Fall '09 grades

Intro. to Differential Equations with Linear Algebra - A
Material and Energy Balances - A-
Organic Chemistry I - A-
Ethics - A

Term GPA - 3.86
Cumulative GPA - 3.95

Sure, it's the lowest term GPA I've had yet at CU, but I think it's quite alright. :)

college announcements

I've done very well this semester, but none of my grades are determined until I make it through finals, this Saturday through next Tuesday.


My first final is on Saturday, and it is in differential equations, the last dedicated math course on the standard chemical or biological engineering curriculum.Of course, being in an engineering major means this won't by any means be the last I see of math. But I have had class time dedicated specifically to math in all the time I've been in school since I started kindergarten, and it will be strange to leave that behind.

I've decided to add a minor in philosophy to my planned coursework at college. I have always been interested in the field, and I've enjoyed my Ethics class this semester immensely. I'm signed up for two more philosophy courses next semester, and I'm very much looking forward to them.

Mission statement (work in progress), take 2

To remain actively engaged in life.

To look at the world with wonder, and embrace my natural desire to understand it more fully.

To embrace the full spectrum of my emotions, rather than running from the ones that make me uncomfortable.

To take full responsibility for my choices.

To try my best to understand others, fully realizing that everyone has hopes, fears, desires, and the other things which drive me.

To seek out kindred spirits, and to intensify life with and through mutual respect and understanding.

To maintain a true and independent identity by being true to myself above and before all else.

The free market

The other day, I was paying for groceries with my debit card at one of the self-checkout lanes of a grocery store. It occurred to me that the entire process is incredibly bizarre.

After all, I walked into the store with nothing of value, left nothing of value behind, and left with enough food for a week. I did this without dealing with a single representative of the store or its interests. And this was perfectly legal.

Paper money works essentially the same way; but at least when cash changes hands, this is an exchange of a physical good which has a definite worth determined by the market. The only thing you have to have faith in when accepting cash is that it will be worth what you think it's worth when you decide to spend it.

With debit cards and the like, there is a virtual, rather than physical, exchange of money; so there are two layers of good faith involved in the exchange: faith in cash, and faith in the digital systems' ability to properly represent cash flow in a virtual environment.

Does it really make sense to rely on these two factors? With the state of the economy, the public debt, and the projected budget deficits for the next several years, it seems as though our nation's financial course is unsustainable. It's not difficult to imagine the total financial collapse of the Federal government, which would result (among other things) in a massive devaluation of American cash. Computer systems, furthermore, are accessible to all the immoral computer geeks of the world.

In short, on a daily basis, we place an enormous amount of faith on these two factors which seem fundamentally unworthy of our faith. Is this a sensible system; and, more to the point, is it a sustainable system?

Separate but equal?

The fight over same-sex marriage in America rages on.

With the vote in Maine three days ago, gay marriage has now been forbidden by the people in 31 states - every state in which the issue has come to a popular vote. In other words, no American electoral majority has ever supported gay marriage.

Many liberals would be quick to point out that it's important to keep this in perspective, remembering all the progress that has been made, and keeping in mind that the demographic momentum is in favor of same-sex marriage, since young people mostly think gays should be allowed to marry. Others would point to the vote on the same day in which Washington was added to the list of states whose voters have approved "everything but marriage" - civil unions with all or nearly all of the protections afforded by marriage - as a heartening sign.

Many would even go so far as to say that the fact that civil unions appear to be a more attainable goal makes them a more worthy goal. The pragmatist in me understands this line of thought. The pursuit of marriage equality in America is, even today, an incredibly daunting task. Large percentages of the electorate still view homosexuality as not just immoral but sinful; so they naturally believe that it is their duty as Americans to stop any attempts to normalize it, and that by doing so they are saving America from damnation.

These people are willing to do incredible mental gymnastics to find justifications for their opposition to same-sex marriage that appear logical to the average person. But it's much harder to logically justify opposition to civil unions, since they can't be seen to involve a redefinition of traditional marriage. The effect of this fact is that, in places where a slim majority opposes same sex marriage, a slim majority also supports civil unions. And of course, equality of legal recognition for gay couples seems far more important than the terminology; so it seems reasonable to forget about marriage (at least for a while), and focus on getting civil unions.

But let's think, for a moment, of the implications of legalizing civil unions, rather than marriage, for same-sex couples.

The logic of civil unions rests on the precept that homosexual relationships should only be legally recognized by setting up a separate system, for them to use, where normal people would get married. Civil unions, therefore, accept that a homosexual relationship is fundamentally different from what is normal and acceptable in polite society - and that, to reflect this, we must use a different set of legal protections for their relationships. All this, while proclaiming that we are affirming their equal rights.

