https://www.online-literature.com/forums/blog.php?58064-Nostalgia The largest classic literature discussion forum on the Internet. Read Write Teach Share. en Fri, 05 Jun 2026 23:34:08 GMT vBulletin 10 https://www.online-literature.com/forums/images/misc/rss.jpg https://www.online-literature.com/forums/blog.php?58064-Nostalgia https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?12417-Seven-and-a-half-miles Wed, 30 May 2012 12:27:40 GMT It's choppy, it's incorrect and it's exactly what I wanted. A little slice of my temporary insanity from last fall.

Seven and a half miles. That’s how long it took me to figure out I hadn’t done it right. I sat all night, wondering, yet laughing through everything happening. The dumb jokes, guest stories, co-worker whining and I still managed to get through it without asking a single question. We’d gone to the Potbelly and I waited. I resisted asking the whole drive back to the ranch. A few phone calls had been made, some of the news relayed, and still I wondered. I wondered all night. I made a few assumptions around twelve thirty, and after a somewhat graceful exit kicked myself on the entire walk out. I stole a few longing glances back, my mind conjuring up an image that stuck in my head for seven and a half miles. That eleven minutes worth of internal berating and almost fretful self-destruction brought about the need for some sort of redemption. Anything would work. I couldn’t drive the whole damn way to leave without seeing the person I’d come to see. I would not.

Wild scenarios began running amok in my head. I punched the ceiling, as was standard procedure in times of emotional strain. I couldn’t stand it- that image in my head of her laying there sleeping soundly, adorable and innocent as adorable and innocent can be. I had to see her. I locked the brakes and that was that. On my way back without a story to justify it. I patted my pockets down. My wallet. The excuse I needed. Shoved down between the seats to make it look like a simple mistake. Patting my pockets again to make the situation seem real, I had it. The perfect excuse for my return to Eden.

I parked in the turn off to the dump. I didn’t want to drive past the house again- it would look bad. I wasn’t sure why, but I didn’t want anyone to question my return. So I walked. It was a mostly full moon. Maybe not, but there was more than enough light to see my way pretty well. So I walked, contemplating being mauled by a bear, or maybe some other heroic thing that would make me seem . . . well, heroic.

I searched the ground, still trying to convince myself of my ruse. All the lights were off, save for the ones on the lodge porch. I glanced in her direction, wondering if she was up, still trying to justify waking her. Multiple possibilities passed across my brain’s window. None were seriously plausible. So I stood in the middle of the road, sweating in the forty degree cool, still making sense of the plan that had seemed so flawless ten minutes ago.

Panicking now, the moon burned me as I tried to work out the details. I couldn’t think straight in such a daze. The few drinks I’d had weren’t working- I needed another. I needed more. Forcing function without medicine is pushing the boundaries of disaster.

I gave up. I couldn’t very well just stand there all night. I had to work in five hours, I had a two hour drive home, and deep in my heart I knew I should just resign to failure. It was how I worked. Failure kept me on track.

**** the road. There was no way in hell I’d walk it again, rubbing in the scheme I’d developed to see her tonight. So the moon kept me company as I stumbled through the tall grass. Still burning, I took off my shirt to cool down, all the while the moon consoling me in my resignation.

Down through the irrigation ditches and up the hill, guided by my own melancholic indifference, my now muddied boots slipping and sliding about. Gaze lowered in shame my unusually short strides took me through the fence, slipping and sliced my leg on the barbwire.

Headlights shown down the driveway. Hastily re-applying my shirt, I just got it buttoned up as the Buick stopped. Aaron stuck his head out the window.

“Skinny, what the hell are you doing?”

A mush of verbs and nouns strung out on my tongue. And behind Aaron came the call that made my heart stop.

“Skinny! You’re here!”

“Get in. We’ll go find your wallet.”

Clambering in the back seat with not a care in the world I felt her arms wrap around me and her head rest on my shoulder with “I missed you,” whispered into my ear. Even with the big mess I’d created inside, the order that came made the moon blush in apology. ]]> skib https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?12417-Seven-and-a-half-miles https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?12282-Adieu-for-now Wed, 07 Mar 2012 22:19:00 GMT I haven't been on the forums in a long time. I realize this, yet I still don't feel like participating. I miss the discussions and whatnot, but I feel like I shouldn't even read the stuff if I am not going to contribute. I suppose I'm getting to be just another apathetic American who is going to ***** and whine about my country falling apart, yet still too lazy to get off my skinny *** and do something about it.

So, this is not a farewell blog at all. I am taking a break from a lot of things- alcohol is one, and in another twenty five days or so, I will be back in Wyoming with no internet for seven months. I haven't been myself for a while, and like I said, I have no justification for it. Maybe when I return I will have some thoughts on some things, and maybe even a story or two. To my few dedicated readers, I apologize for my extended silence. It is going to be a little while longer before I find my writing voice again. So, I bid you all Adieu for now. ]]> skib https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?12282-Adieu-for-now https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?12233-It-s-that-time-again Wed, 15 Feb 2012 00:46:45 GMT The time has come for my monthly blog. Funny, how recently I haven't had the urge to write. I've been on a roller coaster quite a bit, probably a downside to the more social nature of my work, but that's okay. The worst doesn't hit until bedtime, and then I can lay down and sleep the troubles away. Or try to anyway. The less sleep I get, it seems the loopier and less bitter I am towards things. I've had snow removal 4 days in a row now- that's getting called at anywhere between 2 and 4 am to go climb in a large machine and drive too fast on icy roads. Not a bad job at all. Just like what I am used to.

I've earned the nickname Little Pink Hulk (or something like that) due to my often sulky, upset or downright pissy nature. I go off every once in a while when things really get bad, and I even began throwing things once (on Christmas Eve, believe it or not!) and the nicknames involving 'Hulk' have stuck. I'm alright with it though, because I know it is true. I'm a pretty difficult sonofa***** to get along with most of the time.

