Liberty Mountain

    There stands the mountain, dark and voluminous, where angels fear to tread.  Abandon hope ye who mount it, for the guardians that keep you safe are not permitted amongst the horns of the stratosphere, despite making their abode just above it.  Honeycombed icicles dangling off the chiseled flanks behold pathways open to man, promising light at the summit yet never guaranteeing his reward.  He climbs anyway, forsaking the lives that keep him chained to the machinery of beyond: those places in the land of cities where nature lays subdued and reticent.  Hollow crevasses crack open the forbidden orifice, which grows tendrils of death beneath the roots of its forest, clinging to ancient metamorphoses that never came to fruition.  Bodies of clay burn in the mantle, skeletons of slate corrupt the shield.  The movement of geologic anarchy patrols the Earth, watching all those beings that depend on it for their liberty, destroying that oblivion born of the dilation of time and forever adjusting their perceptions as they meditate upon the plow.  Perfected by the interface of chemical equilibrium, the mountain welcomes the brave climbers who seek to exterminate its immortality and excavate the minerals from its bowels, using them for their own gain in their petty games of business, knowing they could never rob it of its true value, its sacredness, its spirit that reclines all the way from the surrounding valleys to the apex atop its shoulders.  O great heaving mountain!  This is the challenge, the challenge we face.  From Moses on Sinai to Krakauer on Everest there is no shortage of witnesses to your power, your immovable feet; those granite muscles that flex and jive with the rhythm of the cosmos, hyperextended through time and never quite acknowledging its laws.  That you’ve cemented time in the confines of geologic absolution is impressive, Almighty One, but sooner or later even you must erode into the ashes in space.  Even so, just like man, the embers left from your body shall disintegrate into the fabric of entanglement, preserving yourself through the eons, regenerating in formation with other lost souls who have similarly been decoded and placed randomly in the grand design, creating thousands upon thousands of new entities, physical and harmonical.  Indeed, you were already born of astral conglomerates formed by the decay of creations predestined to fall long before the rise of man.  Yet there you stand, eager for his company, teasing him with your illusions of beauty and grandeur, as weightless as an asteroid floating in space yet bound by the gravity of the planet which planted you.  We stand before you as ants would before a human, paralyzed by your power and aware of a faint desire to challenge your heights.  For like our hands that swat at pesky bugs crawling up our legs, the obstacles you disrupt our courage with are many and fatal.  Are you friendly, O mountain?  Do you really welcome us?  Do the slopes of your peak tolerate we critters who climb atop them from your sightless depths?  This we shall see, and this shall we know. 

The Twister

When Dylan and Veronica went on vacation, they chose to go storm-chasing in Tornado Alley, which is probably the most unlikely place one would go for such a getaway.  They preferred the excitement of danger to the enchantment of the tropics or luxurious cruises.  Their philosophy was that if nothing ever threatened their lives, then it wasn’t truly an adventure they were on.  Driving into the heart of storm country was the ultimate vacation for them, for the thrill of the chase, and being chased, eclipsed any sense of enjoyment brought about by relaxation and safety.  Safety was boring and they couldn’t tell stories about it to their loved ones when they returned home.  All they could do was glam up the scene by involving abstract details to create a vision of paradise for their listeners.  Paradise wasn’t as memorable or exciting as the pitfalls of perdition.  If they really wanted to open people’s eyes in awe, they had to tell a thrilling blockbuster involving their courage in the face of adversity.    
    Dylan had an aunt named Macy who lived on a farm in southern Kansas.  She let them stay there while they went off to watch the storms during the day.  On the first morning, she made what turned out to be the best breakfast either of them had ever had, sending their palates into joyful celebrations of satiety.  They mouthed down mountains of pancakes topped with maple syrup rich as hot fudge.  Avalanches of blueberries fell off the sides, swimming in the syrup like bees in honey.  Dishes of sugar-powdered French toast decorated with freshly cut strawberries and whipped cream sat by their sides like snow-capped foothills.  Sausages, scrambled eggs and hash browns were also served, all so ripe that they’d seemed to come right off the farm.  Glasses of milk and apple juice reflected the morning sunlight that ached to have a taste of Aunt Macy’s breakfast of its own.  Cows mooed, roosters cawed, and bugles echoed off the edges of barns, announcing that another day was imminent.  