But how can we possibly affirm equal rights through separate legal protections? Amendment XIV of the United States Constitution says, in part, "No State shall . . . deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws." For a long time, racial segregation in America was justified by saying that as long as the public services afforded to non-whites were equal, it was alright if they were separate, if society demanded so. In the 1954 supreme court case Brown v. Board of Education, the court unanimously ruled that "separate educational facilities are inherently unequal." Cannot the same be said of separate legal codes to recognize relationships?

This is why I am a supporter of gay marriage, rather than the more pragmatic civil unions. Granted, I generally think there are far more pressing issues facing America, and the world, than the question of who can marry who - that's why this is the first blog post I've written dedicated to the topic - but that doesn't make the current situation regarding marriage in America any less unjust. It is my sincere hope that the American electorate can manage to get its head out of its ass and realize the clear and unequivocal truth - that gays have, and have always had, the right to marry; and must in turn be given the legal ability to do so.

Mission statement (work in progress)

To live.

To look at the world with wonder, and embrace my natural desire to understand it more fully.

To remain at all times open to the fluctuations of my mood; to accept all emotions that come to me as parts of the same unified whole.

To seek out kindred spirits, and to intensify life with and through mutual respect and understanding.

To maintain a true and independent identity by being true to myself above and before all else.

cathartic release

forever and a day
by zach freier

you walked with me
that night through the
empty city streets
under a sky blackened
by clouds.

neither of us knew
the way, but i didn't
care, because
as long as we were
together, i was where
i needed to be.

but every time i
looked at you, you
seemed fainter, your eyes
dimmer, your face
more transparent, and
i knew you were leaving.

i asked if you remembered
all the times you said
you'd always be
there for me,
forever and a day.

you turned to look
into my eyes one last
time, and told me that
i didn't need you,
that even if i
don't know my way,
i'll always walk
in the right direction.

i closed my eyes as
you said you'd always
love me, and when i opened
them, you were gone.

i am lost without you.

Obituaries (Short Story)

I just realized I never posted the final draft of my Creative Writing short story, "Obituaries". So yeah, here it is.

Maybe I'll get back to writing, now that I'm back in Boulder. Maybe not. Maybe I should stop talking about getting back to writing, because it never seems to happen. Maybe I'm rambling now.

Enjoy.

Obituaries
by Zachary Freier

It was 5:38, 22 minutes to go on an early summer Friday; and there was nothing to do in CRM Life Insurance's Western Colorado office. My fellow cubicle workers and I had wheeled our identical black leather office chairs into an empty spot in the office – a Friday evening tradition – and they were all discussing their spouses. “My wife and I are thinking of going on vacation soon,” one of them said, to which another replied, “Where would you go?” “We haven't decided yet,” the first said, “somewhere nice.”

This all seemed like rather pointless conversation to me, but perhaps that was just because I couldn't relate to it. I was twenty-eight years old, and I was single. I was one of the only people I knew over the age of twenty-five who hadn't yet eloped; and the others were all perpetual bachelors, a role I didn't fit well into. This had haunted me for the past few years. I felt a sense of urgency about it, like I was running out of time. It was the same feeling that made me drop out of college after a year and start working this dead-end job at CRM.

“Wes,” one of my coworkers said, looking at me, “how's your wife doing?” They all laughed. He was referring to my one true love, my mountain bike. About a year before, I had made the mistake of talking about my bike in the office, using the customary female pronouns; and they just couldn't get enough of it.

“She's holding up fine,” I said, playing along. “We're going on vacation, too. This weekend. I'm taking her to Utah.” The only time I ever felt truly happy was when I went mountain biking. None of them understood that, of course, so they just laughed.

* * * *

I shifted down a few gears, and pedaled faster. Every muscle and tendon in my legs burned as I pushed myself and my bike up the steepest incline on the trail. The mountain's summit was up to my right, several thousand feet above the desert floor, at the northern end of a small chain that seemed out of place in its surroundings. The trail I was riding circled it about halfway up. It was rocky in some places, dusty in others. Pine trees stood on both sides along the whole length of the trail. A few times, it crossed small mountain creeks, which were running low as the last of the previous winter's snow melted from the very tip of the mountain, draining down to the Colorado River.

As I sped around a smooth curve to the right, there was a momentary break in the trees on my left, revealing a breathtaking sight. The mountain sloped downward steeply, plunging into the desert floor. A massive valley stretched out from the base of the mountain into the distance. Rock formations littered the floor of the valley, some clinging to the edges, others standing proud in the middle. They looked like sand castles. Just past the valley, I could barely make out the thin muddy sliver of the Colorado River. The clouds above were perfectly white and puffy, and looked so light that even the slightest wind would send them packing; but there was no wind.

Out of the corner of my eye I realized there was a sharp right turn less than ten yards ahead. I was going far too fast to take it. Out of instinct, I squeezed the brakes hard; but the front brake engaged a fraction of a second before the back. On a bike, when this happens at sufficient speed, it can be disastrous. The back wheel vaulted off the ground before its brake engaged to stop it. The whole bike, along with myself, pivoted over the front wheel.

