#thatawkwardmomentwhenyougetallexistentialinanairport

Watch all the videos these guys make - two fast-talking brothers share hilarious insights on science, history, modern issues, video games, politics, and more.

Oh, geez.

Yeah.

Welp.

I.

Well, shit (as my philosophy professor used to say).  Sorry for the total blogging fuckup, guys.  I am, in fact, alive and not - as the duration of the last post's status as the most recent post would suggest - mopey and depressed.

So what exactly have I been doing with all the time I haven't spent blogging? you ask.

I went to the Denver County Fair, where I won a t-shirt and ate a delicious quesadilla and saw a cream-colored donkey with whom I felt a deep inexplicable kinship.

I picked up a terrible part time job that nonetheless pays the bills as it sucks away my patience and goodwill toward my fellow humankind.

I read Mary Roach's hilarious Packing for Mars, Bonk, and Spook, all of which caused me to literally lol as I learned interesting facts about spaceflight, sex research, and the afterlife, respectively. I reread Ender's Game in a single insomniac night. I borrowed Nick's copy of 2001: A Space Odyssey (the book) and devoured that - the movie makes SO MUCH MORE SENSE now.

Most recently, I've been working on opening up an Etsy shop, which contains items like this:

Yes, that's a mug of Nikola Tesla, the electric Jesus.  Yes, that's a reference to a certain drunken video.

Pretty much my shop is just an excuse for me to be as deeply crafty and nerdy as I want.

So now that I've got you all caught up on my life, expect more posts soon.

good boy

I miss you.

I'm glad I was home, and not still in Chicago.  I'm glad I got to sit with you and scratch your ears.

I still can't really believe you're not around.  I still feel like I'll walk in the door and there you'll be, your ridiculous, adorable stub of a tail wagging visibly.  Like if I sit on the floor, you'll try to crawl into my lap, even though you're really too big to be a lap dog.

I want to throw plastic bottles around the yard for you to chase - I even want to hear you crunching and squeaking them to pieces.  I have no idea why you liked them so much; you were such a loveable weirdo, and I think that's what I miss most.

The worst part is that I wasn't prepared to say goodbye to you.  I mean, no one ever is.  But you were supposed to have another good ten years.  In that last week, I wasn't even seriously worried, because I just figured you'd get better.  That's how it works.  You were young and otherwise healthy.  You'd get better and live a long happy life.  I'd get to see if your one still-floppy ear would ever stiffen up.  I'd get to see if you ever lost your soft puppy fur.

But I guess that's not how it always works.

Part of me thinks it's maybe a little bit silly to get so worked up and heartbroken over a dog.  That's the part that tries to be sensible and cynical.  The stupid part.

Because you weren't just a dog.  Well, okay, you were - but you were one hell of a dog.  And you deserve every tear and honest, un-self-censored pang of grief.

And no dog is "just" a dog, because dogs are loyalty and love made flesh.  No matter what terrible things humanity has done or ever will do, we can point to dogs and say, "Well, at least we made one good and beautiful thing."

You were no exception.  I miss the way you'd sit on my feet, or crawl under Nick's legs when we were sitting on the couch, because you wanted to be as close to us as you possibly could.

We didn't do a good job training you - you never did learn to stop pulling on the leash - but you always wanted to please.  It's a silly thing, but you even ate nicely.  You didn't gobble your kibbles, and you always waited for me to put a treat in your bowl before you tried eating it.  You'd leave the kitchen when we told you to stop hunting for scraps while we were cooking.  You always came when we called.  You didn't like baths or being brushed, but you stood still and let us do it anyway.

I can still see you lying on the cool tiles by the front door, belly up and legs splayed in the air, the very picture of relaxation.  It broke my heart in those last minutes, saying goodbye, when you scooted off the blankets at the vet's office so you could lie on the smooth linoleum.  It was so much harder saying goodbye knowing you were still there.

If someone said I could go back and relive the two years with you, but that it would always end this way, I would do it.  Because even knowing you for too short a time is worth all the heartache and pain I feel now.

I'm so glad I got to meet you.

I wish we'd had longer.  I don't think I'll ever stop missing you.

You were a good dog.  The best.

Chicagoland

A few weeks ago, I went back to Chicago (only the second time I've done so since moving westward three years ago).

I went for an interview with an amazing company (for a job which, sadly, I did not get), and plane ticket pricing granted me the excuse to stay through the weekend, i.e. Have rad times with all my friends.

As much as I love living out west amid the mountains and treehuggers, I really do miss home.  Which isn't so much a place (I'm not particularly tied to the midwest, though I do enjoy it) as it is the close community of friends I literally grew up with.  Home is also with Nick, but it's a different sort of happiness and safety.  When I was in Chicago, I missed him.  When I'm in Denver, I miss my childhood friends.  Having two homes in two different places can be difficult.