Even though summer is several long months away, I am contemplating my plans. My main option got screwed. I was planning on going to work on another ranch up north of the one I was at, but in a conversation earlier with him he informed me that he had sold most of his herd and was now a yearling operation, which cut down on the workload by about eight months. He no longer needs my help, and seeing as I was counting on that option to get me back to my normal state of being, I have to find alternate plans. I do not want to work at the resort over the summer. With rent and truck payments and funding my ever empty belly, my paychecks go a lot faster than I am comfortable with. I want to get back to something that I can actually put some money away. I had an observation the other day about how things go- right now, I am making operators pay. I am making more now than I have ever made, outside private non-taxable income. And I put more money away when I had worse income. I have partied hard and frittered money away and put more into savings than I make now when I don't party and am frugal. That just goes to show how ****ty the real world is, in my not so humble opinion. (I apologize, I've had a few today and am exceptionally bitter for a reason that is a mystery to most.)

Anyway, that's the report from your somewhat estranged (what the f*** ((considering the discussion I did not read on swearing)) does estranged mean, anyhow?) drifting hick. I've developed an addiction to flying down mountains with a bit of slippery board strapped to my feet, but never fear. The cowboy still dwells inside waiting for his time to rare his head and be obscene. ]]> skib https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?12233-It-s-that-time-again https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?12147-Sitting-out Wed, 04 Jan 2012 22:23:42 GMT I am forced to do something I sometimes long to do- sit down and do nothing. Sunday morning, I wanted to do nothing more than stay in bed and rest. ... I am forced to do something I sometimes long to do- sit down and do nothing. Sunday morning, I wanted to do nothing more than stay in bed and rest. I find it very strange how trying to stay busy is exponentially more tiring than constant, directed labor. But, Monday morning I was up and ready to hit the post holiday crowd-less mountain. I don't give a **** about snow conditions- I want to recklessly tear down the mountain without having to worry about clobbering some three year old their first time on skis. So I did go. Strapping in, I tore past the few straggling Texans still polluting my county and flew down the hill.

It was fixing to be a great day. I did forget to tighten my bindings down and had one almost come loose, but I caught it before any catastrophes and continued on my regimen of riding too fast and trying to avoid the patches of gravel.

I was headed to another lift that would take me to a different part of the mountain. I was attempting to pass a family that wouldn't care for my reckless carving, when a fellow snowboarder cut right in front of me, forcing me to turn. As I did, I saw a member of the family I was trying to pass fixing to occupy the space I was going to be passing through shortly. I tried to stop, and the result was my weight way too far forward and slamming my left shoulder into the ice. Had I been on anything steeper than level ground, I probably would have been fine. But, I felt the pop and let myself slide a ways whilst yelling obscenities at the top of my lungs. Nobody stopped. Nobody said anything. That same family even stood right behind me discussing things Texan's discuss, ignoring the guy that just faceplanted trying to avoid destroying their son. The kid stared straight at the ground as he snowplowed past nine inches to my left. So, I tried to shake off the fall, made sure my arm still moved, and I tried to get down the mountain. Thirty feet down the hill my head spun and my vision started going black, and my shoulder was starting to hurt. So I sat down and buried my face in the snow. The next thing I knew there were two ski patrollers next to me. They got me in a sling, put me on the sled and wrapped me up in a tarp, and that was the funnest ride I've had going backwards down the mountain.

The verdict is that I've got a grade 2 acromioclavicular separation. That's the term for a slight stretching and tearing of a ligament. I think.

Anyway, I'm laid up for a bit. Which really pisses me off, considering the next time I'll be able to ride might not be till February. ]]> skib https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?12147-Sitting-out https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?12122-A-case-of-(un)fortunate-nostalgia Sun, 25 Dec 2011 03:23:21 GMT I've been dreaming of Cherokee Park a lot lately, and I'm not sure why. I do miss it terribly, and the other night as I was falling asleep I had this flashback out of the blue of a Sunday morning gathering the herd off Goat Mountain. It is one of my more treasured memories with my beloved pony.


The dust from the brushing still hovers about the lean-to barn as I heave Hurcules, my saddle, down the stairs and towards my horse. He eyeballs me- not nervously, but knowing what is about to come. Tossing the bridle on the one dry spot on the ground, I chase him around the hitching post. It’s our morning ritual. I don’t have the time or inclination to train him to stand, so I’ll just let him snub himself up so tight he’s got nowhere to go.

He sighs heavily as he realizes he’s fallen for it again. Cocking a hip, he lets me toss the saddle up and cinch down lightly. I dodge the expected pre-breakfast headbutt as I go to bridle him up. He’s always cranky when I don’t let him eat before riding the mountain.

Dropping the halter, I grab his mane as he attempts to run for it. Grudgingly he takes the bit and stands while I finish cinching down. I’ve got my hand on the horn when he heads for the gate, now more than ready to go. Swinging up I just shake my head and settle back into the seat.

Throwing the gate wide, I let him trot alongside the river, keeping his gait just short of uncomfortable. Steering him into the water, I pull my feet free and set them on the swells on either side of the horn, not wanting to deal with soaking wet boots right out of the corral. Pausing for just a second to dip into my Copenhagen, he pulls on the bit, anxious to get moving. The sun is still hiding somewhere over behind Turkey Roost, casting a hint of pink into the otherwise clear sky. A few more brave stars peek down through the coming dawn, but they too are considering retiring for the day.

I let Pinto have his head for a few yards down the trail before turning him up the shallow side of Goat Mountain. Despite his harsh breathing, every time I ask him to slow down, he throws his head and prances about on the slope like a retard.

“Fine,” I mutter, picking our route but not asking him to slow any. The rest of the herd hears us coming and knows it’s time to head in for the week. Good old Scooter keeps close to Ducky’s shoulder as she trots towards the corral. Blind as he is, he’d never find anything without her.

A slight breeze sends me ducking back down into my vest. The pre-sunup damp right along the river is enough to give a good chill.

Back and forth along the ridge we go, slowly climbing higher above the ranch, pushing horses and getting ever closer to the peak of the mountain. For a moment, I stop and turn to look at the sunrise. The sun’s white hot brow is peeking up over Turkey Roost, casting its tender rays of light across the Cherokee Park valley. Running my eyes over the country I lost my heart to made me smile. The hills that were so familiar yet full of nooks and crannies of mystery called to me. The farther away I went in the world, the louder they got.