I had no time to curse my bad luck or my stupidity as the path came flying up to meet me. I landed on my chest first, the rest of my body flopping onto the ground a fraction of a second later. I slid about a foot through the dirt before coming to a stop. My mind went completely blank for a few seconds.

When I came to, my breath was knocked out of me; but I wasn't worried about myself. I'd crashed many times before, and I was bound to crash many times in the future. I knew that the only injuries I'd have would be cuts, scrapes, and bruises. What worried me was that, when I managed to lift my head off the ground and look around, my bike was nowhere to be seen. She must have gone off the edge ahead. Rolling onto my side and gasping for air, I imagined her catapulting over my body, tumbling off the edge, propelled by gravity haphazardly down the hill, and glancing off of several broad pine trunks before finally hitting one square on, stopping her dead and doing God knows how much damage. This thought hurt more than my own landing. She had cost me almost two thousand dollars, and I loved her.

After a minute or two, I managed to catch my breath. I forced myself to my feet, brushing the dirt off of myself and coughing from all the dust in the air. My whole body hurt from the impact, but I could move fine, so I knew I hadn't broken anything. My forearms were covered in scrapes – the sort that sting like hell, but don't look too bad for a few minutes, before suddenly starting to bleed. I walked to where the trail veered off to the left, and my fears were confirmed. The hill before me was even steeper than I had imagined it would be, and the pines were thinner here than elsewhere on the mountain. My bike had tumbled about fifty yards down the hill before one of the trees had stopped her.

I descended the incline sideways, slowly, careful not to lose my footing. As I neared my bike's resting place, it became quite clear that I would not be riding her again any time soon. The front wheel was impaled on a short, dead branch protruding from the trunk of the tree near the base, two of the spokes snapped and a few others bent out of the way, the hub structure totaled. At some point in her descent, the front brake and gear shifter had slammed into something; the shifter was gone, the brake bent upward, and both the cables detached. One of the pedals was missing. I would have to carry my bike several miles to where I'd left my car, and drive her into Moab for surgery, which would be expensive.

I couldn't bear looking at her anymore, so I turned away and looked further down the hill. Something metallic next to a nearby tree caught my eye, and I made my way toward it. When I realized it was another bike, my first instinct was to laugh; some other poor bastard had done the same thing I did! Then, as I got closer, I saw something move underneath the bike, and I smelled...blood? My heart skipped a beat in fear, then began pounding at twice its normal rate. Yes, I thought, that smell blended in with the smells of the forest could be nothing other than blood.

I stepped slowly closer to the bike, and the man beneath it coughed. He sat with his back against a tree trunk, his mangled bike pinning him to it. This was probably how he landed from his fall down the hill. He looked up at me as I approached, and he seemed relieved. The first thing he said to me, between shallow, difficult breaths, was, “Oh, thank God . . . I heard something crash . . . I thought someone else . . . fell down the hill . . . Are you okay?”

I couldn't believe my ears. This man was likely in more pain than I'd ever been in my life, and he was worried about my well-being? “I'm fine,” I said, kneeling beside him, my legs trembling. “How bad is it?”

“Bad,” he coughed. “Can you get . . . this bike off me?” His breath rattled inside him. I slowly lifted the bike away from his body, laying it aside. He was a mess. One of his arms was broken, snapped halfway down the forearm at an unreal angle. Both of his ankles were shattered, his feet dangling lifelessly to the sides. The thing I was worried about, though, was his chest. Even through his bloody t-shirt it was obvious he had several broken ribs. At least one had broken the skin, I guessed from the blood that soaked his shirt and a few inches of the forest floor around him. I figured from his breathing that one of his other ribs had punctured one of his lungs. “See?” he said, “Bad.” He coughed again, and blood dribbled out of the corner of his mouth.

“How long have you been here like this?” I asked, barely able to believe what I was seeing.

“Oh . . . a few hours.”

“Good lord, we have to get you to a hospital!”

“I can't walk . . . and no offense . . . I don't think . . . you're strong enough to carry me.” He took a deep, rattling breath and laughed. He was right, of course. He was probably a few inches above six feet tall, and weighed at least two hundred pounds.

“Then I have to go get help.” I stood up.

“No . . . don't leave . . . there's not enough time . . . I don't want to . . . die alone.”

I knelt beside him again. “You're not going to die,” I said, though I wasn't sure I believed that myself. The amount of time he'd been there, how much blood he'd lost, and the fact that he had internal bleeding were all very bad signs. He probably only had one working lung, the other was probably filling with blood, and who knows what other organs might have been damaged as well. Still, I had to be as optimistic as possible. I had to do something. “At least let me go make a sign on the trail or something, so if someone else comes through they can help me get you off this mountain.”