    In the afternoon the land would heat up and levitate the vapor that covered it into thermodynamic tyrants.  Anvils of impeding chaos created black tapestries in the western sky as they slowly moved their way eastward across Tornado Alley.  Dylan’s van was a mobile meteorologist’s laboratory; computers lined the walls, feeding off the data from various equipment like GPS, XM Satellite, Ham & NOAA radio.  Cameras and tripods leaned against one corner of the van; walkie-talkies, manuals, and atlases were shelved on another.  It had cost him a fortune to get the van fully operational for storm chasing activities.  He’d received a grant to research tornadoes in the Midwest from the Department of Atmospheric Science at the University of Washington, both for his skills in research as a student and for his talent in photography, but it still wasn’t enough money to fully fund the trip.       
    Even in the 21st century tornadoes remain a mystery to us.  Where, why, and how they form is still as unpredictable as a favored baseball team winning the World Series.  With more research we can better predict where they are heading in order to save more lives, and this was the motivation behind Dylan’s research.  But thrills and research weren’t the only things that had brought him to the dead-land of civilization.  The sheer beauty of a thunderstorm’s formation and its destructive symptoms, such as lightning, also called at him to witness the pinnacle of nature’s discontent.     
    Evenings on the farm were quiet with the small of jasmine wafting in off the windward garden.  The sound of storms rumbled off in the distance, departing for the horizon where Missouri lay in their shadows.  When the stars came out, Veronica liked to go for walks in the field and listen to crickets chattering amongst the constellations.  In the field there was a clearing where she’d lay with Dylan watching the stars.  She liked to kiss and fondle him as a reward for surviving another day on the chase. 
    On the fourth day the storms were more ferocious than usual.  Dylan wanted to call off the chase, but Veronica persuaded him to push on, saying that he’d get the best data and photographs if the storms were more intense.  Most amateur chasers wouldn’t dare approach such supercells as the ones they saw that day, not without an expert.  Atmospheric juice like this was rare, and if he didn’t want to get caught in a whirlwind, his instincts would have to be in their finest shape.    
    He checked the HR Nexrad radar and scanned the horizon to south, which had sported a healthy front that was billowing up what looked like bituminous coals from the depths of the plain, which were steadfast approaching from the border of Oklahoma.  The computer models indicated increasing updrafts and strong amounts of moisture down there, where a wall of cells had gained strength through the course of the afternoon.  There she is honey.  She’s harmless now, but inside she’s boilin’ up a soup like no other. 
    Heading south on 77 they were greeted by a demonic heathen of a cloud from the stratosphere draining a cavity out of its cumulonimbus vapor.  Crosswinds that intersected the updrafts were picking up in velocity, putting the anemometer on top of their vehicle into a spinning frenzy.  Light rain falling from the sky had suddenly transformed into hailstones the size of marbles.  They assaulted the truck, beating it with drums of rage on the windshield.  In the heart of the front, a funnel took shape that resembled the jaws of Satan and bore the color of emptiness.  From its orifice there materialized a stream of etheric dust taken from the land, brazen by the wind-scapes below.  The tornado had taken form more quickly than any Dylan had ever seen, and as he watched it his mouth gaped in awe as it extended from the cloud down to the ground.  
    He went fumbling in the back of the van for his camera, despite protests from his girlfriend.  Are you insane!?  Let’s get out of here!  Dylan took two photos of the spinning marvel and wiped beads of sweat off his forehead.  It’s going to be an F5 baby, an F5!  The blades of a windmill bounced by them on the road, nearly gutting a wheel on the van.  He took a deep breath and started to think she was right.  To witness the formation of an F5 tornado was a once in a lifetime opportunity, but it sure was better to wake up safely back at the house than out in the fields with missing body parts and a mound of debris piled on top of them. 
    The van didn’t start and Veronica screamed.  Doubling her stress was the course of the tornado; it had shifted direction and was heading straight for them.  Not only that, but it had gained in size to nearly a half a mile in width.  Weeds blasted by the windows; scraps of hay dematerialized in thin air.  Lightning struck somewhere nearby- its location impossible to detect- and the impeding thunder deafened them in milliseconds.  Gusts of wind rattled the van, strong enough to move it a few inches.  Dylan looked up and saw the anemometer fly off the top of the vehicle, as if it had been but a pinecone in a light breeze.  Again he put the key in the ignition.  Start, you defective sack of shit, start! 