Becky and Meghan and Molly knew me when I wore baggy t-shirts and smudgy tennis shoes.  We went through the awkward, rocky, embarrassing teenage years together.  We speak like each other.  We fight and bicker and laugh and communicate via weird noises.  I'm pretty sure they know me better than practically anyone.

But I tend to do this to myself.  I went to school in Iowa instead of staying in Chicago.  I moved to Colorado shortly after I graduated college.  I think I do it to test myself.  I'm a homebody, and I tend to not leave my comfort zone.  Moving away from everything is a way to force myself to cut down the safety nets of familiarity.

Being back among Becky and Meghan and Molly and seeing Chris, an old college friend, was invigorating.

I've been away from female friends for too long.  I forgot how much fun it is to just sit and talk (okay, so it was really just gossiping).  We drank beers out on the deck in the evenings, sweating in the humid summer air.  We went to see an improv show that took an audience suggestion and made it into a complete Shakespearean style play.  We got nerdy and discussed Harry Potter and the Avengers.  We went to see Moonrise Kingdom.  We partied it up in the suburbs and played with dogs and kittens.  We spent the greater part of an evening in hysterics, rewording the chorus to Call Me Maybe - an abominably irritating song which became awesome when we got hold of it:

I just met you,
and this is crazy -
but here's my number.
I've got a boner.

Because we're so classy.

It was a much needed vacation among my dearest friends.

Backyard camping & Jiffy Pop

"I don't know how to say this without sounding like a stoner ... but I seriously love all you guys."

Nick said it best.

Last weekend, we went backyard camping with Keefe, Kelsey, Kirk (who are siblings and have been friends with Nick since he was in high school).  It's pretty much exactly what it sounds like: we pitched a tent in the yard, filled it with sleeping bags, cooked s'mores on the grill, and woke up when dawn shone through the green nylon sides of the tent.

Oh, and we made JiffyPop on the stove. So that's number 14 off the list.
14. Make JiffyPop on the stove.


It was one of the best nights I've had in a long time. There was laughter and general shenanigans and shared nostalgia.

The cat in the video above managed to escape out the screen door and ended up in the neighbor's yard.  Kirk had to climb over the fence and retrieve him.  We felt a mix of sheepishness and daring.

The marshmallows didn't get very toasted over the grill, but they were definitely gooey and made delicious s'mores.  I had one for breakfast the next morning.

Poor Keefe is a restless sleeper and flails around a bit - it's partly sad, because you know he's not getting any rest, but it's also partly hilarious.  We had to all press pillows over our faces to stifle our hyper, late-night hysterics.  Nick was going crazy with laughter - I haven't seen him laugh that hard since college.  It was great.

In all, it was a fantastic night.  Hopefully I'll have many more such adventures this summer.

p.s. I'm going to be in Chicago for an interview - expect a post about that particular adventure soon!

"RRAAAaaw, nuts."

Reconnected with Brit today - I can't believe it's been five years since we were in London. Five years since we, along with N. Bailey, made this little gem of a video for Apple's 2007 Insomnia film festival. Five years since I played a crazy game in a little Portland pub that was sort of like bowling but involved launching yourself at the pins. Five years since I got up at three in the morning in order to wait in line for day tickets with Brit and N. Bailey and Gonzalo. Five years since I've set foot on the Tube, or eaten at Chick Chicken, or played a homemade version of Apples to Apples which included cards like "Chernobyl" and "Lollies."

Has it really been that long?

I think it's about time for another adventure.

I'm feeling a bit nostalgic today.

Check one more off the list (whoops, two more)

Video posted by youtube user bebopsam1975

10. Sit outside to watch a thunderstorm.

Done and done.

It stormed all evening yesterday. Lots of lightning (that video above is amazing, don't you think? the way the lightning branches out, questing around for the easiest path through the air?). There was actually a tornado warning.

Nick and I were in the middle of making dinner when it happened. We had some pasta cooking, so Nick stayed with it while it finished and then headed downstairs. We sat eating our dinner and then headed to bed once the warning was over. Well, I sat up and worked, but Nick needed to sleep so he could get up at 4am for work.

I love sitting in the dark, watching lightning light the curtains. As a kid, I was terrified of thunderstorms - it was the thunder, loud and unexpected. I hated being startled, and would wait until right after a loud crash of thunder to dash to my parents' bedroom, my pillow squashed over my hears.

Now, though, nighttime storms just make me feel quiet and centered. I love falling asleep to the lights and sounds of a storm.

I was lying there, listening to the rain. It was about midnight. The storm seemed to be picking up again, another cell passing overhead. The wind roared up, and the rain turned into hail. I could hear it bouncing off the roof and occasionally against the windows. It was unbelievably loud.