Luke’s place was still in the shadow, but I can now see that Lars’ hay meadows are getting close to ripe. And there’s Odie, right in the middle of them munching away on the maturing grass seeds. Making a mental note to go bring him in later, I turned back to my task. Down around the back of the mountain I trotted, making sure Dice and Scar weren’t hiding in the little bowl they loved so much.
Whistling now as the herd slowly moves down the mountain, I pressured them as much as I dared. One misstep on this slope and it was a long tumble to the river a hundred feet below. Pinto throws his head in annoyance, telling me he doesn’t appreciate the slow pace. He begins dancing on the loose gravel and pebbles as I wait for Shaw to plod down the steep trail, picking her way carefully to the bottom.

I wait until she’s safely in the river before I allow Pinto to follow. I tuck my legs up against the swells and lay back on his butt as he flies down the Vertical Seat Trail, hops the switchback and finally splashes into the river. One glance at the very intimidating hill we’d just conquered yet again, and I let him pick his way through the crowd of horses to his post, where I give him his breakfast and he headbutts me- just for good measure. ]]> skib https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?12122-A-case-of-(un)fortunate-nostalgia https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?12106-Diddly-Doo Thu, 08 Dec 2011 03:54:41 GMT I'm going to be selfish and write something beyond my typical one-a-month quota. I've still got half an hour till bedtime, and I've got another itch that needs scratching.

For the first time in a while, I am trying this whole writing thing without a single sip of whiskey on my tongue. I have no idea how well it's going to turn out, but whatever. I've got this notion that I might have had somewhat of a problem this last summer, considering there's a large chunk of my memory missing. I'm doing my best to clean up my act, which is quite a task considering all three of my roomies are heavy drinkers and two of them are consistently doing some sort of drugs. I've still got the urge, but my body is telling me that it won't tolerate much more of that ****. So, the battle to stay somewhat clean and healthy is going well considering the circumstances.

I'm still struggling with the whole loss of love thing, but it isn't nearly what it was. Today was the first time I've been on a horse since September. It was a short little bareback ride down the frozen river a few hundred yards and back. But it was a sorely needed respite from this responsibility-ridden lifestyle I've adopted for a while. It brought to the surface some of the feelings I've been trying to come to terms with. As much as I'm enjoying this new life of mine with all the socialization and constant entertainment, I'm beginning to miss my isolation. This will be the first winter I haven't spent at one ranch or another. When I lay down and go to sleep, the things I dream are about those times- saddling up and riding out in a blizzard, getting up four times a night and walking through the soft snow and silence to go check the heifers, and playing cards with the best friends a person could ask for. I know I won't be happy with anything other than that. ]]> skib https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?12106-Diddly-Doo https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?12092-I-Just-Don-t-Get-It Wed, 30 Nov 2011 21:21:31 GMT This may be a very sudden observation of things that have always been, or maybe I am not crazy and there has been an onslaught of the "I Believe in God/This is why God exists/I give my life to God" threads and blogs. I have no problem with belief or discussion of belief. Unless someone shoves it in my face and says "HEY! YOU! LISTEN! BELIEVE IN GOD BECAUSE I DO!" I pretty much don't really care. I don't have the knowledge or wisdom to argue or agree, so I just let those threads be.

However, what I don't get is where the hell people find this unshakable belief. Yes, I have heard of the first person accounts of hearing God speak in a thunderstorm on a mountain, of how the beauty and complexity of nature is proof enough, and about 'miracles' that could only be God's doing. Let me tell you a little story. A very short story, actually.

As a younger person, I used to struggle with the belief. I wanted to believe. I wanted there to be some reason to what seemed like a very chaotic, unreasonable life. I was lost. Not to say I am found today, but now I just like to consider myself somewhere slightly off course between points A and B. I digress- as a younger person, I struggled. I walked in the woods trying to spark up a conversation with God, I've sat on mountaintops in thunderstorms, I've tossed whiskey bottles off cliffs, I've discussed it with people, you name it I've done it. Lo and behold- here I am, faithless. That doesn't concern me. I don't think there's probably much forgiveness to be had for me. What I don't understand, is how people just out of the blue 'got touched by God.' When people say 'All you have to do is let Jesus into your heart,' it kind of makes me want to strangle a panda. Let me tell you something- I don't let **** into my heart. I've let people that I know into my heart and it never ends well. I'm not going to let someone I can't even have a conversation with in.

Another thing I don't get. (I apologize, this is turning into somewhat of an attacking rant. Please don't take it personally; I had a spark ignite.) People that just give themselves up to 'be in God's service.' That seems to me almost like pledging your life to the service of Dark Matter. We can't see it, we don't have any proof it exists, we don't know how it works, but we know it's there. As humans, we have reason and intuition. If we were created to serve God, why were we given the choice to do otherwise? I don't get it. I have never read the Bible, nor the Koran, nor the Book of Mormon. I never will.

And if I am ever supposed to serve in God's name, he better be willing to sit down and have a brewsky or two with me.

After that little tantrum, let me say this: I am not an atheist. I am not a theist. An easier way of saying these two things would be to say I am agnostic. I don't have enough proof or belief to go either way, though I tend to lean a little farther off the fence towards atheism simply because my attempts at faith never prove productive. ]]> skib https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?12092-I-Just-Don-t-Get-It https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?12062-Just-talking Wed, 16 Nov 2011 17:10:17 GMT I don't have a whole lot to say, really. I haven't written anything in a while and my fingers are itchy. I have been in the mood to write, I've had the inspirations, but I just haven't had the drive to put anything down; instead I just sit and listen to my emotion-equalizing tunes. Things have been somewhat melancholic as of late, not for any overbearing reason. Life is good, to be honest. I'm halfway abandoning my ways as a drifting hick this winter and attempting to be a ski bum. I moved from the ranch down to Winter Park last week for a job at the Winter Park Resort. It should be a good job. I get a free season pass and three days off a week, so I'm pretty excited about it. Kevin and I went skiing yesterday and I only ate **** 3 out of the 5 runs we did. It was a good time, and this winter ought to provide some good stories.

