The Watcher in the Water

   Few bikes out on the northern corridor of U.S. Route 3 today...in fact--judging from the wide berths and looks I got as I labored up the the lower ramparts of prospect mountain--I may have been the one. Winter excersize is a topic of extremes; either to hot and sweaty (dangerous) or wind chill thrashes your core and it becomes survival. Today I was blessed with a perfect balance, acquired by tuning to senses..
    Ernest Shackleton and the 20-odd survivors of the shipwreck, HMS Endurance certainly didn't wear deoderant, and for serious outdoor enthusiasts I might suggest it is an afterthought if even a care. The body sends information along many paths, but as I rode today it was the first time I got a chemical message to slow down...from my arm pit! I was torquing up to Week's State Park from Lancaster, NH and I caught the sudden scent of me. Normally, I do not notice and it is my hope that others are similarly oblivious, but the smell was sharp, and kind of intruded on my rhythm. At the same instant another sense, hearing this time, beckoned me toward a delightful crinkling, splashing sound away to my right. Intincts and senses are interwoven and the dounble punch found me turning through and over the black-burg roadside crust and skittering accross a crunchy plain to the source of the sound:

Watcher in the Water

 From this gurgling cascade I found sound to ease my mind, and discovered quite a rapidly diminishing heart rate along with the peace. It was not until I got home that I saw the almost Orc-like face peering back at me from place no man could lay. I v-logged some very cold thoughts (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zIYUswLwhgo) , overcame a decidedly imbalanced urge to jump in and got back on the road. (More to come...)

Lid Frost

If you are like me you hear a forecast high temperature of 7 or 8 degrees below 0 and your mind screams: "Hike!" So it was yesterday, that such a forecast was predicted, and I heard the call. It was easy to dismiss as bravado--who would know? But, after an hour where nothing else seemed able to compensate for the urge, I got ready.
Nothing is worse than to sweat in arctic conditions--the chill that seeks these moistened areas can shudder your core temp and cut a good time short--so I layered with care, alternating cotton, blend and full synthetic, I would regret a poly-cotton denim  jeans choice for my legs, but only a bit. Army issue arctic flap cap in olive drab and high top moccasins laced tight, over fleece and blended socks. Gorilla glove liners under a cheap pair of fleece gloves, a water bottle and I was off; a fact noted in my wife's raised eyebrow as I set forth.
Sub zero air hits the throat like a continuous menthol cough drop, and takes a while to find the right rate. Over the bunker, past the fox hole and I was on the Heritage  Trail in Lancaster NH, less than a thousand feet from my new home. Turning east, and setting a good pace brought a flush, so I quickly loosened the cap a scarf and tried to equalize pace with energy. The result was lid frost:


At the beaver dam, I snapped this (amazing what the suns light will reflect off of!), and continued for another half hour into the lower Kilkenny Range. The trails were groomed for snow machines and after so much easy pack, I plunged into a beckoning, but ill-used, side trail.
It was about twenty minutes into a morass of criss-crossing trails and steady elevation that I realized my phone battery/GPS was down to 1% power, for having pinged itself dead looking for a tower. No big deal, under normal conditions, but I was starting to feel a bite in various places--including my brain.

I stopped at a junction, guaged the sun and just wasn't sure...
It was like my inner compass wouldn't communicate with my 'commiter'. Discretion being the ever better part of valor, I turned onto a bearing that would have to cross my path...not even a hundred feet and I hit the snow machine trail and was heading home. A great hike, one breath of wind would have changed all that, though. The glory of sun on snow through frost-blurred glasses, put a glow on everything I saw on the way.

Tenney Hill Stroll

Found myself in the Dunbarton, New Hampshire back-country on snowshoes today, man, I've got to get out more. After summiting the 1/2 mile low slope,(http://store.usgs.gov/b2c_usgs/usgs/maplocator/(xcm=r3standardpitrex_prd&layout=6_1_61_48&uiarea=2&ctype=areaDetails&carea=%24ROOT)/.do) I meandered north and caught sight of a lonely, be-towered and unknown peak off to the east-north-east, I will guess it to be Nottingham Mtn. Tenney Hill summits just off the thousand foot wide swath cut by the powerline that saws through the three-town region (Bow, Dunbarton, Weare). These man-made views are a treble-edged pike: We need power, straight line plotting is economically prudent, and we would never get these vistas without them. Makes you wonder if the native peoples ever caught a glimpse of the terrain.