He smiled weakly. “If it'll make you feel better . . . go ahead.”

“I'll be right back,” I assured him, and began making my way uphill.

“I promise . . . I won't go anywhere,” he said.

When I reached the top of the hill, I gathered rocks and sticks from the sides of the trail and piled them in the middle of the path. The path was clear otherwise at this point, so no one coming through could miss it. I swung my backpack off, pulled out a tattered black spiral notebook I used as my journal, and tore a page out of the back. With the pen I kept tucked in the spiral of the notebook, I wrote in large letters on the top of the page “PLEASE HELP”. Below that, in smaller letters, I wrote, “A man is seriously injured down the hill ahead. I need help getting him off of the mountain.” My hand shook as I wrote, and I feared it might not be legible; so I drew a large arrow pointing up the page, and set the page atop my makeshift roadblock so the arrow pointed toward the spot. I anchored it in place with a rock, and rushed back down to where the man was lying.

“See . . .” he said as I sat down on the ground beside him, “I didn't . . . go anywhere . . . I promised you I wouldn't.” He laughed. “What's your name?”

“Wes,” I said, relieved that he was still alive, “yours?”

“John . . . Nice to meet you, Wes.”

“Do you have family?” I asked.

“A wife . . . and a daughter.” He coughed, and spit a chunk of clotted blood onto the ground beside him.

“Then we've got to get you back to them,” I said. “Stay strong, for them.”

His breath started getting faster, and I knew he wouldn't last much longer. He reached out and grabbed my arm, pulling me closer to him. “I have to tell someone . . . I didn't marry my wife . . . because I loved her . . . I married her . . . because I figured . . . she was the best I could do . . . and I had to marry sometime . . . I've . . . never been in love, actually.” His eyes filled with tears for the first time, and I could tell that this fact was more painful than all the bodily damage his fall had done to him. “Now . . . I never will be.”

I, of course, knew exactly what he meant by feeling the need 'to marry sometime'. It was easy for me to imagine myself in a few years, married without being in love. “You don't know that,” I said, trying to comfort him. “We're gonna get you out of here. You have the rest of your life ahead of you to find what you're looking for.”

He shook his head slowly. “Wes, are you married?”

“No. Why?”

His breaths were getting shallower, and the rattling was getting louder. “Don't make the . . . mistake I made . . . Don't . . . let the world . . . tell you what . . . you have to do . . . like I did.” He closed his eyes slowly, and they did not open again.

My job existed solely because people die, but I'd never seen it happen. It shook me to the core, and I couldn't help but cry.
* * * *

As I left the hotel, I picked up a 50-cent copy of the Moab Times-Independent from a newspaper dispenser, wondering if there was a story about what had happened. I searched the whole paper, and found nothing until I got to the bottom of the second to last page. His was the only one that day; but it was still labeled with the plural, Obituaries:

Jonathan Richard Thompson, 41, died Saturday in a mountain biking accident in the La Sal Mountains. Jonathan was a lifelong resident of Moab, and an avid outdoorsman. He is survived by two siblings, his wife, and his 8-year-old daughter.

Three sentences. That's all they gave him. The injustice made my stomach turn. Is that all a life is worth?
* * * *

The next Monday, I quit my job, and applied to go back to college. My boss begged me to stay, and offered a fifty cent raise. I told him to give it to someone else instead. My co-workers didn't understand my decision, either. Too much time in a place like that does that to people, I guess.

I could never bring myself to go back to that trail in the La Sals. Sure, it would be profound; and I could spend hours reminiscing on John, and how much he meant to me. But I was afraid of that place, and I didn't need to go there to remember. His last words were imprinted in my brain, and every time life got hard, I'd remember them. Then I'd shift down a few gears, and pedal faster.

Creative Writing poems

Blogger is failing pretty miserably at rendering these, so I'll just direct you to my MySpace blog.

clicky clicky

Creative Writing Assignment #3: Short Story (Rough Draft)

Obituaries

It was 5:38, 22 minutes to go on an early summer Friday, and there was nothing to do in CRM Life Insurance's Western Colorado office. My fellow cubicle workers and I had wheeled our identical black leather office chairs into an empty spot in the office, a Friday evening tradition, and they were all discussing their spouses. “My wife and I are thinking of going on vacation soon,” one of them said, to which another replied, “Where would you go?” “We haven't decided yet,” the first said, “somewhere nice.”

This all seemed like rather pointless conversation to me, but perhaps that was just because I couldn't relate to it. I was twenty-eight years old, and I was not married. I was one of the only people I knew over the age of twenty-five who hadn't yet eloped, and the others were all perpetual bachelors, a role I didn't fit well into. This fact had haunted me for the past few years. I felt a sense of urgency about it, like I was running out of time. It was the same feeling that made me drop out of college after a year and start working at CRM.