Nick woke up, and we went to look outside. It was torrential. We stood with the front door open, looking out into the darkness. You could hear heavy drops hitting the ground, mixed with marble sized hailstones. I kept trying to see if the lightning strikes revealed moments of blue sky, but all that registered was each brief flash of white.

The air smelled unbelievably clean. You've probably heard of petrichor, the smell of soil and dust after rain. This was different. The ozone produced by the lightning scrubbed the air clean, and the hailstones had pounded the evergreen shrubs in front of the house, releasing the sharp verdant smell of resin and sap. I wish I could have captured it. It smelled wild and fresh and dangerous and fierce, like the shattering, life-giving storms on ancient Earth.

Nick said, "Man, imagine being a plant in prehistory and experiencing this. I'd be like, 'Eff this, I need to evolve some bark, because every time it hails, I'm freakin' deaded.'"

We stood and took in the wind and downpour and thunder. And then, more philosophically, Nick said, "It makes you feel pretty small, doesn't it. We've gotten good at predicting it, but there's not much we can do about it when it happens."

Small, and fearful, and joyful. It's strange, and good, to be reminded that we're not in control. There are bigger forces at work, ones that are mindless and ungoverned. It's frightening, but also a bit freeing.



On a completely unrelated note, I actually managed to cross off another item from the list.

13. Learn to cut Nick's hair.

I watched a lot of how-to videos and then had at it. It wasn't a huge success, but it also wasn't a giant failure. I'm not sure if Nick's willing to submit to my amateur skills again, but he said he was impressed by and appreciative of my determination.

It's quickly turning into picnic weather - number 17, here I come.

Vote for my DMNS scifi t-shirt contest design!

Just Like and comment on the photo!

The t-shirt will be black and white, but here's the original full-color design.

Thank you!

UPDATE:
I won! Many thanks to everyone who voted.

Thing to make you cry with joy #1: Guy proposes with a giant song and dance number

Okay, so I know stuff like this sets women's expectations way too high, but ... come on, it's so, so wonderful. You can't not love it.

luminous and happy

(video credit youtube user AgentThirtyFour)

I watched the solar eclipse with Nick last week. The internet misinformed us, and we thought we wouldn't be able to see the eclipse from home. A road trip to New Mexico or Arizona was out, given that we're broke, and Nick couldn't get Monday off of work. So we watched the eclipse online. After a while, though, we figured we'd give it a shot, and went outside to see what we could see. I'd bought a pair of flimsy solar viewing glasses a couple months ago, and we decided to give 'em a spin.

As we stepped onto the sidewalk, there was a break in the cloud cover, and we were able to see the last ten minutes of the eclipse. It was really strange, but very fun, looking at the little orange sun, grinning like the moon. A good quarter of its face was hidden in shadow. We watched the shadow sliding away and the sun slipping behind the horizon.

It was fun. I know I already said that, but it was. Fun in a summer vacation, staying up past our bedtimes kind of way - except this isn't summer vacation and I don't really have bedtimes anymore. It was nostalgic. It felt like when I was a kid and would lie in bed with the late summer sun coming in through the white curtains, falling asleep listening to the older kids playing down the street, to the irregular pong! pang! pong! of their basketball smacking the pavement. Comfortable, and familiar. Not the eclipse itself, I guess. But tumbling outside into late afternoon sunlight, getting giddy and awestruck. It was like being a kid.

Just a few days ago, Nick and I attended a friend's young brother's graduation party. It was another gloriously nostalgic day. Gorgeous weather. I sat outside and ate grapes and relaxed with friends and made plans to go backyard camping this summer. I also got involved in a lively debate about the relative believability of Voldemort's reign of terror in the wizarding world. (I love having intensely nerdy friends.)

It's weird. The stress and constant pressure of needing and failing to find a job (or rather, a job that measures its payment by the year, not by the hour) has me feeling pretty desperate and worried most of the time. But then at other times, I'm struck by these inexplicable kid-moods. Like, I'm overcome by these wild creative desires that are not at all productive or realistic. I think it's just subconscious escapism - just my mind trying to distract me from anxiety. Or maybe it's trying to motivate me? Like it's saying, "Look at all the rad stuff you could do once you're not worrying about how you're going to afford to buy groceries!"

For example (given the time and opportunity), I want to be in a big ridiculous joyful sloppy scornful loving cynical gigantic bizarro band that's like the Decemberists & the Head and the Heart & Florence + the Machine & Glittermouse & Mucca Pazza & OK Go rolled into one, all heartfelt and nerdy. With like twelve people on stage, playing weird instruments and being noisy and luminous and happy. Our shows would only be performed in the summer, at night, outdoors, with the crickets and frogs, and each performance would be accompanied by fireworks. And we'd hand out sparklers to the audience.