    The ghostly face of a man suddenly appeared outside Dylan’s window, hollering at them  to get out.  Veronica glanced in the rearview mirror and noticed that a truck had pulled up behind them.  The couple quickly abandoned the vehicle without saving any of their equipment, because they knew that any delay could mean the difference between life and death.  The only thing Dylan salvaged was his camera, which he shielded from the elements with his leather coat.  They got in the stranger’s truck and he drove them away from the twister as fast as he could. 
    What in God’s great gullet were you two doing back there!?, screamed the man.  Next to him was seated an unassuming Asian woman, who looked back at them and welcomed them aboard, as if it nothing serious had just happened.  Dylan thanked them both and looked out the back window, where the F5 has gained full strength.  The body of the twister had bulged to nearly a mile in diameter, and the mesmerized spectators could only watch it in wonder.  The van was lifted off the ground and swung around on its axis, as if it were a planet in orbit.  Then it sailed off into oblivion behind the storm.  Dylan may not have been crushed by the tornado, but inside he’d been mangled by it.  With the van went his life, ambitions, and dreams, all vanishing into the sky in the blink of an eye.  Not only would his sponsors never trust his judgment with their expensive equipment again, but years of his atmospheric research had been lost. 
    The brave student held his fiancé in his arms, and together they wept. 

 

Spurs vs. Heat Game 6

    Last night I watched what I consider to be the greatest game of our modern era.  The title was on the line, legacies were at stake, and the pressure was on.  With the Spurs up three games to two in the NBA Finals, they went for the kill in game six.  They had to win this game or else they’d have to face the unlikely task of bringing home the trophy in a seventh game on their opponents’ home court.  Winning a game seven on the road is one of the most difficult things to do in the NBA, especially in the finals- it hasn’t happened since 1978. 
    However, the Miami Heat have more heart than any team in the NBA, and they’ve shown time and again that they are able to respond in big games with their backs against the wall.  They weren’t going to be denied, and they showed it by starting the game with more energy than the Spurs.  Dwyane Wade, who’s suffering through several injuries, dunked on Tim Duncan and had a beautiful euro-step layup in the first quarter.  He’s had to play through a lot of pain and his stats haven’t been nearly as pronounced as in previous years, but he’s still done more good for the team than bad. 
    The Spurs took over in the second quarter.  Tim Duncan made 13 of his first 16 shots and scored 25 first half points.  Everyone was saying that should the Spurs win, this game would be the capstone of his legacy as the best power forward of all time.  In the second half he wasn’t as effective, but the Spurs still controlled the game through the third quarter.  They were up by ten points going into the fourth quarter and it seemed like they were simply the better team.  All series long they’d played more intelligently and shot the ball better.  They’d beaten the Heat at their own small-ball game, and on the defensive end they’d successfully forced James and Wade into losing confidence in their mid-range jumpers.  The Heat were at their wits end and needed a miracle if they were going to beat the most poised team in the NBA. 
    Both teams have shown that they can build leads and keep them in this series, but this is the first time either team faced elimination.  For the Heat, the fourth quarter was something out of a fairy tale or a movie script, while for the Spurs it was a disaster.  There were many memorable moments, and each deserve their own place in the legacy of this game. 
    Heat coach Erik Spoelstra made a brilliant move to start the quarter, playing the same lineup that the Heat had made a 33-5 run on the Spurs with earlier in the series.  With about ten minutes left in the game, Mike Miller lost his shoe and made a three pointer without wearing it.  At the time it wasn’t a big deal, but it seemed to have been the thing that jump-started their run.  A minute later LeBron James lost his headband while going up for an alley-oop slam.  Mysteriously, the headband seemed to have disappeared between Duncan and James as he came down off the rim. 
         What mystical forces were unleashed on the game when Miller and James sequentially lost their items?  Did the basketball Gods unleash the beast within James when they decided to hide the headband?  Did James reach some cosmic awareness, symbolized by the abandonment of something that sealed his skull to the confines of the Earth?  Nobody knows for sure, because nobody seems to know just how it came off. 
         After losing his headband LeBron James famously went nuts (in what people are now calling “The Headband Game”, analogous to Jordan’s “flu game”), rejecting a slam dunk by the game’s MVP up to that point (Tim Duncan) and going berzerk at the offensive end.  James had gone 3-12 for the first three quarters, but he completely flipped the switch and his penetration helped them regain the lead with five minutes to go in the game.  Not only that, but King James had to defend one of the nastiest offensive players in the league: Tony Parker.  Parker got a few shots in, including an improbable three pointer and a nifty spin move in the lane, to help the Spurs regain the lead.  But when they reached the finish line Parker was gassed, and LeBron’s defense was a major reason why. 
