An allitererative.......

As an aficionado of alliteration, allow a personal aspiration to be actualized.
Basic beliefs benefits the bearer by bearing the brunt of the brutality.
Careful charitable choices can cause the cessation of cynical calls.
Doing dangerous deeds does not definitively demand the defiance of the denominator Death.
Effective effigies encourage endearment.
Fears frequently fight for failure and freak outs.

....to be continued

Échale Ganas

Heads up boys, its time for war. Nine months of preparation, nine months of work. You will get to rest after today, you will get to be done. 

We go to war.

I don't mind

I don't mind it when my water tastes like plastic. That is because when my water tastes like plastic, I am usually wearing a Camelback. If I am wearing my Camelback, I am usually on my mountain bike. If I am on my mountainbike wearing my Camelback, I am usually somewhere up a canyon on a trail, my legs burning, my heart pumping, and my face smiling. So I don't mind it when my water tastes like plastic. I actually sort of like it.

I don't mind it, when my hands turn black. This is because when my hands turn black, I have been handling a rope. If I have been handling a rope enough that my hands turn black, its probably because I have been belaying someone while they rock climb. If I am belaying someone while I rock climb, its also very likely that I myself have been rock climbing. My arms are tired, my blackened hands covered in chalk, and my face smiling. I don't mind it when my hands turn black. I actually sort of like it.

I don't mind it when I get grease under my fingernails. This is because if I have grease under my fingernails, I have been working with something greasy. It is likely that I am in the shop, tearing down a bicycle, or an engine, or something that I work on with my hands. It means that I am not in the library, studying until my brain hurts, or bored inside. I have things to do and hands to do it with, and if they get greasy in the process, then so be it. I don't mind when I get grease under my fingernails. I actually sort of like it.

I don't mind it when my brain hurts. This is because when my brain hurts, it means I have been thinking hard. If I have been thinking hard it means I have been studying and learning. If I am studying and learning, then I know more now than when I started the day. I may not be able to remember my phone number or how to get home, but man do I know a lot. I don't mind it when my brain hurts. I actually sort of like it.

I don't mind it when I am alone sometimes. This is because when I am alone, I get to listen to my thoughts, and think of why I thought them. I get those precious moments of silence, when I remember that when I am alone, I am not ever alone. I don't mind when I am alone. I actually sort of like it.

I don't mind when life gets hard. Actually, in the moment, I do mind when life gets hard. It really sucks. But life doesn't stay hard for that long. Life has a way of knowing how much I can take, and lightening up when I am about to crack. Life has a way of taking those hard times and flipping them into some of the greatest lessons I have ever learned. Life takes those hard times and makes me out of them. So in the moment, I do mind when life is hard. But I hang on, my neck bent to match my knees. Eventually I won't mind when life gets hard. I actually will be thankful it did.

A short analysis,

I took some time to ponder on why I overanalyze things. Futility at its finest.

Dear Dusty,

I started wondering what if would be like to get letters from future me. I thought of the pleasure and convenience of receiving instructions, warnings, and hints about what was coming my way. It would take out all of the guesswork, the unforeseen disappointments, and surprise gut shots that life has a tendency to throw in one's path. How would it feel to know what was around the next corner and be braced and ready for it when it came? To know not not to try to ride your bike with no handlebars, that that girl will only break your heart, and that you would make your best friends at college.
I thought about wise old me, about to die, finishing the instruction book for my life. It would read like an autobiography, telling the story of me. I would have taken a red pen though, and edited the parts I wish I could have changed, and with a green pen, circled my favorite parts. The margins would be filled with notes and warnings written by myself to myself, a careful guide to make my life perfect. I would sign the inside of the cover to make sure I knew it was from me, because I knew that I would trust myself. I would seal the book in a manila envelope addressed to myself decades before and send it off.
Or would I? Wise old me would heft the book filled envelope, testing its weight. Decisions lay heavy on all of us, but a life of decisions made for us is even heavier. The postage would be ridiculous.
I got a letter from myself today. It was a single sheet of paper, with only one written line. It read......

Dear Dusty,

Enjoy the Ride.