Enjoying the fresh powder under shoe, I poked down a ravine on my return circuit and came upon an unusual scene. A series of springs have created a flood plain of sorts in the area of the northeast slope of Tenney Hill, and here at the bottom I found a masonry turret base built up to about 7 feet and maybe 9 feet in diameter. It has two narrow windows framed (but missing) and a doorway. In the center stands a very old two stroke engine on a decaying metal stand. Below this a well hole has been dug and square-framed. I forgot my camera, but am curious about the story of this garrison quality turret-base or well house, planted on an open spring.

Accross the plain stands a 12 x 10 cabin with a bubble skylight and one single sash window. A rotted birch has stove in the left side wall and nature is the only recent occupant. As I peered in, some small woodland creature stirred and sought refuge deep under the single bedframe with its gnawed and matted mattress. A delapidated and partially collapsed woodstove in the near right corner sits opposite what may be an old writing desk. No other signs of man's presence were revealled. It all goes to show what can come of a stroll in the New Hampshire woods. As I picked my way to the road I was amazed at the diversity and sheer volume of tracks, urine and droppings throughout the basin, this must truly be and intersection in the wild.

Every shaman, medicine man, prophet, guru, yogi spiritual magi and genius admits freely to the value of isolation. In this human condition, a purer, keener, inward eye is opened, focused and interpreted which is normally only one of many sources of perception. It may be considered that we as the human creature, have been working diligently and soberly since the age of accountability (conceptualization of ourselves amidst equal beings) on the interpretation of reality, and that the theses of this research are the lives which we inhabit.

The recipe of our weaknesses, strengths, loves and hates, desires and shunnings, pains and pleasures is so intimate a story that to taste it must be to live it. When we accept a responsibility, assignment or idea it inhabits us, and our subconcious is enlisted to lay our skills and abilities most effectively to it's realization. So the caliber of the master's thesis must be.

It may be an intricate thumbprint, or a flash dump of all we know...perhaps a mirror adeptly angled to reflect the knowledge of the world on our topic with our voice as the narrator/curator of the precious knowledge of others. It may be a stream of consciousness mind dump that snarls and entangles our fore-brains like a spider who ejects silken strands but cannot manipulate them and is rendered bound by its own defense.

Whatever their source and form, isolation is the 'sorting hat' of ideas. Take heart, if we can concieve them we already know there is within a thread of sense--we have already hatched the understanding we need to express how we feel the topic is. Here is the trick for me, feelings do not obey rules, they just are and can blur, distract, confuse and blind while they simultaneously, enlighten, inspire, justify and energize. I have to ride the waves of how I feel in order to find the path to my own interpretation.

Excitement, verve and intensity are tools that perform the best for me--but these require desire energy and focus. Saying--or writing--these tumultuous processes opens my inner eye, and the isolation I have found in the wee hours of the morning, just me and crickets, and candles, are paying dividends in clarifying what I want my master's thesis to be--and what a deeper part of me needs it to be.

So, as the weeks race by, those of you who have seen my projects of last class will recognize that my evolving thesis will be posted on my website project. My time is split between finding what I want to expose and learning web tools I need to launch it into my portal. I am actually thrilled to have an open project to refer people to, and to shift and change and inject with creativity and life. The end of this project will hopefully never arrive, but a serious break is bound to occur after 2099, as I am focusing on the voices of the 21 century!

I have enjoyed sitting back and observing the dynamic and fruitful results of collaboration in this program, but confess that my quiet isolation has been my closest companion throughout. I share to feel, feel to think, think to write and write to share--this closed circle is a little bit lonely, but rest assured, every time I read you all, I feel you, and every feeling renders more access to who I am.

In a nutshell, your voices are entwined with the very roots of my thesis. Thank you.

The Interactive Thesis-The Evolving Thesis

“All good education must come to an end.” A falsehood, to be sure, as education is likely an eternal proposal. However, many milestones are passed as the journey progresses, and like rest areas on a road trip-some are essential. The Master’s Thesis is one of these crucial stops. With a little planning, the time at this stop can be a little like a fascinating day trip into a given region. Excitement builds as the mundane patterns of the freeway are left behind, the windows come down and local air fills the vehicle. Sights and sounds become more personal, intimate and alluring. When the little nook or cranny is found, curiosity is replaced with a nagging urge to plan the next diversion…

In education, especially the education of one’s own mind, research into a specific topic is an important way to develop the discipline to carry ideas through to fruition. It also renders in-depth knowledge leaving the researcher well suited to carry the theme to the event horizon, or cutting edge, of knowledge. So, a Master’s Thesis inserts itself comfortably between oneself and every other thing of importance in the given life. All normalcies are replaced with the ravening madness of a maven possessed. A truly exciting time of discovery awaits those so inclined to undertake this formidable yet rewarding expedition.