I deleted my facebook, finally. I've fought it and fought it, thinking 'maybe having it will help me stay in touch with that girl.' I gave up after over a month of silence from her. I reflected upon the fact that I've had approximately ten notifications since May, and that I got more grief than good out of fb-stalking the few people I cared about staying in touch with. So I ****canned the stupid thing, instead opting to stay on my favorite literature website.

This summer was the longest I've stayed in one place since I graduated high school however many years ago that was. It was a halfway decent summer, even taking into consideration that I hate my supervisor more than a little and that between my job and my detrimental coping mechanisms I destroyed my health. I fell in love for the first time in a long time, which eventually led to the detrimental coping mechanisms afore mentioned. But it was a good feeling while it lasted.

There were a lot of good times at the ranch. Other than my supervisor, the rest of the crew are a good bunch. Adam let me help him re-train a few colts that he wasn't able to ride, because of his bad back. I learned quite a bit from him.

It wouldn't have been a summer if there weren't a few crazy drunken nights ending in near peril, or at least damaged reputations. I can recall at least once standing naked at the drive-up liquor window at the Mangy Moose, compliments of losing a game of pool to a few cute cowgirls from the A Bar A dude ranch. Another night, somewhere around the 4th of July there was a street dance in Encampment directly following the rodeo. Naturally, I was fairly blitzed and feeling happy and friendly. By the end of the night so many people had bought me drinks I didn't know what to do with them all, so I tried giving them away. I sat down at a table with a couple of gals eating the sub-standard Bear Trap vittles. I tried offering a beer to each one of them, not realizing how wrong it could come off trying to give away open drinks. Luckily someone invited them to our branding one day a few days later and I was able to apologize.

There were a few others I'll leave out and attempt to keep a small part of my reputation intact.

Other than a small hope that I'll meet a nice gal here in Grand County, things should just be on cruise for a while. ]]> skib https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?12062-Just-talking https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?12035-the-latest-inspiration Tue, 01 Nov 2011 16:54:13 GMT Right on the edge of the cliff overlooking the river, he sat with the mostly empty bottle. With every sip the memories flowed. As painful as they... Right on the edge of the cliff overlooking the river, he sat with the mostly empty bottle. With every sip the memories flowed. As painful as they were, they were healthy. He'd spent so long suppressing them, trying to burn them out and all he'd done was inflame them. Now, sitting at the place every single one of those memories had roots he felt like he might actually come to terms with things. Was it four years ago? Five? Six? He couldn't remember when it was he'd first met her. He couldn't really remember much about his life before her. She'd been on the forefront of his thoughts for so long, it was almost like he'd been born with the malady of missing her.

Yeah, there had been other girls. Or other attempts rather. The two serious ones after her both ended up getting married to someone else within six months of the first date. Despite his serious hopes with the others, she always came back as soon as he realized they were gone. He began to wonder what it would take to move on. He knew he was a dumbass for being in love with her. At the time, it had been the thing to do. But now, however many years later, what good was it to hold on? She had moved on and gotten married, and regardless of the fact that she had sought him out to make amends he was still hung up on her. He knew he needed to let her go. For ****s sake, he wanted to let her go. He was tired of being on this rollercoaster to hell.

Shaking his head, he took another sip. He raised his head and looked at the sky, wondering, shook his head and averted his gaze, then peeked back up at the endless blue.

"You know God, I know I'm not the best child you've ever had." He stopped, looking around. Even in the middle of the woods he felt silly, like he was just some drunken crazy ******* talking to someone that wasn't there.

"I know I'm kind of a bad weather believer. I only pray when I need help. I realize that isn't exactly what you're looking for. Well, I guess I don't know what you're looking for anyway. But for whatever reason it seems to make me feel better to try and talk to you." Another quick glance at the sky and he kept talking. "It sure would be easier if I had a face to talk to. You know, for familiarity's sake." Another pause. He shook his head and took another drink.

"Yeah, I suppose you are said to work in mysterious ways. Sure as hell are mysterious to me, anyway. I know I've tried this a few times before, and never had much luck. Maybe I didn't believe in you then, and who knows if I do now. Hell, maybe I'm too scared to believe in you. But I guess if so many others do, there's gotta be something to it."

His mind flashed back to the time he'd sat up on top of a bare mountain in a lightning storm, begging to be struck down, screaming at God for some sort of answer. He didn't figure he would have been too happy with any answer but silence then.

"God, I'm sure you know this already. I need a definitive answer. I need to move on. I need your help. Why won't you talk to me?" His last words echoed off the mountain across the valley loudly.

"No need to get mouthy bud. He can hear you," he said to himself.

"Okay. You know I'm gonna need something pretty solid. You know what a stubborn ******* I am, so here's the deal. You know I haven't ready the Bible, but I do remember some story about some guy and a sheepskin asking for an answer. Here's my bargain."

He looked at the bottle in his hand.

"I know it would mean a helluvalot more if this were full, but, you know. didn't think of that soon enough. But here's the deal."

He looked out over the edge at the rocky hillside fifty feet below him.

"A fall like that should break this bottle. No way it could not. I'm gonna toss it. If you're listening but don't want to talk, that's fine. All I'm asking for is a bit of help finding you here."

Hesitating, he stared at the bottle, now somewhat scared of the deal he'd just offered. If the bottle didn't break, he would certainly have more proof that God was listening. If not, well, he was truly as alone as he thought. Glancing at the sky, he nodded, as if wanting to make sure God was watching and ready. Before he was ready, he tossed the bottle over the edge, watching as it fell from sight.