Dusty

Chromosomal Wings

If one has ever participated in any sort of activity at which the attendees achieve close to a 50% ratio of the X & Y chromosomes, than it is almost a certainty that the following phrase has graced ones ears:
“Hey, I bet we can jump off of that.”
It seems that members of the male gender are genetically programmed, socially instructed, or hormonally driven to jump off of things. It takes little more than the presentation of an opportunity, such as a lakeside cliff, an oddly shaped sculpture at the park, or a low roof on a building to set in motion the gears inside their heads. A mental checklist something like the following occurs.

1. How high is it? There is a continuum of heights in the male psyche. It ranges from “not high enough to be impressive”, to “h*$% no, that’s way too high”. While each has his preference, one usually tries to choose a height that has crossed the threshold of being impressive while not having breached that of sanity. This usually falls somewhere around “a little sketchy but I think we can pull it off”.

2. How cool will it look? Though it doesn’t seem obvious, there is indeed a reason that males jump off of things. They think it looks cool. Though this appears a trifling motive to risk life and limb, it is deemed of worth if the group is wowed by an aerial maneuver. Due to this fact, simple feet first jumps are an initial formality, quickly displaced by flips, spins, catching objects in the air, or other such risky ventures. (It is easily observed that if members of a gender other than the male, female for instance, are present, the increase in difficulty of the attempted tricks is directly correlated the level of attractiveness of the members of this gender)

3. Is this really safe? In a logical world void of testosterone and pride, this question would naturally assume its obvious position at the top of the list. In said world, the pros and cons of jumping off of something would be properly weighed and evaluated. Hypothetical Scenarios involving Orthopedic Surgery, stitches, broken bones, or other drastic effects gravity can produce on the body would most likely win out against the meager praise offered by on lookers. How truly wonderful it is, to live in a world where we act on impulse and not fear. It is sad truth, that rational thinking is synonymous with mundane.

Upon completion of the checklist, the jumper gathers his courage. The moment for decision passed, action is all that remains. A few muscles contract, a breath is exhaled, a body is hurled into space.
As winter progresses in Logan Canyon, the drifts pile up on each side of the road. At the bridge just below the Dugway, the supporting walls allow a deep pile to form on a steep slope. The fifteen foot drop with the promise of a soft landing is too much to pass up. I watch as my friends hurtles himself off the edge after only a moment’s hesitation. I take my place on the concrete railing. High enough to be impressive. Footing good for a back flip. Most likely safe. I jump.
For a moment, I declare my freedom. Responsibility and rational thoughts fill my days. Part time employment, Higher Education, money, and worries are my daily staple. But here, for a fraction of a second, I don’t think about the most responsible or important thing for me to do. I don’t think at all. Its a momentary sojourn into my own life, minus the weight. I land on my back sinking deep into the soft snow. For just a second, my Y chromosome felt like wings.

It takes guts.....

It takes guts to walk on ice. Not the ice that crusts on the sidewalks on the way to campus. That’s just sneaky double crossing ice that throws you on your butt in front of your friends before you even saw that it was there. Neither are we talking about the ice that covers lakes. That stuff is so thick and trustworthy that you would trust it to take your girl out on a friendly date and not make a move. I am talking about the kind of ice we found up Dry Creek Canyon. When the conditions are right, this rambling stream will partially freeze, resulting in a thin layer of solid ice bridging the shores, while cold water continues to flow underneath. This is the kind of ice it takes guts to walk on.
The ice on a lake never double crosses you, the stuff on sidewalks attacks you without warning. But these ice bridges across the creek wait for you to come to them. They wait silently for you to reach down and summon the courage to step out onto them, to trust them implicitly. This ice holds no guarantee to support your weight, no promise to deliver you dry on the other side. They only beckon, emitting an unmet challenge simply by their existence.
Your buddy says its probably not worth it. Cold wet frozen pants four miles from the trailhead, the six hundred dollar camera in hand, and no way out but the snowshoes on your feet say the same thing. But whatever it is inside you, maybe its guts, maybe its pride, says step on the ice. It says, “It’s not about if the ice holds you or not, its about you taking the step, whether or not the ice held you.”
Two steps in, I am at midstream. I snap the photo. The ice held.