionship, indistinguishable to that of the childhood friends that swung from the branches of old apple trees and dug fingers into small pits in the mud in a nearby creek, searching for Crawdads and minnows. The cold, steel poles and crosshatched fabric have bounced and swayed along countless roads in search of new bits of soil to settle on. Disassembled and reassembled along river banks, between towering pines, and desert canyons. This tent is the physical representation and reminder of beauty in subtlety. The fingers and toes crusted in rust, scorching sun heating skin and nylon. This tent acts as the origin of memories; of echoing howls of coyotes, a hollow and sorrowful song of distant lovers. The tranquil haze of a full moon over cliff walls, the deep aroma of wild sagebrush at dusk. It oozes the smell of smoke and burned coffee grounds, of yearning for the childlike giddiness that comes with the exploration of Earth's natural playgrounds.
Each time melted cheddar oozes out between the crevices of scalded tortillas and invades my tastebuds, I am immediately transported back to this moment. It was the fifth day of a grueling journey into the outback with a group of fifteen women. We each were seeking the growth and strength that came from using nothing but our legs to move our bodies and sixty pound packs glued to our backs, up and over the rocky peaks of the Southwest. It had been a particularly strenuous day, our morning had started just as the sun caressed the tips of the surrounding mountains.
The body is the primary mode of perceiving scale.
The video above depicts the colossal skeleton of a thirteen meter Bryde's whale on display at the Charles Darwin Research Station on Santa Cruz Island.
Long has the whale been a creature that has captivated and mesmerized. Elusive in nature despite their immense size, the gentle giants have embodied the vast and mysterious essence of the cosmos.
I gazed intently at the repeated curvature of ribs that had once encased the gears and levers that brought life to the ancient, milk-stained bones in front of me. It struck me, at one time crimson veins snaked through now absent tissue and cartilage, pumping the gooey essence of life and spirit through this beast. I have never come in contact with a whale. Perhaps this is why it seems almost incomprehensible that something so large could actually exist. Yet, here I was, gazing down in wonder at the foundation of this Bryde's Whale who met its end far too soon. Life, existence, in that moment seemed so incredibly small. It dawned then that these cloud-tinged bones bared stories and knowledge of a time far before their construction. Within them, the mysteries of life's origins and the boundless phenomena of the universe prevailed.
The relative physical dimensions of the structural body therefore, seem to remain as the primary basis to explore and interpret the vastness of the world.
Through narrative the souvenir substitutes a context of perpetual consumption for its context of origin
The dust-filled Marmot tent has taken on a role of companionship, indistinguishable to that of the childhood friends that swung from the branches of old apple trees and dug fingers into small pits in the mud in a nearby creek, searching for Crawdads and minnows. The cold, steel poles and crosshatched fabric have bounced and swayed along countless roads in search of new bits of soil to settle on. Disassembled and reassembled along river banks, between towering pines, and desert canyons. This tent is the physical representation and reminder of beauty in subtlety. The fingers and toes crusted in rust, scorching sun heating skin and nylon. This tent acts as the origin of memories; of echoing howls of coyotes, a hollow and sorrowful song of distant lovers. The tranquil haze of a full moon over cliff walls, the deep aroma of wild sagebrush at dusk. It oozes the smell of smoke and burned coffee grounds, of yearning for the childlike giddiness that comes with the exploration of Earth's natural playgrounds.
The souvenir exists as a sample of the now distant experience, an experience which the object can only evoke
Each time melted cheddar oozes out between the crevices of scalded tortillas and invades my tastebuds, I am immediately transported back to this moment. It was the fifth day of a grueling journey into the outback with a group of fifteen women. We each were seeking the growth and strength that came from using nothing but our legs to move our bodies and sixty pound packs glued to our backs, up and over the rocky peaks of the Southwest. It had been a particularly strenuous day, our morning had started just as the sun caressed the tips of the surrounding mountains.
Eyes puffed and lids drooped with the beckoning finger of sleep, our hands mechanically rolled sleeping pads and stuffed items into the backpacks that had found a semi-permanant resting place over our shoulder blades. The air was chilled with unwelcome temperatures, before glimmering rays of warmth touched our rosy faces. The wave of rumbling water that would soon be poured over oats and powdered coffee signaled it was almost time to disembark. After a hasty breakfast, our paused voyage was again resumed. Hours of the repeated motion. Swinging arms and legs moved us across rivers and through valleys until we began the grueling climb upward. The careful navigation of jagged cliff-sides and raging rivers all in the blinding heat of the day required blind trust and reliance on each other.
I remember it as an exhausting day. Our initial milage for the day was high and we only had so much light before dusk struck. As night began to fall and the fear of hiking in the dark became an increasing reality with each passing minute, we at last came to the base of what was later deemed "Crystal Valley." The dread and fear that had previously consumed each of us was instantly replaced with relief. We had made it.
The valley was surrounded by towering, rocky cliffs and mounds that we had become acquainted with over the past five days but had not yet voiced our hellos to. Lush greenery speckled the ground before receding at the start of the alpine ridge. Hundreds of elk littered the area, slowly ascending the bouldered cliffside before they disappeared one by one over its edge. We would soon be following suite that next day. A coyote mother and her pups watched as fifteen, mud-caked and sweat drenched individuals hobbled into the valley. Her howls would later be joined by ours.