“Wes,” one of my coworkers said, looking at me, “how's your wife doing?” They all laughed. He was referring to my one true love, my mountain bike. About a year before, I had made the mistake of talking about my bike in the office, using the customary female pronouns, and they just couldn't get enough of it.

“She's holding up fine,” I said, playing along. “We're going on vacation, too. This weekend. I'm taking her to Utah.” The only time I ever felt truly happy was when I went mountain biking. None of them understood that, of course, so they just laughed.

* * * *

I shifted down a few gears, and pedaled faster. Every muscle and tendon in my legs burned as I pushed myself and my bike up the steepest incline on the trail. The mountain's summit stood several thousand feet above the desert floor, at the northern end of a small chain that seemed out of place in its surroundings. The trail I was riding circled it about halfway up. It was rocky in some places, dusty in others, and pine trees stood on both sides along the whole length of the trail. A few times, it crossed small mountain creeks, which were running low as the last of the snow melted from the very tip of the mountain, draining down to the Colorado River.

As I sped around a smooth curve to the right, there was a momentary break in the trees on my left, revealing a breathtaking sight. The mountain sloped downward steeply, plunging into the desert floor. A massive valley stretched out from the base of the mountain into the distance. Rock formations littered the floor of the valley, some clinging to the edges, others standing proud in the middle. They looked like sand castles. Just past the valley, I could barely make out the thin muddy sliver of the Colorado River. The clouds above were perfectly white and puffy, and looked so light that even the slightest wind would send them packing, but there was no wind.

Out of the corner of my eye I realized there was a sharp left turn less than ten yards ahead. I was going far too fast to take it. Out of instinct, I squeezed the brakes hard, but the front brake engaged a fraction of a second before the back. On a bike, when this happens at sufficient speed, it can be disastrous. The back wheel vaulted off the ground before its brake engaged to stop it, and the whole bike, along with myself, pivoted over the front wheel.

I had no time to curse my bad luck or my stupidity as the path came flying up to meet me. I landed on my chest first, the rest of my body flopping onto the ground a fraction of a second later. I slid about a foot through the dirt before coming to a stop. My mind went completely blank for a few seconds.

When I came to, my breath was knocked out of me, but I wasn't worried about myself. I'd crashed many times before, and I was bound to crash many times in the future. I knew that the only injuries I'd have would be cuts, scrapes, and bruises. What worried me was that, when I managed to lift my head off the ground and look around, my bike was nowhere to be seen. She must have gone off the edge ahead. Rolling onto my side and gasping for air, I imagined her catapulting over my body, tumbling off the edge, propelled by gravity haphazardly down the hill, and glancing off of several broad pine trunks before finally hitting one square on, stopping her dead and doing God knows how much damage. This thought hurt more than my own landing. She had cost me almost two thousand dollars, and I loved her.

I finally managed to catch my breath, and I forced myself to my feet, brushing the dirt off of myself and coughing from all the dust in the air. My whole body hurt from the impact, but I could move fine, so I knew I hadn't broken anything. My forearms, though, were covered in scrapes – the sort that sting like hell, but don't look too bad for a few minutes, before suddenly starting to bleed. I walked to where the trail veered off to the left, and my fears were confirmed. The hill before me was even steeper than I had imagined it would be, and the pines were thinner here than elsewhere on the mountain, so my bike had tumbled about fifty yards down the hill before one of the trees had stopped her.

I descended the incline sideways, slowly, careful not to lose my footing. As I neared my bike's resting place, it became quite clear that I would not be riding her again any time soon. The front wheel was impaled on a short, dead branch protruding from the trunk of the tree near the base, two of the spokes snapped and a few others bent out of the way, the hub structure totaled. At some point in her descent, the front brake and gear shifter had slammed into something; the shifter was gone, the brake was bent upward, and both the cables were detached. One of the pedals was missing. I would have to carry my bike several miles to where I'd left my car, and drive her into Moab for surgery, which would be expensive.

I couldn't bear looking at her anymore, so I turned away and looked further down the hill. Something metallic next to a nearby tree caught my eye, and I made my way toward it. When I realized it was another bike, my first instinct was to laugh; some other poor bastard had done the same thing I did! Then, as I got closer, I noticed something laying underneath the bike, and I smelled...blood. My heart skipped a beat in fear, then began pounding at twice its normal rate. Yes, I thought, that smell blended in with the smells of the forest could be nothing other than blood.

I stepped slowly closer to the bike, and the man beneath it coughed. He sat with his back against a tree trunk, his mangled bike pinning him to it. This was probably how he landed from his fall down the hill. He looked up at me as I approached, and he seemed relieved. The first thing he said to me, between shallow, difficult breaths, was, “Oh, thank God . . . I heard something crash . . . I thought someone else . . . fell down the hill . . . Are you okay?”