    With less than two minutes to go, James ran out of gas himself and committed two uncharacteristic turnovers that would seemingly lead to the Heat’s demise.  If the Heat hadn’t won, you can be certain that the media would be talking about LeBron’s choke in the finals all day instead of the Spurs’ amazing performance, because that’s how the media is.  They always focus on the negatives.  Right now the blame is on Spurs coach Greg Popovic and shooting guard Manu Ginobili.  Even in a game as epic as this, the media still needs to complain! 
     With thirty seconds to go the Heat trailed by five, and fans were leaving the building.  About two thousand people left because they lost hope in their team coming back, which is pretty ridiculous considering that we’ve seen even more dramatic comebacks in the history of basketball.  Not only that, but the commissioners had brought the trophy out into the arena and were preparing for the Spurs’ celebration.  Reportedly this “pissed off” the Heat players, because people were counting them out when they still had a chance. 
    On the second-to-last possession James missed a three pointer, but Wade kept the rebound alive when two Spurs should have had it.  The ball ended up in Miller’s hands and he passed it back out to James, who scored a three on the second try.  The Heat then fouled Kawhi Leonard, who only made one of his two free throws.  With twenty seconds remaining, the Heat were only down three and had the ball.  James missed an early three, but the rebound went to Chris Bosh, who passed it out to Ray Allen, who, in a marvelous display of awareness and skill, planted both feet behind the three point line with four Spurs running at him, and swished an off balance fall back three pointer to tie the game. 
    Now, I’ve been one of Ray Allen’s biggest fans through the years, and I’ve seen Ray hit a lot of big shots ever since he came to the Sonics ten years ago.  But this was by far the biggest of his career.  I think it single handedly puts him in the hall of fame and puts him past Reggie Miller as the greatest three point shooter of all time.  Forget about the insane series against the Bulls in 2009, forget about his finals record 8 three pointers in game 2 of the 2010 finals, forget his circus threes against the Kings in 2005; he made the biggest shot on the biggest stage, and if the Heat win the finals it will not only be the biggest shot of his career, but one of the greatest in the history of the NBA.  It would even be up there with Jordan’s clutch shot in ’98, Magic's skyhook in '87, and Jerry West's half court shot against the Knicks in 1970. 
    Back to the game.  At that point, the drunken Heat fans who’d left were trying to get back in the arena after realizing their mistake.  Pandemonium erupted and the cops had to come when they started banging on the glass to be let back in.  I think I can speak for the entire sports world when I say that I have no sympathy for people who give up on their team, leave, then want to come back, especially after the amount of heart they showed in the fourth quarter of an elimination game.  It’s just pathetic. 
    Ray had four more points in overtime, and Chris Bosh had a couple of key blocks on the last two Spurs possessions.  Even if Bosh hadn't fouled Green, which I don’t think he did (50/50 call), there’s no guarantee that he would have made the shot or made his free throws.  Besides, Splitter had clearly set a moving screen that wasn’t even close to a 50/50 call.  Another controversial no-call- Ginobili’s drive to the basket on the previous play- was also a 50/50 call, as there isn’t any evidence that Allen hacked his arm.  Ginobili had taken three steps before the contact anyway, which is a travel.  The refs tend to swallow their whistles on the last plays of the game unless there is an incredibly blatant foul, so you can’t blame the outcome on the refs.  Besides, the Spurs shot seven more free throws than the Heat, and there were many instances in regulation where the Heat didn’t have calls go their way. 
    That being said, anyone who bases the outcome of this game on conspiracy theories is a complete idiot.  How do you script a 5 point comeback with 20 seconds left in the game?  Why would they bring the trophy out if they knew the Heat were going to win anyway?  I have no doubt that the NBA has fixed games in the past, but this certainly wasn’t one of them. 
    If game seven is anything like this game, then it may be the greatest finals we’ve ever seen.  These are two quasi dynasties with seven or eight perennial all-stars and four finals MVPs giving it everything they’ve got, and each of them have gone back and forth with crazy runs, blowouts, and late game heroics.  Every star has stepped up in at least one game and given their team a victory (Parker/Duncan in game 1, James in game 2, Green/Neal in game 3, Wade/James in game 4, Ginobili in game 5, Allen/Bosh in game 6).  Who will step up next?