Camp stoves were unearthed from our packs and soon the quesadilla making was underway. The night was lit by dancing flames as we gathered around the stove pan. Rumbling laughter bounced off the cliffside, our bellies full on gooey cheese and the euphoria of our endeavors. The growth and resilience that came from the shared challenges we each faced on this entire journey united and created a bond I share with no other humans. We came out of this night closer and stronger than before, tackling the rest of the journey with a new vigor. The quesadilla, silly as it may seem, will forever act as a symbol of the incredible women, journey and personal growth this expedition brought with it.
The Columbine flower is an icon for the state of Colorado and as such, represents the people who reside in the mountainous region. The flowers are endemic to the area, and illegal to uproot since 1925. They are perfectly adapted to the unique environment of the southwest and can even be found at high elevations where it can be difficult for a large portion of flora to grow and thrive. Its light lavender and cream petals draw bees, butterflies and flower devotees alike, uniting all those who are familiar with the blooms. The blue/purple coloring of its outer petals draw similarity to the bright Colorado sky, the ivory white to the rolling clouds and the yellow to the prevalent gold mines that spawned the cultivation and expansion of Colorado, making it an unrivaled representation of the colorful state. This particular flower was found wedged between two large boulders high in a talus field at around 10,000 ft. The area was pretty void of plant life as the conditions for life higher in the mountains are lacking. I often find myself drawn to the flower due to its hardy nature and resilience in the face of extreme ecological conditions. P.S. Don't eat them they are poisonous.!
I remember it as an exhausting day. Our initial milage for the day was high and we only had so much light before dusk struck. As night began to fall and the fear of hiking in the dark became an increasing reality with each passing minute, we at last came to the base of what was later deemed "Crystal Valley." The dread and fear that had previously consumed each of us was instantly replaced with relief. We had made it.
The valley was surrounded by towering, rocky cliffs and mounds that we had become acquainted with over the past five days but had not yet voiced our hellos to. Lush greenery speckled the ground before receding at the start of the alpine ridge. Hundreds of elk littered the area, slowly ascending the bouldered cliffside before they disappeared one by one over its edge. We would soon be following suite that next day. A coyote mother and her pups watched as fifteen, mud-caked and sweat drenched individuals hobbled into the valley. Her howls would later be joined by ours.
Camp stoves were unearthed from our packs and soon the quesadilla making was underway. The night was lit by dancing flames as we gathered around the stove pan. Rumbling laughter bounced off the cliffside, our bellies full on gooey cheese and the euphoria of our endeavors. The growth and resilience that came from the shared challenges we each faced on this entire journey united and created a bond I share with no other humans. We came out of this night closer and stronger than before, tackling the rest of the journey with a new vigor. The quesadilla, silly as it may seem, will forever act as a symbol of the incredible women, journey and personal growth this expedition brought with it.
The souvenir reduces the public, the monumental, and the three-dimensional into the miniature, that which can be enveloped by the body
The Columbine flower is an icon for the state of Colorado and as such, represents the people who reside in the mountainous region. The flowers are endemic to the area, and illegal to uproot since 1925. They are perfectly adapted to the unique environment of the southwest and can even be found at high elevations where it can be difficult for a large portion of flora to grow and thrive. Its light lavender and cream petals draw bees, butterflies and flower devotees alike, uniting all those who are familiar with the blooms. The blue/purple coloring of its outer petals draw similarity to the bright Colorado sky, the ivory white to the rolling clouds and the yellow to the prevalent gold mines that spawned the cultivation and expansion of Colorado, making it an unrivaled representation of the colorful state. This particular flower was found wedged between two large boulders high in a talus field at around 10,000 ft. The area was pretty void of plant life as the conditions for life higher in the mountains are lacking. I often find myself drawn to the flower due to its hardy nature and resilience in the face of extreme ecological conditions. P.S. Don't eat them they are poisonous.!
Nostalgia cannot be sustained without loss
(I have included multiple photos/videos here as a timeline of sorts)
Over this past summer I was starting the journey of training for my second half marathon which involves the process of slowly building up and increasing milage. On my daily route, I came across a low hanging bird nest. As my milage and endurance grew, so did these birds. It became a ritual to stop and check in on the nest and I watched as the three eggs hatched and the birds grew. Their feathers sprouted from their peach hued skin and their tiny bodies began to grow into their bulbous eyes. One of the babies however, was not growing at the same rate as the other two. Its feathers remained sparse and frizzy, its eyes swollen and protruding from its undersized skull. Its movements were sporadic, desperate for the breath of life to come along and inflate its lungs. As the two grew stronger with each passing day, the third regressed, sinking further and further into itself. Until one day, only two remained. I was deeply saddened by the loss, taken by surprise from the cold and harsh reality of the natural world. I often forget its brutal and hostile nature. Life is ferocious, unforgiving and not for intended for the weak-hearted. As the two chicks continued to swell in size, and develop the essential features to flap their wings and attempt the most significant moment of their lives; flee the nest, I myself was doing the same for a far less monumental moment. I was down to a few weeks before the thirteen mile run was to take place and I was desperately trying to get in as many miles as I could before that blaring alarm sounded and a hoard of racers would leap and bound for the finish line ... and free beer that beckoned at the end.
One morning while out on the usual route, I stopped by the nest and the feathered friends I had become all too familiar with, only to find it empty. The time had finally arrived and their instinctual urge to glide through the unfamiliar terrain they had watched on the sidelines had finally overpowered their unease. I am only saddened to have missed the moment.
The distant tune of chirps and zestful song erupted in the air as I turned away, and I could only hope that these were the sounds of my winged companions.
I often catch myself mystified with the intricate dance of the birds and their bewitching songs, finding parallels between their journey and my own.
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