I couldn't believe my ears. This man was likely in more pain than I'd ever been in my life, and he was worried about my well-being? “I'm fine,” I said, kneeling beside him, my legs trembling. “How bad is it?”

“Bad,” he coughed. “Can you get . . . this bike off me?” His breath rattled inside him. I slowly lifted the bike away from his body, laying it aside. He was a mess. One of his arms was broken, snapped halfway down the forearm at an unreal angle. Both of his ankles were shattered, his feet dangling lifelessly to the sides. The thing I was worried about, though, was his chest. Even through his bloody t-shirt it was obvious he had several broken ribs. At least one had broken the skin, I guessed from the blood that soaked his shirt and a few inches of ground in every direction around him. I figured from his breathing that one of his other ribs had punctured one of his lungs. “See?” he said, “Bad.” He coughed again, and blood dribbled out of the corners of his mouth.

“How long have you been here like this?” I asked, barely able to believe what I was seeing.

“Oh . . . a few hours.”

“Good lord, we have to get you to a hospital!”

“I can't walk . . . and no offense . . . I don't think . . . you're strong enough to carry me.” He took a deep, rattling breath and laughed. He was right, of course. He was probably a few inches above six feet tall, and weighed at least two hundred pounds.

“Then I have to go get help.” I stood up.

“No . . . don't leave . . . there's not enough time . . . I don't want to . . . die alone.”

I knelt beside him again. “You're not going to die,” I said, though I wasn't sure I believed that myself. The amount of time he'd been there, how much blood he'd lost, and the fact that he had internal bleeding were all very bad signs. He probably only had one working lung, the other was probably filling with blood, and who knows what other organs might have been damaged as well. Still, I had to be as optimistic as possible, and I had to do something. “At least let me go make a sign on the trail or something, so if someone else comes through they can help me get you off this mountain.”

He smiled weakly. “If it'll make you feel better . . . go ahead.”

“I'll be right back,” I assured him, and began making my way uphill.

“I promise . . . I won't go anywhere,” he said.

When I reached the top of the hill, I gathered rocks and sticks from the sides of the trail and piled them in the middle of the path. The path was clear otherwise at this point, so no one coming through could miss it. I swung my backpack off, pulled out a tattered black spiral notebook I used as my journal, and tore a page out of the back. With the pen I kept tucked in the spiral of the notebook, I wrote in large letters on the top of the page “PLEASE HELP”. Below that, in smaller letters, I wrote, “A man is seriously injured down the hill ahead. I need help getting him off of the mountain.” My hand shook as I wrote, and I feared it might not be legible; so I drew a large arrow pointing up the page, and set the page atop my makeshift roadblock so the arrow pointed toward the spot. I anchored it in place with a rock, and rushed back down to where the man was lying.

“See . . .” he said as I sat down on the ground beside him, “I didn't . . . go anywhere . . . I promised you I wouldn't.” He laughed. “What's your name?”

“Wes,” I said, relieved that he was still alive, “yours?”

“John . . . Nice to meet you, Wes.”

“Do you have family?” I asked.

“A wife . . . and a daughter.” He coughed, and spit a chunk of clotted blood onto the ground beside him. “I have to tell someone . . . I didn't marry my wife . . . because I loved her . . . I married her . . . because I figured . . . she was the best I could do . . . and I had to marry sometime . . . I've . . . never been in love, actually.” His eyes filled with tears for the first time, and I could tell that this fact was more painful than all the bodily damage his fall had done to him. “Now . . . I never will be.”

I, of course, knew exactly what he meant by feeling the need “to marry sometime”. It was easy for me to imagine myself in a few years, married without being in love. “You don't know that,” I said, trying to comfort him. “We're gonna get you out of here. You have the rest of your life ahead of you to find what you're looking for.”

He shook his head slowly. “Wes, are you married?”

“No. Why?”

His breaths were getting shallower, and the rattling was getting louder. “I don't want this to . . . sound cliché . . . but it's important . . . Don't get married . . . unless you're in love . . . Don't . . . let the world . . . tell you what . . . you have to do . . . like I did.” He closed his eyes slowly, and they did not open again.

My job existed solely because people die, but I'd never seen it happen. It shook me to the core, and I couldn't help but cry.

* * * *

As I left the hotel, I picked up a 50-cent copy of the Moab Times-Independent from a newspaper dispenser, wondering if there was a story about what had happened. I searched the whole paper, and found nothing until I got to the bottom of the second to last page. His was the only one that day, but it was still labeled with the plural, Obituaries:

Jonathan Richard Thompson, 41, died Saturday in a mountain biking accident in the La Sal Mountains. Jonathan was a lifelong resident of Moab, and an avid outdoorsman. He is survived by two siblings, his wife, and his 8-year-old daughter.

