"Name that band," said with expectation of Holy Communion between individual experiences, with voice loud enough to invite the half dozen of us within eavesdropping range to observe his membership, to invite us to join, or at least to want to join.
Funny, that expectation of communion. I've felt it too. You chase your musical whims and find in the vast field of methodically arranged aural frequency sets a particular set that tingles you in old and new regions. You play and replay it, you attach it to your collage of self. You watch for perked up ears among the outside collages when you play it. Then you see someone else get tingled and it's like you're sharing the same parts. You're made of the same stuff. You attain elusive intimacy that well-functioning humans seek.
To see the musical interfacing from the outside feels perverse, like witnessing PDA, or, in this case, a failed pick up line. "It's...'' the name didn't register. "Oh, really, I didn't recognize..." I left to complete my session.
I’d been diligent about maintaining a streak of abridged lunchtime sessions during the week. There simply is no other time, and to climb a few boulder problems, to strength train a little, to run one mile each day on the treadmill is enough to keep me whole. But now, suddenly, the lunchtime workout was engendered with a sense of mission. Laura's mom and brother were coming to town for the weekend. That meant the kids were covered, and I could go climbing.
Alex and I attempted to plan a traverse of the Presidential Range in NH for this weekend weeks ago, but I had no kid coverage so it fizzled. Then he made plans with Spencer, who has been further hardening his slender man visage to ice monster function between congressional recesses. Now I'm back and crashing the party. Spencer had our sights north so far as Quebec, where there are ice falls the color of sanitary outfall, d'Or as they say, 1000' tall, or 350m as they say, and where you have to ski 10 miles, or 16 kilometers as they say, to access the flows. But man, that's a lot to try and pack into a long weekend, and the forecast was for cold with feel of death, and there's no good feedback saying that the big poop flows are in condition.
And ice climbing is a rough sport to adopt with home base in DC. As a rock climber you feel that your skills should segue very well to ice, and they do, but then you encounter the severity aspect. You fall off good steep rock and the rope whips through carabiners attached to metal wedged in solid rock substrate till rope tension, gentle swing into wall, and bounce to a stop. You fall off ice, which grows clean only at low, leg breaking angles, and is chandeliered when straight, and your rope whips through carabiners attached to metal in brittle water substrate till rope tension, gentle swing, crampon point catches ice, ankle break, or, worse, chandelier blows up. It defies the casual approach. I used to just get after it, and embrace fear. I faked it. Now I don't want to fake it. I want to do it for real as the ice monster, protected by tuned strength and instincts. But you have to have a certain surplus of time to nurture regionally esoteric skills. Anyway. My heart wasn’t sure. High’s of 70 degrees in Red Rock outside of Vegas I see? Alex saw too. Yessiree. Tickets booked. Hotel booked.
The wonderful thing about ice climbing is that it transports you to a crisp, ethereal, brisk world of glinting, refracting light, and sounds all hushed by snow, but, inevitably, often after a few bouts of the screaming barfies where blood returns to freezing digits and complains loudly about the whole getting shut out in the first place thing and slugs the same part of your CNS that makes you want to barf after getting hit in the genitals, you start daydreaming about the simple life of climbing rock on gear in determinate substrate, birds singing, warm light as around sunrise or sunset, with only the need for thin fabric covering. This time, dead of winter, we're cutting straight to that image, and we're going to live it out. We are going to play act the dream. Spencer, I'm afraid, is too tuned up. He refuses the dream. He will roam the quarries of PA in search for ice.