In order to fully extract all of the voices the internet’s connectivity has to offer, I am going to build my Master’s Thesis with the help of anyone who wants to throw in on it. The essential format of this evolving thesis is absolutely undefined. There are a number of ways to leave your thoughts: e-mail, comment here, comment on either of the website links (Writetime Inc. or maxquayle.com), or Facebook. So, I need to get the down low on utilizing tools such as Facebook, youtube and specifically the website builder on godaddy.com. Look for building excitement ahead, and thanks now for all your help then. Both sites are under construction, but links are up and comments available

Into the Ether

Reading a deep book. "The Lightness of Being", by Nobel Prize-Winning Physicist, Frank Wilczek, is at once about the most minute and finite particles conceivable and the grandest possible scale of all known multi-verses. His assertion is simple, there must be energy and forces at work in every dark corner of real time and space--the "ether", he has decided is the source of answers to a unification theory. Under the heady influence of his far reaching ideas I have been introduced this past week to the Ietherpad. This interactive document sharing program has been dry run through the professional writing cohort to which I belong, and I for one am reeling. If, like the theory of Quantum Chromodynamics, this tool is beyond my initial comprehension, I reserve the right to retract the following criticism at a point of enlightenment in the future:

As the various users log in and view/edit the same document, they all must choose a color for their font. The palette it only pastel, and some colors simply should never be blended. The stark white space in conjunction with the soft pastel fonts use sends my eyes blurring. Also, aside from the colors and a key on the side bar, no identification of who is who can be found. So, document editors must nest their name into the lines they change. All this is manageable, until one returns later to find their color is no longer available and they must start dialogue in yet another hard to see hue. Chronology is not readily discernible, but can be shown in a real-time tool which plays the changes in the order they were made before your eyes. In all, the technology captures a powerful group-editing freedom, yet there are enough hitches to keep students hopping. Unlike the ether, which is purported to contain a grand unification, Ietherpad may have a long hold in a beta-state.

For solid analysis of writing, the SWOT protocols are offered as sieve of knowledge. Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities and Threats loom as the spine of any successful endeavor. Intuitively speaking, any writer passes all four of these categories under their all-seeing eye (along with audience, tenor and a hosts of myriad details). Taking the time to brainstorm out this four part application is a guarantee to press a written piece into the next order of effectiveness.

4D and Surviving

It is highly recommended that all males who achieve the landmark age of 40, receive a careful, thorough physical examination. There is some sort of expiration date inexorably connected with this age, for if one does not seek said exam, many previously taken for granted body functions are prone to cease. For me it was my lungs, yep, both of 'em. Though my blog posts might outline a fairly active year of cycling, hiking and the general upbeat voice of a healthy middle-aged man, the truth is last year was the laziest of my life--and I have paid dearly.

The early onset hot, dry summer, sapped much of my cycling surge, and for what ever reason I only hiked one New Hampshire peak (Mt. Mcgalloway, in the way north country). The price for this relatively sedentary summer reared it's head as I sloughed through a difficult outdoor construction job this past winter. Fighting the teeth of the wind on New Hampshire's spit of coastline, Hamptoin Beach, proved to be a game of survival that nearly overwhelmed me.. During the often brutal and constantly raw winter months, undisciplined body slowly succumbed to a deep case of bronchospasm. Big deal right? Well, for me it was. At peak inflammation I literally could not walk across a room with out stopping for breath, and I often prepared myself for the moment (impending doom) that I simply would breathe no more.

I am now nearly recovered. The toll was two weeks lost wages, 20 pounds off of a lifetime max of 165 pounds, several thousand dollars in medical exams and treatments, and a few costly forays into the wild and untamed world of holistic medicine, which combined in me to create a new found and sacred appreciation for my health. Having lived the active, footloose life of a healthy, satisfied man--with on-demand stores of pure and potent energy--I never thought I would sit in a chair and not care if I got up at all on a given day. I shall never forget the weight of the cinder block on my chest each morning at 4 a.m. which commanded me to throw off exhaustion and get up before its weight crushed my lungs.

Today I am on about 80 percent normal, I sleep a little more in total, and a touch more deeply. I eat carefully, and more often--with an eye toward healthy and an inner ear listening for my body's cravings (cliff bars and bananas this week, grapefruit and broth last) I am off meds and feeling the old me in exhilarating flashes. My humor is well, and my family knows me again. I do not let a evening end without fervent appreciation for the health I have and a deal of fond hope that it may last as long as possible. I am a grateful man.