Three sentences. That's all they gave him. The injustice made my stomach turn. But I knew that, even if he didn't mean much to the world, he meant the world to me, and his real obituary would be the effect he had on me. My whole outlook on life had changed literally overnight. I knew I couldn't rush into marriage, or forget any of my dreams. I would quit my job, and go back to college. My life, from now on, would be my own, not society's. I would not give up.

Creative Writing Assignment #2: Dialogue

Runaway Train

Justin sits at his desk, staring distastefully at his Calculus homework. Jason is on a couch on the other side of the room, strumming absent-mindedly on an acoustic guitar. He stops playing for a moment and looks at Justin.

Jason: Why do you even bother with that bullshit class?

Justin, looking up, startled: How long have you been there?

Jason, playing a simple chord progression: A few minutes. Didn't you hear the guitar?

Justin: No, I'm too busy with my homework.

Jason: I asked you a question. Why do you bother with that bullshit class?

Justin: Calculus isn't a bullshit class.

Jason, messing up a chord and cursing under his breath: It isn't?

Justin: I have to take it. For my major.

Jason, starting into “Runaway Train” on his guitar: Ah, yes. Your major. Molecular, Cellular, and Developmental Biology. By the way, I've always wanted to ask, did you pick that 'cause it has a cool name, or do you actually like it?

Justin: I...I'm not sure. I've always been good at science, and MCDB is a good pre-med major, and...

Jason, interrupting him: Serial killers are good at killing people. Does that mean they should do it? On second thought, bad example. They usually enjoy it. But you get the idea, I'm sure.

Justin: Yeah, I get it.

Jason: So, do you really wanna be a doctor, or does it just sound like a good idea 'cause you think you'd be good at it?

Justin: I dunno, I don't think about things like this a whole lot. I'm sort of just going wherever life leads me, you know?

Jason, playing a bit louder and raising his voice over the sound of the guitar: Bullshit. You chose this path with no good reason, and you're sticking to it for no good reason. That's not following the whims of fate and chance, my friend.

Justin: Oh, you're probably right, like usual, but would you get off my back about this?

Jason, sighing: You do whatever you want, buddy. I guess it's not my place to complain.

Justin: So why do you always complain?

Jason: I just hate to see you ruining your life, is all.

Justin, closing his eyes and shaking his head: I'm not ruining my life!

Justin opens his eyes, and Jason is nowhere to be seen.

Justin, looking around the empty room and shaking his head: I have got to get a nicer hallucination.

Creative Writing Assignment #1: Point of View

For my first Creative Writing assignment, I was to write a one-page story, and then re-write it from two other points of view. This is the result.

Point of View #1 – The girlfriend

I can't believe he broke up with me. There we were, at our favorite restaurant, and in the middle of a conversation about the food he just casually slips in, "I think we should break up.” I thought he was kidding at first, but then he said I was too clingy, and he couldn't take it anymore.

"Clingy?” I said, feeling tears forming. "What...I love you!”

"Exactly,” he told me. So he really didn't love me. I was afraid of that; every time I told him I loved him he would look away and say nothing. I was just hoping he was afraid of being in love, something he would get over, something I would help him get over. I guess not.

"What an asshole,” Amber says from the other side of her couch. It's the next day, and I'm telling my best friend all about what happened. We've been friends since elementary school, and she's always there for me, no matter what.

"I... love... him,” I manage to say between sobs, as Amber hands me another tissue.

"I know you do,” she says, "but you just have to remember that there are always other fish in the sea.”

There are other fish in the sea for him, sure. He doesn't love me, so he'll have no trouble moving on. But I love him. With everything in me. I'm not the sort of person who can just forget about that, and leave this relationship behind like it never even happened. At least I have such a good best friend, though. I lean against her on the couch and drift off to sleep.

Point of View #2 – The boyfriend

I'm so glad I finally got rid of that bitch. I never really liked her. Don't get me wrong; there are always benefits to having a girlfriend, even if you hate her. We had plenty of fun, if you know what I mean. It's just that the girl was too damn clingy. She would get this stupid adoring look in her eyes, whisper "I love you”, and look at me like she expected a response. How on earth was I supposed to respond to something like that? I never knew what to say, so there would always be these awkward silences for a few moments that felt like ages. Now I'll never have to deal with that again.

I'm not much a fan of being single, though. All my friends have girlfriends they've been with for months. Hanging out with the guys just isn't the same when they all feel sorry for you, or when they think you're a loser; it's even worse if you can't tell which.

So now it's the day after I broke up with my girlfriend, and I'm calling Amber. She's my ex-girlfriend's best friend, which will probably make things weird for a while if we get together; but she's hot, and available, so I'll find a way to make it work. "Hello?” she says.

