Sure, I’d love to do something for safety, but I’m afraid I can’t help when it comes to “standing down” because, you see, it’s f***ing impossible!! And frankly it doesn’t sound safe. Standing down sounds a little like falling down because in order to fall down, you usually have to be standing up, so you start out standing, but then you fall down. That’s the only way you can stand down and that could lead to injuries. I will gladly sit down for safety, or pause for safety, or stand up for safety, or even lie down and take a nap for safety, but I honestly can’t stand down for it.

Maybe I’m being too literal, but I can’t understand using phrases that contain within themselves the seeds of their own impossibility. So I’m going to leave this issue behind now, pull myself up by my own bootstraps, give the effort 110%, get that done yesterday and do more with less. I’m totally down with that, but I’m sitting, not standing.

Anyway, you can find out more at my Lulu store. Just go to http://www.lulu.com and type “jon herman calendar” in the search window. That’ll take you right there and you can view the cover and a preview of the calendar’s contents.

I’m Jon Herman and I approved this message.

Here's the front cover of the calendar, custom made!

The invaders.

I’ve been meaning to write about this for some time. Down in lower Kittitas County, in almost every direction you look there are windmills. Watching the giant white wind towers go up like a fence around the Kittitas Valley has been disconcerting, to say the least. I used to rant about every cell tower that went up on some prominent location and then got used to that visual insult. Now there are hundreds of wind towers everywhere and I’m boggled by the visually intrusive monstrosities every time I journey east. They are everywhere now, reminding me of the Martian machines striding across the landscape in “War of the Worlds”.

In fact I don’t have to go east, really. On a clear day and with low power bincoculars, the towers can be seen from the crest of the Cascade Mountains.

One of the things I used to love about Kittitas County was the sweeping vistas of prairie and sky, mountains and clouds. The feeling of wildness. Now there’s this visual white picket fence being built around us so that we can no longer enjoy clear views. Some would say that scenery takes second place to energy needs. In this case, the energy is going to California, so we in essence become a subservient energy factory for the folks down south.

The windmills are, to my mind, another emblem of the Technisocial Wave washing back at us from the West Coast, filling the valleys and capping the ridges with homes, roads, traffic, mechanical and electronic incrustations, wiping out more of the local nature that many long-term residents value. Local nature is being whittled away…no, rather it’s being hacked away, piece by piece. We have been discovered here, and a flag claiming ownership has been planted. A flag with dollar signs on it.

Windmill farms, housing tracts, resorts, golf courses, multi-million dollar homes, new roads, bigger freeways, more traffic…is this what we want here? And even if it isn’t, is there anything we can do about it? It doesn’t seem that there is. This relentless wave will probably continue until our once beautiful and peaceful county is converted to the type of place that people moved here to get away from. I know that sounds pessimistic, but all my life I’ve watched this process occurring almost everywhere and seen how little our culture as a whole values the things that it destroys.

I’ve always defined multitasking as “many things done, but few things done well”. That sums it up for me because I’m lousy at multitasking and find that the increasing demands for it in the workplace are irritating as hell.

Multitasking leaves little room for craftsmanship, or satisfaction. It’s life and work on the run. Get this done, get that done, get this and that done at the same time while unconsciously dropping the ball somewhere else. Loose ends wave around like Medusa’s snaky hair, demanding attention here and there and everywhere, threatening to bite when you least expect it. It’s a crazy way to live, and to work, yet we find ourselves doing it anyway.

I wonder if we have to live that way or do we choose to? Who or what is demanding that we work and live this way? What would happen if you gave your full attention to something, did it and moved on to the next thing? Would there be fewer of those Medusa strands waving around? Would you get fired for not achieving a certain level of output despite increased quality of what you accomplished? I sure don’t know but I do know this, that if we don’t take a stand against this kind of mental abuse, it will just get worse. By accommodating it, we enable it and by enabling it, we perpetuate it.

As one who is mostly incapable of multitasking anyway, I find it easy to just say no. I really don’t have much choice in the matter since I’m so bad at it. But if you’re one of those people who is good at it, or think you’re good at it, it might be tougher. You are now expected to operate at that level and any lessening of that will be seen as backsliding. Good luck with that!

I don’t know about you, but I don’t get paid during lunch time, so am reluctant to continue working. Also, not being Superman, I tend to get tired and need a break in the middle of the day. Usually, I get that opportunity, but recently was at a workshop where the facilitator hosted a working lunch. If I’d had enough advance notice, I would’ve made plans to be elsewhere during lunch, but I was stuck there, working while I ate. Of course that’s not all bad, but lunchtime, or any meal time, should be a time for people to relax a little and read, or talk, or just sit and stare into space. There should be nothing wrong with staring into space; it’s the final frontier and I think we all feel a little wistful about that.

