A Postcard from Altitude...

The altitude mentioned in the title? To be specific, give or take 7500 feet above sea level. The San Luis valley of Colorado is several things: the headwaters of the Rio Grande River, the highest farmland in the nation, and for the time being the place I'm calling home.

A post or two back I spoke of the run hauling my stuff up the mountain in a U-Haul truck. Not the first time I'd made such a run, but I free admit it had been a long, long time since the last such adventure. End and all was that the wind eventually moderated, the road ran smooth, the noble beast of burden who had battled the wind for me pulled the mountain pass into the valley without incident. The truck was unloaded and with a sincere thank you returned to rest with twenty of its' brothers awaiting someone desiring to make a load going the other way. I and the contents of my life arrived safely.

Where did I arrive? After getting settled in and taking the time to truly feel the place the best description I can offer is that I arrived  in a place where it feels as if thirty years fell away crossing the mountains, years known to they who live in the lowlands but unknown to this place.

The total population of this region is best described as sparse, at most maybe fifty thousand souls spread across a region comparable to the size of Los Angeles. It took some getting used to, but the longer I'm here the more I value the quietness of this place. The roar of humanity is all but absent, blocked away by the majestic mountains that completely ring the valley.  This is a good place to think.

There is a reason the population is sparse. The land itself is high desert, harsh and demanding. Where the people and the culture remind me of my childhood home in southern Idaho the land itself reminds me more of the Mojave desert than anywhere else. Those native to this place, those who adapt well to this place? These must be some of the last home to that indescribable spirit which is the essential American. Many of those native to this place are of Hispanic descent, and yet they and the Anglo seem to share that same sense of restrained pride that allows them to coexist in harmony.

How long will I stay here? I don't really know. What I do know is that while I'm here I'm going to be  working with my editor (who lives here, the original reason I came up the mountain) to take my fiction to market. After taking the measure of the place for a couple of months I've realized this place provides a unique opportunity to take advantage of the quiet and the comparisons to add to my thoughts on the Third Reality of Man.

In the original scheme of things (now grown and mutated, of course) the intent was for the writings to provide a smidgen of operating capital to begin the establishment of an intentional community dedicated to the needs of the ever enlarging population of adult autistic who will be outliving the parents who oversaw their lives.  To speak to those plans is a bit beyond the scope of this little postcard, that would be an extended tour of solar powered green house agriculture (where many willing hands can earn a living tending plants, herbs and spices, that grow in other parts of the world). Such specialty food stocks have the potential to generate the kind of revenue needed to alleviate the crushing financial burden of providing the needed care. The ambition to devise a way for them to live a dignified existence remains very much an ongoing cause, but more on that later. For now it is one step at a time: get the writings to market and trust providence will favor the intent with a degree public support for the cause.

That said? Well, with that said what's left to say? That life is sweet and challenging and it feels good again? Yea, that's about it.

Catch ya'll later, I've got fifteen characters hanging in editorial limbo and it's time to go back to work.

Thirty Seconds Over San Francisco...

I have a favorite blog I follow, kind of a tabloid offering really: pretty girls harvested from across the web who don't suffer from any excess of modesty, and appearing alongside the pretty girls a variety of other articles and essays, offerings from the digital domain on a wide range of topics, things to think about.  Like I said, a tabloid. 

Several weeks ago I followed a link to a commentary on an essay  that kicked off a quite a discussion in some circles.  The work is the observations and musings of a woman who left New York to go to San Francisco with the specific purpose of observing a bdsm porn operation producing some of the most disgusting content available on the web.  I'm not going to speak to her descriptions of the porn, what she describes is solidly in the category of death-eater grade depravity and despair.

Nor am I going to speak to the thoughts the several commentators presented in the debate her essay inspired, specifically a discussion of the morality of presenting for profit sexuality degraded to bestial levels of brutality where the producers attempt to defend their right to contaminate the common reality on no more than the consent-to-abuse of those who participated in the production.  I'll leave those subjects to those who've already engaged with them.  No, I’m going a bit deeper into the reasons for such obscenities.  There is a  reason, and until some effort is made to expose that reason it isn’t likely much will be accomplished by way of attenuating the obscenities, much less any enduring healing.

Perhaps at this point you’re thinking something along the lines of  “isn’t it rather presumptuous of you to proceed from such assumptions?  And anyway, what makes you think you, who are not any part or portion of those people’s world, what makes you think you’re qualified to say anything at all about how they earn their living?”  A fair challenge, one I’ll answer in the following manner.