"Hi, Amber,” I reply. "Look, I'm sure you know by now what happened last night. I just want to let you know that I don't think this has to keep the two of us from being friends. Or more than friends, if you want.”

She doesn't say anything, but I can hear her breathing get deeper, and I know I have her, so I go in for the kill. "Can I take you out for dinner tonight?”

"Yes” is all she can say. I've always had this sort of effect on girls. I don't think I'll ever have much trouble getting laid.

"Great. I'll pick you up at six.”

I call all my friends and tell them I have a new girl. My ex-girlfriend's best friend, no less. And it only took 16 hours. A few hours less and this would have been a new record.

Point of View #3 – Amber

I don't know what I'm going to do.

Yesterday, my best friend called me and told me she needed to talk to me, so I told her to come over. She sat down on the couch next to me and told me her boyfriend broke up with her the night before. They were together for five months, and apparently it never meant much to him. "What an asshole,” I said. I didn't really think he was wrong to break up with her. She loved him, and he didn't love her back, so it would have been more cruel to keep it going. But sometimes you have to say bad things about someone to your best friend even if you don't believe it, to try to make her feel better. It's an unwritten rule, but that doesn't make it any less universal.

Later, when she was fast asleep on my couch, exhausted from all the crying, he called me. Now, I know what you're thinking – time to tell the bastard off. The problem is that I like him. A lot. And he was asking me out. For a moment, I forgot all about my friend, and all I could think was that this guy was asking if I'd like to go on a date with him. I said yes. He said he'd pick me up at six.

Now it's 5:59, my best friend is still asleep, and the guy who broke her heart last night is knocking on my door, ready to take me to dinner. If I go with him, it'll hurt my friend even more, but I'm sure he and I can be happy together. I feel like I'm in a soap opera, and this is one of those moments when a character faces a moral dilemma at just the right time for a commercial break. The audience is glued to the screen through the advertisements, not wanting to miss a single second of the show, and everyone knows this is what makes for good television. But that poor character is stuck on pause in the middle of an excruciating thought process. And this time, it's not a soap opera, it's real life, it's me, and there's no audience getting pleasure out of it to make it worthwhile.

Oh God damn it, I know what I have to do. I have to open that door, tell him that I can't go out with him because of what he did to my friend, and come back inside. I walk to the door, and swing it open just as he's about to knock again. He's so cute, standing there, frozen for a second, his fist up in the middle of the motion. Then his arm drops, and he says, "Hi. Are you ready?”

"Yes,” I say, helpless in his gaze. "I'm ready.” Ready to betray my friend, for the chance to be with this guy. I didn't remember my friend was there until she was chasing after us on foot, screaming, as we drove away.

Well, at least he got that much right

From yesterday's Boston Globe:

WASHINGTON - With a few strokes of his pen, President Obama charted a new path yesterday in the fight against terrorism, signing executive orders to close the Guantanamo Bay detention center within a year and to ban harsh interrogation tactics, such as waterboarding, that the Bush administration endorsed but that critics consider torture.

Now, let's not get too excited about this. Sure, it's great that he's done this, and it was absolutely necessary. But he still has a lot of work to do to prove himself worthy of the love that America has already poured all over him.

I hope I'm wrong about him. I really do. I just doubt it.

Inauguration

I don't know how well Barack Obama will do as President of the United States. Frankly, I'm not very optimistic about it. There's one thing, though, that I'm happy about today:

George W. Bush is no longer the President.

'Nuff said.

College update: One semester down, no less than seven to go

I love CU-Boulder.

This whole college experience has, so far, been incredible for me. I'm out on my own, independent. I've met a lot of great people. I will never again have to deal with all the crap that comes with high school. I party enough to keep myself sane, but not so much that it ruins my life. And my first semester classes went remarkably well; I got straight A's, and I didn't have to stress myself to death to do it!

I'm living in a two bedroom apartment with four other guys. I know how awful that must sound; but believe me, it's been fantastic. We all, somehow, get along just fine; I can't think of even one single major argument between any of us so far. And no communal showers!

The city of Boulder is beautiful. It sits in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains - let's just say I don't mind the view every day when I look west! There are pedestrian/bike trails all throughout the city, and mountain biking trails not far up into the canyons that stick out from Boulder into the mountains. I love the people here, too - except the ones who have let living in such a great place get to their heads and turn them into total snobs.

This semester may not be as easy as the last one. My classes will likely be a bit more difficult, and I intend to spend more time working (I have a job at the library). Still, I'm looking forward to it.

Also, I have some good news: One of my classes this semester is Creative Writing. I'm taking it to force myself to write. I intend to post everything I write for the class (and on my own spare time) to the Internet, but I haven't yet decided if I should open a second blog for the creative writing or just post it all here. Regardless, you should expect to see a lot more writing from me in the coming weeks and months.

Well, I'm going to just let this end here, however awkward it is. Peace!