Glass exploded below. He didn't have to see the shards glittering like backwards rain to understand. Heart sinking into melting hopes, he slumped, his last resort at finding faith in something ruptured like the bottle of bargain. Rising to unsteady feet, he stared down at the river, allowing his eyes to fall out of focus. "That's that," he muttered as he stepped into nothingness. ]]> skib https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?12035-the-latest-inspiration https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?12033-more-complaints Tue, 01 Nov 2011 04:19:35 GMT music has always been my hiding place from my own thoughts. i can typically plug in whatever melodies negate the thought processes happening in my... music has always been my hiding place from my own thoughts. i can typically plug in whatever melodies negate the thought processes happening in my brain, or it gives me the calm i need to power through to whatever release can be had.
tonight is the exception. i am done at the ranch for the time being, and i have a few days to blow off before i head back into the hills for the next chapter in my scattered life. I am sitting here skipping song after song, artist after artist, hating myself for more reasons than i like to admit, the greatest being that i am missing someone that i was a dumbass for falling in love with in the first place.
i knew it was a bad idea. whenever Skinny gets the urge to fall in love, the best thing he can do is run in the opposite direction as fast as he can. I knew that four heartbreaks ago. this latest one damn near killed me at one point; not from rejection or anything like that- i was tearing myself apart from the inside. You know when you want something so, so bad that it physically hurts inside? I wanted to be in this girls' life so badly yet i was so terrified of s heartbreak i never really got to vocalize how i felt. Yeah, a stupid inside joke and a dumb little bracelet that was impossible to put on alone said a tiny little corner of what was in my heart. but, circumstances didn't allow for what i'd hoped. then, she ran off home to Virginia and I'm left licking my bleeding self-inflicted wounds.
Here i am, a full three months later, having spoken to her once and having left a few unanswered emails and a voicemail, i am still hung up on her. Please believe me- I want nothing more than to move on. i want her out of my head like she is out of my life. for one reason or another, I cannot get rid of the images she burned into my mind.
As you can probably deduce, not a whole lot has changed. ]]> skib https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?12033-more-complaints https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?11951-Wheee! Sun, 18 Sep 2011 00:44:06 GMT This is the best I can do with the time I've got. Due to the lack of excitement with my work life, this sort of highlights what was going on in my head. It is a mixture of fact and fiction, obviously the present tense being the fictitious part. Hope you don't want to cut yourself after you read it!

The bottle was heavy, giving me reassurance that I would be able to fall asleep peacefully tonight. The trip to the liquor store was almost more than I could tolerate. Smiling at the checker and not punching anything seemed to be a goal I would never achieve. Gritting my teeth, I was hard pressed to not scream until I was well out of town.

But now it was between my memory and I with our mediator, Mr. Jack Daniel. I perched on the tailgate, ripping the seal off as fast as I could. Jack always calmed my nerves, especially on nights like tonight. The first pull went down like a fresh serving of scours, burning and somehow making its way into my windpipe. I coughed hard, but before I was ready I took my next pull. My eyes closed in ecstasy, feeling the whiskey tentacles wrap around the part of my brain that caused all the problems. A bit of my reasoning went out the window, along with a bit more of my common sense. It made me think of the night in Cheyenne, the night we’d gone to the concert.

Her back had hurt so bad she was almost in tears. Despite the fact I was three sheets to the wind, I had wanted to cry with her. I wanted her to be the girl I knew she was- happy, cheerful, and loving life. Watching her sit there, in pain and miserable made me hurt. I guess drinking always puts me more in touch with my observant side. I could see that she was in fact hurting badly. I wanted to make it right. I didn’t care about the hundred thirty dollars I’d spent on tickets to the concert. It didn’t matter that I’d driven three hours just to get here. I was here to see her. Despite everything else, all I wanted was for her to feel better.

But, when we got the concert she was dancing up a storm. The enjoyment she showed made it all worth it. All the sleepless nights, all the wondering, the good dreams turned bad when I woke up; it was immediately worth it. She laughed and sang along and danced like she didn’t have a care in the world. It was then I knew I was in love with her. Logan could have not even been there as far as I was concerned. The talk we had about movies and music on the way home was epic. Even the little bit I remember, all we talked about was movies and music. I loved her even more two weeks later when I said “Kevin Costner” and she knew exactly the situation I was talking about. It was then she told me that I should come down to the ranch and see the guests. It made me feel somewhat warm and fuzzy thinking about it.

I opened my eyes and the sun was crossing the plane of the horizon. The golden blaze in the clouds was lost upon me for one of the few times in my life. All I wanted was for her to be here with me, watching time pass before our eyes. I wondered what she was doing. I figured that at eight fifteen she should either be close to town or there already. A reflection of my own experiences on a Tuesday night told me it was a Sundance night.

I took another long pull, knowing what kind of ******* I turned into at the Scumdance. I shivered at the thought of other guys treating her like that. I jumped off the tailgate, not wanting to think about it. A few paces around the truck, and I pulled out my phone. I needed a distraction. I dialed up Kevin. Six rings and no answer, he isn’t going to answer. I hung up and sprinted back to the truck, my mind spinning with memories. Jack hands me a bottle and offers more advice.

My mind flashes back to the day after the rodeo that I went home. I was exhausted. I couldn’t hardly keep my eyes open, even after a few hours nap on the corral porch. I’d promised I’d go to the hayride, but I couldn’t even imagine Monday morning after four hours of sleep. As I went to say good bye, she gave me a huge hug. I held on tight, not wanting to let go. I noticed her sister came up behind her, and with a small smile sandwich hugged her with me. That small detail with potentially giant meaning hit me later that week. Could that mean what I want it to?

It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t want anything to do with a lonesome ranch hand that lives too far away. I leap off the tailgate, landing awkwardly partly due to the sagebrush and uneven ground, but my buddy Jack has my head reeling with interference. Liquid sloshes in the bottle, a testament to the bit of my medicine already taken. Still though, the thought processes in my head are going strong. Her smile is still bright, and my heart pangs at the mere thought of it. Another dose of medicine might do the trick. I stumbled away towards the windmill up the road fifty yards or so. I don’t know what I’ll do up there, but maybe I’ll find the answer en route.

Sitting at the top of the windmill and watching the last few rays of daylight disappear at the peaks of the Continental Divide I was reminded of the night I’d tried to roll my truck. I’d damn near pulled an all nighter, getting to the ranch from the strip joint at three and getting up at six. I was exhausted, but I spent the whole day playing suicides with Logan, shooting signs, drinking and otherwise having a good old time. I was ready to go home by the end of the hayride. Logan was riding with me, and then she jumped in the passenger seat. I was ecstatic in her presence. I still had a slight buzz from my earlier meal from a bottle and kind of wanted to show off to this girl I had recently gotten to know.