It says something about our culture that lunch time is regarded as yet another opportunity for “productivity”. What’s next, a working bowel movement? Oh wait, that’s already happened. A while back, I heard a guy in a public restroom talking work on his phone in a stall. Imagine the horrific background noise that the person on the other end had to endure. “Joe, was that our stock price tanking, or was that you? Where the hell are you anyway?” It could give “trickle down” a whole new meaning.

Back to the theme here.  I just want to keep taking my lunch time as guaranteed in the Constitution (it has to be in there somewhere since the Founders probably had plenty of working lunches putting the Constitution together and thus got sick of them). It’s all a part of trying to slow this culture down a bit so that it doesn’t go completely nuts.

Dead Bird

Evening and golden sunlight,
I was walking down the beach.
(Or was it up?)

It matters not, thought I grandly as I meandered
Loquaciously,
Deep thoughts spiralling up,
(Or was it down?)

From my brain it mattered not the direction,
As they tumbled and mumbled from my mouth,
In a torrent of profundity,
To an unhearing and uncaring world,
Pearls before swine, I thought judiciously,
And age before beauty.

Then a bird,
Dead bird,
Dead bird dead,
Lay upon the tide-tortured sand at my feet.
An Icarus in reverse with wings laden black and oily,
From the dejecta of stored sunlight crude.
Tarred and feathered without the rail.

Dead bird,
Dead dead bird,
Lay upon the sand at my feet,
Ended thoughtflow as I stared in fascinated horror.
Grace and flight ended in disgrace and fright,
Filled me with dismay as waves,
Waves,
Rolled in unheeding, driven by the distant wind
And the moon,
Uncaring yellow orb above the eastern rim.

Dead bird.
Very dead bird.
Once source of beauty and now,
Now,
Miasmic wellspring of dark thoughts
On a bright shoreline.

Bird,
Dead bird,
Bad dead bird,
Damn bad dead bird,
God damn bad dead bird,
Ruined a fine walk on the beach.

© Jon Herman

Coming soon to this blog: Dead Elk; A Really Terrible Poem. For access to some good poetry, go to http://www.poets.org/

Today was also pretty damn nice, after some morning rain. A week ago we had three inches of new snow on the ground and blizzards. Now it’s all singing birds, daffodils sprouting, green grass, short sleeve weather. Kind of like what we had during the late winter! Well, it’ been a strange year so far.

At work, spring also means it’s time for all good Forest Service trails/wilderness employees to get on their knees and beg for more money just to keep their jobs next year and try to get the work done that people expect of us. Yes, it’s grant application time once again. It’s a tedious task, but totally necessary in these lean times, so we all buckle down and try our best to convince the grant handlers that we need and deserve that money! I’ve thought about including this poster in my applications, but am not sure how any or all of the grant board people would react to it.

Do Your Bit for America and for Smokey!

Cartoons can be a valuable tool for communication but as a cartoonist, I can never be sure how a particular cartoon will be received. I remember showing, many years ago, one of my best ones (in my opinion) to a group of cartooning compatriots online and seeing it totally flop. In this case, I think I’ll probably stick to the standard grant application formula. But I’m so tempted to be off-the-wall and include this toon. If I did, the only thing I could be sure of is that people would remember my application. But I don’t want it to be remembered. I just want the grant approved so that people can keep working.

Colors are muted, from the washed-out overcast sky to the tall, dark conifers. The forest is mostly quiet and still, and there is a feeling of sleepiness. There’s still some isolated activity though; ravens croak above the trees, here and there a squirrel scolds as it continues to gather food, far away a woodpecker hammers a hollow snag.

In particular, I’m thinking of a first snowfall that I observed up at Hyas Lake several years ago. It was late October or early November and the forest was as described above. Very quiet and peaceful. I was there with a co-worker, doing some final work on the Deception Pass Trail. We’d accomplished our mission and were heading back.

We stopped at Upper Hyas Lake and walked out into the golden grass along the lakeshore. The air was very still and the overcast had turned fuzzy and white and was sinking gently toward us, shrouding the peaks. We stood quietly beside the calm lake and watched the descending cloud. Soon a few lazy white flakes of snow drifted by, and then a few more.

The forested slopes above the lake faded slowly into white obscurity as the snow cloud grew thicker. Soon we couldn’t even see the far side of the lake and were surrounded by the whispering hiss of falling snowflakes.

As the snow thickened, we returned to the trail and continued the hike out. Walking along the lake shore, the ground in the more open areas was turning white. The snow grew even heavier and the silence was filled with the faint hissing of colliding, falling, swirling, flakes. Millions of tiny ice-stars chipping and breaking and we could actually hear it.

We left the lake and went into the thick forest. It had been autumn when we hiked in and now it was winter as we hiked out, the forest floor and trail covered in a couple of inches of smooth, silky snow. We found several fresh sets of coyote tracks and some deer tracks along the trail. The skeletal brush, fallen logs, boulders and drooping tree boughs were etched in white. I had the feeling that a blanket was being gently placed over the sleeping forest; protecting it through its long winter sleep.

