LIaDVp18: Llao and Skell

September 8, 2004

Another update on Rabbit v. Stan. Stan maintains that Rabbit showed up at the campground wasted, and there was never any fight over keys. Rabbit was simply acting like an asshole, saying nasty things to Dru, and Stan socked him in the eye. While that portrayal may seem to cast a better light on Stan, it really makes the whole thing that much more idiotic. "You saying something about my woman?" Pow. So fucking dumb. Another notch down for Stan, or at least his social skills. Remind me never to say anything bad about Dru.

So when I returned from Portland, half of Rabbit's stuff was gone and I figured something was up. The next day I came home from work and it was all gone and there was a note: "Hey man, you are a great fella ... The Rabbit just needed some space and I have my own room up at the Rim dorm. I also didn't want to put you in any uncomfortable situation or burden on you." And so on. He felt like staying here would put a lot of bullshit on the room and unfairly burden me. I have to admit, when I came home to a cleaned out room, I was a little sad and a little hurt. I guess I wanted to hear it from him, but I can see why he just cleaned out and took off. I'm going to miss the Rabbit and coming home to his nonsense sleep-talking or nonsense awake-talking for that matter. I think he has some stuff to work out, but don't we all. Mostly I just think he was a good-hearted guy a little bit overwhelmed with the world. Another fugitive. I just hope he stays out of trouble up at the Rim. Shortly after the fight, Rabbit told me he regretted the whole thing happening and the way he reacted. "I'm just not any good at handling those types of situations." I think that's the most honest thing the Rabbit had said to me, and there was a certain amount of universal frustration behind it. Like he was speaking for a lot of us up here on the volcano. We're all just not any good at handling those types of situations. Fill in your type accordingly.

Portland was great. I met with Noel and Holly downtown and we all went to Sinferno Cabaret with two of their friends. It was wonderful to catch up on all of my friends activities. Anthony now has a breathalizer in his ignition so he has to blow into it to start his car. Funny. He gets other people to blow into it, but it shuts off randomly and if you don't blow into the tube again it won't restart. I guess one time he got stuck in a McDonalds drive-in. Another time Noel had to blow into it at 1:30 in the afternoon after a night of drinking, because his breath was rejected.

Sinferno was good. We did shots of tequila and watched fire dancers, strippers, and gogo dancers covered with tattoos everywhere but their boobies. Once again, we witnessed Liberty, an acquaintance from parties, strip but this time in front of a massive audience. It sort of made me proud of good old Liberty. She's come a long way since the Union Jack, where we first saw her strip shortly after we had first met her at a party.

September 10, 2004

I've all but decided to finish out the season. I was talking with Stan last night - we stayed up late the last two nights bullshitting and drinking wine, for which I've paid with very sleepy days - and sort of cemented my attitude toward the end of the run. I figure I have about two weeks left in the boat season, during which I'll be working almost everyday: Covering the ticket shack and dock now that we're shorthanded and then breaking down the whole boat operation before the winter snow comes and buries it all with 44 feet of white.

With that all happening so quickly, I had this strong feeling of incompletion at the idea of two more weeks of work followed by packing up and driving home. I'm not sure if a sense of completion or closure will come if I stay the full season, but I think it's more likely. As Stefanie said, I'll have to make that sense of completion happen for myself. I just need some more time up here. I want there to be an ending.

The night before I was talking with Dru, and she was talking vaguely about how this lake has made her face up to some demons. She made a point that had been kicking around in my head for a while: There's a battle going on in this volcano. That energy of tens of thousands of years of molten rock gnawing and burning its way out of it's caves only to ultimately explode in a matter of hours, giving way to the most pure, clear, tranquil waters in the country - it doesn't go away because we planted a lodge and some campsites around it and called it a park. We're chained to that battle for months at a time, staring into that glassy deep blue surface, surrounded by the geological story of chaos and fury and the underworld bursting forward and leaving its signature in the rocky rim like cave paintings. It takes its toll. Makes you think and feel deeply. Makes some drink, some screw, some write, some leave running away. Fugitives from the world hiding out in the battleground of the Klamath Indians' greatest gods: Llao, of the underworld, and Skell, of the overworld.

So I guess I've been thinking a lot about where I am in life and the world and trying to find a box to put this experience in, however pointless that may be. Dru said that nobody comes to a national park unless they're hiding from something, stalling, or they have some shit to figure out. I guess I'm here for a combination of the three. I spent the previous two years in polarized periods of extreme anxiety and peaceful escape. The nasty pains of change and development and destruction, followed by the calming quiet of introspection and thought. I don't know where I'm going next yet, but I've come to understand that this is what we're all about. Llao and Skell. Explosion and dormancy. Violence and peace. And in the middle we get Crater Lake National Park, where the retirees are outnumbered only by the drifters, or maybe the English majors, who ride alongside the restless excitement-seekers until someone pukes or pisses in a garbage can or gets punched in the face or gets thrown in the Medford drunk tank. No tears until it's gone, and then we cry. Wehayo.