The first few minutes down the road was fun. We had the music blasting, and logan was passing around the flask of Jack D. We were listening to Jackson Taylor, having a grand old time and laughing it up. My mind was spinning, not believing this girl was actually in my truck, drinking whiskey and having a good time. I drove, getting more and more confident by the minute. It never crossed my mind that I was getting too confident, nor that I was going too fast until the truck began to tip over. I remember distinctly speaking to the air vent to the left of the steering wheel “This isn’t happening. This is not happening.”

The truck didn’t have enough momentum to roll completely, but a car not on its wheels is a rolled car. I made sure that both logan and her were okay before attempting to move. They both were sort of laying on me, but I was still concerned.

We ran back up the road to catch the Suburban full of staff, telling them we needed Jeff. I walked back down and sat with Walter, discussing faith and the likes. I remember asking him to say a prayer for me. I was in shock, knowing that I’d made one payment on the truck I’d just crashed. One payment out of thirty. I was so concerned about losing my grandfathers trust. I remember saying “I’d rather be dead.” All she did was say “You don’t mean that,” all the while giving me a big hug. She could have been very upset with me. Had someone just almost killed me the second time I ever rode in their car, I would have been upset. But she wasn’t. she just gave me a hug with a promise she wasn’t mad, then went to bed.

I drooped heavily as I hung backwards off the windmill. My head merely inches from the rapidly spinning blades, I didn’t care. Jack had my back. I noticed someone down below. None of her features were distinct except her black hair. I blubbered at her, telling her not to leave, scrambling as fast as I could down the precarious ladder rungs. I vaguely remembered there not being any steps the last ten feet as my foot fell onto nothing but air. My other heel caught a support wire and dumped me on my face on the hard packed earth next to the mill pump shaft. Nose bloodied and eyes watering, I looked for her.

“Hey!” I called. Nobody answered. Staggering to my feet, I crawled through the little fence surrounding the windmill. I looked down the road towards my truck. A shadow was sitting on the edge of the tailgate. There she was! I staggered to her as fast as I could, feeling something in my leg poking unnaturally. I ignored it, wanting to hold her close. I swung around to surprise her, but the bed was empty save for the numerous old beercans and the old ATV tire. Hopeless, I sagged to my knees, having only enough energy to crawl into the bed and curl into a ball. A few furious tears worked out of my eyes, even with my inner cowboy trying to shut off that vent. Cowboys don’t cry.
I told him to **** off. I needed it. I sat up and leaned against the bed wall. I tried to cry. Something was broken. The tears that I’d wanted to get rid of moments ago refused to come.

“Come . . . come on . . . . you ****ers,” I muttered, crawling to the tailgate edge. A misplaced hand sent me tumbling to the ground. I laid there absorbing the situation. What I needed was . . . more whiskey. I found the bottle a few feet away and drank deeply. The entire world was spinning around me. I wasn’t going to give up until she left. I looked over and jumped when she was lying next to me smiling. Somewhere in the small part of my conscious brain I knew this wasn’t right. I covered my eyes and crawled away, halfway gaining my feet before falling again.

“No! Stop it Skinny! She’s gone!” I realized I was crawling through a heavy patch of sagebrush and stopped. There was no way she could find me here. I lay back , somewhat relaxing. I took another drink, admiring the way the moon evaded my focal point. Must take a lot of talent to do that . . .

Footsteps. I sat up quickly. There she was. I still knew she shouldn’t be there. I gained my feet and tried to run again, my shirt snagging on a particularly virulent head of sagebrush. I fell. I felt the nasty brush scratch up my face. Blood ran to join the already dried blood from . . . from what? I licked my lips and tasted the coppery crust on them. Where did it come from? I took a drink from the bottle I found next to me, and closed my eyes.

There she was. All beautiful curves and sensuousness. I invited her down with me. She took my hand and fell down onto the soft wool blanket. Her hands in mine we intertwined, smiling at each other, knowing there was nowhere we’d rather be. I kissed her forehead and pulled her close, knowing the North Park cold would get to her.

Her breathing slowed. It was funny how hers seemed to mirror mine. The prickly feeling of sagebrush tickled my face. I waved it away and went to kiss her. Her lips met mine, and I sighed, looking at the sky one last time and drawing as close as I could to her. I looked at her and saw her sleeping. I loved watching her sleep. The night I’d said my good-byes she’d dozed off. I’d just watched her for what felt like hours, entranced and falling deeper in love every minute. My eyes drifted closed, and I floated away to a somewhat content but confused sleep I knew I wouldn’t wake up from. ]]> skib https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?11951-Wheee! https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?11436-vomiting-words Thu, 10 Feb 2011 19:04:14 GMT In kind of a 'blah' mood today. Which is pretty amazing, actually, considering how the day has gone so far. I'm only in town for the next day and a half or so, until I head north again to help out withe calving in one cold place, so that I can later go to a colder place and do it again. I'm pretty excited to cut my in-town stay to less than two months. I digress.

This morning, I needed to go to the DMV to get my license renewed. Finally I won't have that "UNDER 21" statement in bright red under my birthday. So, I go outside to the actually sort of warm-feeling morning to start my truck. Back in December I purchased a 1999 Dodge Ram half ton with the 360 in it. I love the truck, despite all the problems I've had with it. It had a manifold vacuum leak, it's still got a leaky timing cover (so it constantly drips antifreeze) I failed my emissions test the first time, had motor mounts that weren't mounted to the motor, and a few other small problems. Nothing I haven't been able to live with. Until this morning. Five minutes before I had to be leaving, I tried to start it. 'click.'
'Dammit, truck. This isn't the morning to have this problem.' So, I ran out to the barn and grabbed the charger, then had to wrangle up seven different extension cords just to reach my vehicle. I set the charger for 'engine start' and waited a few seconds. four cranks later: 'clickclickclick.'
I nearly lost my temper, until my father told me to take his truck. So I did, and managed to be seventh in line at the DMV. Everything went well, so I decided to go to Interstate Battery and get mine checked out. Within a second of hooking up to my battery, they said 'Yep. It's dead. You need a new one.' I suspected this, but hoped that wasn't the case. So, a hundred twenty dollars later and my truck will almost start up just by thinking about it.
Anyway, life isn't too awful, I suppose. I'm not out of money (which is pretty atypical for me this time of year) and things are looking up. I regret not being able to prowl the pages of Litnet for another few months, but on the flip side I'll be making money to replace what I've spent thus far.