By the time we reached the trailhead, there were over three inches of snow on the ground and it was still coming down. I was reluctant to leave. The storm was so quiet and peaceful it could barely be called a storm, even with the snow falling an inch an hour.

We did have to leave though and so we loaded our gear, got into the truck, closed the doors, turned up the heat and set the defroster to high, turned on the wipers to sweep away the snow and bumped off down the white road, encased in vehicle technology and insulated from the primal storm outside.

Larch on the slopes above Howard Creek

Beverly Creek basin on Sunday, Table Mountain and Grass Camp Trail on Monday and Tuesday. The golden larches are phenomenal, shining under the blue sky where ravens croak and soar on the air currents. The trail, where it winds under the larches, is covered in gold. The ground is frozen even while the air feels warm out in the sunlight. It’s an energizing time of year when the weather is good.

Giant larch on Grass Camp plateau.

Even though my knees are now acting up, it’s so good to get out again.

H1N1 sounds like some kind of military vehicle; maybe a tank or something. That’s how it feels when it hits. Just like a massive M1 tank going full bore with all guns thumping and blazing away. A person doesn’t stand much of a chance and can’t do much except hunker down and pray. It’s so fast you don’t even see it coming until it’s too late.

The symptoms went from vague tiredness to full-blown racking cough, muscle aches and fatigue within hours. The coughing was horrendous and the trademark symptom for me. I got sore from it, like I’d been beaten up by thugs, and it sounded like a crazed sea lion barking. The coughing went for days and it was dry too, so no satisfaction was gotten from it. At night, it would wake me every few minutes so that sleep was obtained only in small increments. This had to be supplemented by multiple naps every day for several days.

On day four, it let up enough to give me hope, so I went to Ellensburg and stocked up on food. By Monday, the flu was coming back strong. I went in to work that day to get something done and probably shouldn’t have, but I was careful and apparently nobody caught it from me there. It was good to get out a bit.

By Tuesday morning, I was getting alarmed at how bad I still felt, so made an appointment to see my doctor that afternoon. The media horror stories of healthy people suddenly dying from this had been very much in mind.

The doctor did an exam and found a moderate respiratory infection deep in my bronchia, but my lungs were clear. Other signs looked pretty good and I was relieved about that. The doctor said it was likely I had H1N1 since it has been turning up frequently around the county, and the usual seasonal flu isn’t in evidence yet.

Duking it out at the microscopic level.

I asked him if it was strange that I didn’t have a lot of the reported symptoms but he said not really. Everyone is different. I was very glad that I didn’t get the other symptoms. I can only imagine how horrible it would be to also have a fever, chills, more aches, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, etc.

I was prescribed Tamiflu to help shorten the illness up, and some codeine cough syrup. When I went to the pharmacy to pick it up, I mistakenly handed the clerk the wrong piece of paper from the doctor. It basically told her that I had H1N1. One rarely gets the chance in life to inspire instant fear and panic, so while it was surprising, it was also mildly gratifying to watch the poor woman’s rapid transformation to that state. She jumped back, got a bit wide-eyed, told me that wasn’t a perscription, asked my name, found out it would be about 20 minutes before I could pick up the medicine and then emphatically told me I couldn’t wait there, that I had to leave. Leper, outcast, unclean!

I had no gripe with leaving and drove over to the South Cle Elum Depot and hung out there for awhile, reading the interpretive signs. When I returned to the store, it was virtually empty, and I picked up the drugs and went home to start treatment. The codeine cough syrup was a disappointment and didn’t seem to help much.

As for the Tamiflu, I figured I’d give it a try to see what happens and hoped that it would kill off those goddamn viruses fast. By late the next day I was regretting the Tamiflu very much. I began to feel seriously ill and just plain “wrong”. On the verge of nausea all the time, a headache lingered and I grew weak. My skin grew alarmingly pale until I looked like a vampire, albeit a very ill and unhappy vampire. I felt like I was dying. Since the symptoms were so different, I can only attribute them to the anti-viral medication and I quit taking it. Overnight, the symptoms receded and by morning I was feeling much better again. Well, now I know.

On Thursday I felt well enough to venture outdoors and hiked about a mile on a mostly level trail near Salmon La Sac. The exercise and fresh air felt good; more good signs of recovery. Now, on Friday, I feel almost back to normal aside from the occasional need to take a nap and the persistent sea lion cough.

What an ordeal, and I had the milder version I think. Any worse and it might’ve killed me, or at least made me wish I was dead. If anyone was in doubt about getting the vaccine, I think I can advise it at this point. Of course I don’t need it anymore. I have immunity now. Hard won immunity at that, but at least I got something out of it other than a lost week. Good luck finding the vaccine though. I hear some might show up in a week or two. In the meantime, the H1N1 enjoys widepread access to human hosts and is spreading around the community. Avoid it if you can!