Dru and Stan are exasperating, but valuable friends. Some nights it's all I can do to listen to their tirades about organic clothing, or Korean ceramics, or why Stan loathes Australian wine and pop music. They told me the other night that I'm more of a high brow intellectual than I let myself admit. I guess I just hate that cliche, the snob. But their company is usually so rewarding. I almost would say I like them more as friends than I do as people, as awful as that sounds. Dru is knitting me a hat. Stan gave me a Sake set. The three of us talk to the end of the bottle, reaffirming that it's okay to be people like us. People with educations both cherished and worthless, with no immediate goals or passions to deliver us neatly into careers or families. Resumes that read like David Lynch films. Non-people, really.

Stan and Dru have so many homes they really don't have any. I've turned my back on my home, finally fed up with it like an abusive parent. We both know we have development ahead, and challenges internal and external we'll have to face (Stan has known for years that his future involves a PhD and teaching in academia, but he can't quite bring himself to enroll, not just yet). We were talking about how you try to define yourself with possessions, but ultimately can't because in the end, it's just stuff. Dust. But debt! Debt defines you. An animal's only meaning in life is to survive. To feed and fight off starvation or danger. But for humans, that comes in the form of debt. It's the one thing you really own because it defines everything you do. It's the predator you avoid and the empty belly you feed. In modern living, there is a school of humanity cast and possessed by what they owe. Stan and Dru own so few possessions, and if they disappeared tomorrow, most human institutions would barely notice. But they owe a collective $50,000. The world keeps tabs on them because of it. It's the most concrete proof that they exist. These are the discussions I like with Stan and Dru, moreso than about say, the evils of Sprite.

Rabbit remains gone, and I remain with a ginormous suite of a room. Four chairs. Three beds. Two closets. It's beautiful. If I only had a spa in the middle of the floor, I'd feel like I'm at the honeymoon suite.

Speaking of fabricated laps of luxury, I think I've finally converted the ticket shack into a place a person can really enjoy. I went to Klamath Falls with Stefanie and Dru for Vietnamese food and shopping. I picked up chips and salsa, sandwich materials and a little cd player, which will go back and forth from my room and the ticket shack. Today we sat in the shack's twin folding chairs, afternoon tours cancelled for engine troubles, killing time with jazz in the background and a lunch of hummus and falafel. "Now we're finally getting serious about this place."

By they way, still a vegetarian. I'm moving toward a philosophy behind the whole thing, trying to hash out what that surge of guilt really did to me after I ran over those animals that week. I've sort of settled on the idea that while I'm not so willing to state that eating animal flesh for subsistence is immoral, I have a feeling that it shouldn't be taken lightly. In other words, eating wild fish and eggs for protein isn't so bad. Eating a 16-ounce T-bone off an animal born and raised to die with a rod to the brain may not be justified. I guess my approach is that eating meat to survive and live healthy is okay, but to a large extent, it really isn't necessary and should be minimized if we want to be good stewards. So shouldn't I try to minimize the amount of death and suffering I inflict on other animals if I can? If I'm starving in a third world country and eating a goat is the only way my family can survive, of course that's justified. Chaining a baby animal to the ground so its muscles remain tender, then bleeding it to death because it tastes so damn good? I can't do it. Call it a moderate view of vegetarianism. Pro-choice version of veganism. A rationalization behind wearing the occasional piece of leather or a steady diet of salmon, without the guilt of driving by a cattle farm and looking at those beasts with that look on their faces that seem to say, "I know what you're gonna do to me, and I'm not thrilled."

In the last two days, I had and lost a strong prospect of a temporary teaching job in the winter. Roger, acting B1, recommended I look into an 8-10 week gig where he used to teach, filling in for an English teacher on maternity leave. I got really excited about it, and learned that as long as the school initiates it, an emergency certification can be obtained for temporary status. But then I called the principal and he declined, saying the spot would be put up for application by certified teachers only. He gave me some advice for getting a quick masters. But man, do I not want to spend between a year and two years getting a masters in education. I just don't. Especially without knowing if I'll even be able to stand teaching. That's why this job would have been great. Play English teacher for a couple of months, and if it sticks, head to grad school right away. But no such luck.

An afterthought to the whole nature of the lake: I've found in the last few years, and solidified while working on the lake, that from water I can derive a tremendous amount of calm. Whether it's in the freezing cold water swimming, gently rocking on a boat or dock, or just staring out into small whitecaps, I've developed a special adoration for the water. It's worth keeping in mind when I look into my next job. Maybe this whole boat thing is an opening into something I could really find fulfilling.