I was up in Cherokee Park last weekend, covering a few night shifts of calving for Mike and Niki, due to the fact they've both been horribly sick for two weeks. While I was there, Niki told me she had put in a good word with the Meyring family, up in Jackson County. The Meyrings are a five-generation ranching family, I believe the oldest in the area. Mike worked for them, (I'm pretty sure Lucy is his aunt) when he was a teenager. A few hours later, Mike told me that Lucy wanted him to train me so that I could go up there next month and work for her. Needless to say, I was pretty stoked about it. Having one of the most respected ranchers in Northern Colorado want me to work for her makes me feel like I glow. Maybe not quite glow, but that's a good feeling. And Lucy knows my current boss, Mark, on a first name basis. So if it so happens she wants me for the summer she'll be able to talk Mark into letting me go without a fight.

So, it appears things are looking up! All that hard work and tolerance for dorky dude ranch guests and putting up with grumpy old mechanics paid off! I finally have the opportunity to work for a big-time cattle ranch and learn everything I want to!

On a side note- last Saturday when Mike and I were out feeding the bulls, Mike says "Boy, Skinny. Something gave me gas."
I replied in my typical worthless fact type of way: "You know Mikey, a healthy person farts twelve times a day."
Some four hours later, after we'd gotten all our chores done, Mike looks at me and says: "Skinny, since we had that conversation I've farted sixty eight times." ]]> skib https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?11436-vomiting-words https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?11406-ahh-gotta-love-wintertime Wed, 02 Feb 2011 18:19:53 GMT There was a night back in early December when I was still at Big Creek I was restless. This was when the temperature kind of hung right in the 0 to... There was a night back in early December when I was still at Big Creek I was restless. This was when the temperature kind of hung right in the 0 to 10 below range for about a week. It was fantastic after the brutal week of 20-40 below we'd had previously. Anyway, it was about eight o clock, right around the time football came on. It must have been a Monday or a Thursday, because it was one of those stressful days during which you do absolutely nothing productive and feel like you've been walking around since seven in the morning and done nothing but drink coffee and talk about all the things you had to do. Anyway, I went and ate dinner in the cookhouse; more than likely some three week old pot roast leftovers that I dug out from underneath the moldy green beans Jane should have pitched back in September. When I was done, I moseyed back over to the bunkhouse and stood just outside the front door for a few minutes. Directly overhead I could see the stars behind a wispy cap of fog- everything else was tucked away out of my sight by the milky, cold fog that had just rolled in. Having not really left the ranch compound in a month or so save for a few trips to Laramie for a Papa Johns pizza, I tucked my hands deep in my pockets and began walking. Past the ghostly reflections of the vehicles in the small parking lot I went. The huge open door into the garage/warehouse/bird **** collection room loomed like a giant cave. Dark, silent, and terrifying.



I hurried along, prodded by the workings of my own subconscious telling me I should stay away from there. It's funny how when in the dark, alone and under dressed, the things you see and do every day will catch you off guard. Forget I just watched an exorcism movie an hour ago; I swear that hay rake just moved. Despite my imagination fabricating things out of nothing, I kept going. My own knowledge of the mountains spurred me on. Almost nothing moves in the dead of winter in Carbon County- the bears are hibernating, the lions don't come close to the ranch, and coyotes don't bother humans. Even with my own reassurances, I was still jumpy. I began wishing I'd brought a gun for a comfort handle.



The fog grew deeper. As I passed through the overhead into the First East hay meadow, I turned to look at the compound behind me. The light over the gas pumps that normally would blind a person that just crossed the state line seven miles away was a dim candle a mere sixty yards away. I took a false comfort in the fact I could still see the stars above me, and walked into the meadow. I knew I was in a wide open field, but the farther from the gate I walked, the more I felt entombed. The fog seemed to be getting colder and heavier as I walked. I followed the tracks made by the feed tractor. Eventually the tracks would take me out to the herd and the stack yard. My goal was to go all the way to the stack yard and climb up to the top and see if I could get above the fog. Only a few minutes later I felt the cold drop another few degrees. My bare hands couldn't hold up much longer, even buried in my coat. All I had were some uninsulated Mechanix gloves that seemed to amplify the cold rather than cure it.



I stopped and breathed the damp, frigid air for a moment, taking in the silence. I closed my eyes and thought back to how many night's I'd spent laying in the north pasture with that special someone, just listening. The coyotes would eventually start their nightly chorus, the nighthawks would swoop about eating the mosquitoes that ate us, and the occasional hardcore trucker would light up the night with the distant sound of a hundred miles an hour. It was that silence that brought us together.



The cold nipped through my coat and hastened my return to the bunkhouse. I chanced a glimpse in the return direction; even though I could only be a hundred yards or so out of the gate there was no trace of light to be seen. I picked up my step, eager to return to my seventy five degree house, a shower and a few pre-bedtime shots of whiskey.



My ears detected the far off echo of a coyote pack. I smiled, wondering just how many coyotes lurked out in the Big Creek hay meadows right now. The small moment of wonder was soon smothered by another pack, a hundred eighty degrees from the first and a heckuvalot closer. A third pack struck up a song directly in front of me, probably just off the corner of the main ranch compound. A fourth chord was added to the mix directly behind me.



Knowing the likelihood of being attacked by coyotes is slim to none is absolutely no consolation when alone and encompassed in thick, cold, blinding fog. It is at this point that a normally placid brain begins calculating just how many winter-starved scavengers it would take to overwhelm a single person.



My long legged trot served me well- I hurried past the giant evil mouth of a garage to my doorstep. One last glimpse at the stars above and I dove into the semi-not frozen entryway, then at last into the house kept warm enough one could bake a chicken on the kitchen counter. And the Donkeys (broncos) must have lost again, because Jered is watching Family Guy.

I have been in Foco for a whopping four weeks, and have been reduced to my typical winter activities- coffee, work out, try not to puke, start drinking at three pm or so, go to bed. A small little distraction fell into place though- my dad fell of a ladder and broke his leg last month, so I have the occasional chore of babysitting him when my ma isn't home. Much as I dislike having to babysit someone who doesn't want to be babysat, it gives a small respite from the otherwise dull existence of Skinny Ben. And when things get really hard to deal with, all I have to do is think this: It's not a two hour drive for a case of beer! I'm working really hard to stay positive! :D ]]> skib https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?11406-ahh-gotta-love-wintertime https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?11344-my-most-recent-poem-(drunk-poetry-again) Sat, 15 Jan 2011 16:33:38 GMT Another Midnight Failure Feeling the lack of volume, The openness inside, Reminds me of our time together. Plastic on glass Or maybe a cork... Another Midnight Failure

Feeling the lack of volume,
The openness inside,
Reminds me of our time together.
Plastic on glass
Or maybe a cork pop on a fancy night begins the ceremony.
Aromas of smoke, wood, adventure,
And maybe an overtone of longing drift on the air.
Memories flow freely as the liquid,
Unlocking the deep feelings and fears;
Breaking the bond between the nature
Of good ideas and bad.

Every shot takes me back to another place
And another time when things were better.
Until the spinning paints a mirage of faces on the ceiling above me
and blends into a collage of emotions that end in blackness.
Another nail in the coffin
Another battle lost ]]> skib https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?11344-my-most-recent-poem-(drunk-poetry-again) https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?11330-hmm-where-to-begin Tue, 11 Jan 2011 23:48:47 GMT Well, I don't remember exactly where I left off, so I'll just pick a spot. (imagining life timeline on table in front of self, close eyes, stabs a spot.)
Okay, so my finger landed on the October spectrum, so I guess I'll go from there.
As was stated in my last blog, I was working in south central Wyoming. I just got home to CO last Friday. I enjoyed many different tasks at this job, unfortunately as enjoyable as they were they aren't too interesting. I did everything from putting up snow fence to driving around in places I shouldn't in vehicles that shouldn't be there, to having a snowball fight with a porcupine.
That's kind of a good story. So, back in mid September, my supervisor and I were over at the A Bar A dude ranch, another subsidiary of the Big Creek Ranch conglomeration clearing an irrigation ditch. He got the D5 bulldozer, I got the chainsaw. My duty was to hike to the headgate of this ditch (that cut across the side of a mountain, for some reason) and clear out all the brush, trees, stumps, logs and such that might impede the ditch water flow. Ben (my supervisor) tells me to check the headgate to see if it is stuck shut and needs oil and grease, or if it is okay. It was rusted pretty damn well shut, and as much as I yanked and pushed and cussed at it, it stayed shut. So I told Ben, but at the end of the day we were both so hot and wet and tired, neither of us remembered to go back and fix the problem. Fast forward another month and a half, to the middle of November. It is almost Thanksgiving, it is a Saturday morning, and I'm only scheduled to work half a day. I felt a cold coming on, but despite the fact there was only two feet of snow on the ground, it was a warm day. Ben looks at me and says "Why don't you drive over and grease that headgate?" I didn't disagree. It seemed like a good idea at the time. So, I drive the eight miles of icy highway, then eight miles of muddy/icy driveway into the A Bar A. (google it, it's a pretty dang cool place.) The main roads were plowed, but the road I needed to drive was another 4 miles of unplowed, deep, fresh snow. I put the truck in 4 and hit the snowbank as hard as I could. I almost ended up in the creek, but luckily I caught a rut that straightened me out and kept me right side up. Once I got going, it wasn't much problem. I did however, have to stop a mile short of the gate that let me into the area that I was headed to. Armed with cowboy boots, a slightly insulated Carhartt vest, no gloves, a 3 foot prybar, a tube of axle grease and an oilcan, I began my crawl into the hills. It wasn't bad, at first. I, however, hadn't planned on the fact that the sun now had sunk so low that it never touched the north side of the mountain. Within five minutes, I was so cold my hands didn't work, and i had broken through the ice into the mud and my feet were soaking wet. Determined, however, to finish my task, I kept hiking. The trail had disappeared under the blanket of snow, and the game trails followed terrain I had absolutely no chance of traversing. So, I stumbled along through the frosty willows, sniffling and smacking my hands together, swearing at myself for not coming better prepared. The snow kept getting deeper, and it was halfway up my thigh when I saw a problem: I almost ran headfirst into a porcupine sitting in a willow. Unfortunately, this porcupine was directly in my path, and my only other options were to try my luck at falling down the steep mountainside to my left until I reached the creek (still unfrozen) or backtrack and find a way across the semi-frozen ditch. If you've ever dealt with a porcupine, or even know the slightest bit about them, you know they're a pain. You can't run them over or they'll pop a tire, you can't kick them or you'll pop your leg, and you can't get close to them in general, especially when they're right at eye level. So, I yelled at it. I threw snowballs at it. I poked it with my crowbar, now covered in ice. It merely turned its back and hunched over, forcing me to fall down the mountain. I gathered up my things, took a deep breath and jumped, hoping the snow was deep enough to soften my fall. I skidded and slipped down the slope, managing to keep my balance. New observation told me that I now had to hop across a halfway frozen creek to get back to where I was going. There was one gap in the otherwise solid wall of willows across the creek. I jumped as hard as I could, but still landed awkwardly on the ice and fell flat on my back, the ice cracking under me. I gathered up my dignity and crawled to the bank. I looked up to cuss at the porcupine, and the little prick was nowhere to be found. go figure. I'm tired of typing, but I'll think of a few more stories soon enough. :D ]]> skib https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?11330-hmm-where-to-begin