Realistic? Practical? Reasonable?

No. And, in all honesty, it's probably something I'll never actually do. But it's a nice daydream, and it reminds me of all the small ridiculous creative things I want to be doing. Filming youtube movies. Making music with friends. Trying out new recipes. Learning to swing dance.

It's a good reminder to myself to keep sending out applications, to keep editing and tweaking my resume, to keep churning out cover letters. Because, one day soon, I'm gonna land a decent job and I'll have time to be just as ridiculous and creative as I damned well please.

It's gonna happen soon. And when it does - look out.

Questions without answers

Lately, life has been filled with stress and uncertainty. Well. More than usual. It's mostly to do with trying and failing to find a job, attempting to figure out what I want to be doing, not knowing where to go next. The usual post-collegiate sense of failure and ineptitude, compounded by the three year gap since graduation, during which time I was supposed to have been busy getting my act together.

It's not hopeless, I know. It only feels like all that initial potential has been slowly draining away. But, I tend to think that things will work out one way or another. I tend to think that it's good to be proactive, but not useful burning up energy worrying - because one day soon, I'll find a decent job and life will continue. It's the inertia of being alive.

During a recent phone call with my parents, in which I was discussing my lack of success in finding steady employment, my father advised me to pray about it in the hopes that god would open the door to a job.

This was a loaded statement, heavy with worry for my damned soul and disapproval of my sinful ways and disappointment at my failure to keep to the religious line. It breaks my heart every time I hear it, or any of its many incarnations, come from my parents' mouths.

Of my circle of friends, I was probably the one who clung to religion the longest - at least, outwardly. I was good at it, good at acting the right way and saying the right things. It was easy, and it won me approval. Approval and acceptance were, for many years, the main motivator behind being religious. Which is terribly tragic. Sometimes I reread old journals and see myself struggling with religion, desperately repeating that I'd always believe, hoping to convince myself. It was a security blanket I held onto long after I ceased to really trust in its ability to grant protection or comfort.

One of the hardest things for me was admitting to myself what I'd known for a long time: that all the worst experiences and thoughts I've ever had have stemmed from the misplaced sense of inadequacy and guilt that was ingrained in me by religion. It was hard to admit that religion had driven a wedge between me and my parents. But my fear of letting go of the comfortable lie I'd built was overcome by my desire to live honestly. I was able to let myself say out loud that I've never seen religion do anything to edify or empower, instead of just choking back the words.

Original sin, humanity's inevitable fall, the essential brokenness and darkness of the world, any instances of good being instances of god - these are tenets of religion that have never sat well with me.

It's cheap. It's disingenuous.

To blame the horror and iniquities of life on humanity, and to credit its moments of grace and kindness to a deity, is so cowardly and despairing.

My parents want me to be religious. I know it comes from a place of love and concern; from their point of view, faith was the only thing that got them through their turbulent times. The generosity of their friends, the support of their community (which was largely religious) was attributed to a strong shared sense of faith, and to the ministrations of a god that watches out for his own. (I think it should have been attributed to the bonds of friendship and loyalty.) So I understand why they want faith for me. They find contentment and relief in "letting things go" and "giving it to god." They distrust the world, have experienced the dangers of putting your trust in people, who can fail you. They want me to think of my eternal soul, of the place I'll hold after I die. They want me to recognize and accept a loving and caring god.

And given half the chance would I take any of it back?
It's a fine romance, but it's left me so undone.

But I want to live in the world, among this flawed and imperfect people, a member of a beautiful and strange species. I'm not just a visitor here, as so many sermons have said. I'm a resident. This is my one real home.

I want to participate in the human pursuit of knowledge, in flexing our young ancient wild minds. I want to fall down and make mistakes. I want to be picked up and dusted off by other people who have fallen down and made mistakes, too. Failure is an occupational hazard, a mark of courage, a rite of passage - not something shameful, something to need forgiveness for.

I put my trust in my friends. Yes, people can fail you, can leave you wounded and lost. But shutting out the good for fear of potential pain is widely regarded as a culpably stupid course of action. It has always been my friends who supported me whether I knew I needed it or not. It was never faith that soothed me when I was hurting, never a sense of god's presence that healed a broken heart. It was the sense of camaraderie and love among friends, the immediacy of their understanding of being hurt and flawed, the balm of human empathy, and the tangibility of held hands and wordless loving embraces.

I don't need to think of a creator to feel awe when I stand at the edge of Lake Michigan, or when watching a sunset over the Rockies. I see the time, the staggeringly slow geological processes, that led to their births. And it's amazing. The thought that I'm able to stand here, aware and vibrant, is made all the more wonderful for the thought that it happened by chance rather than by design. In the heaving, roiling battle between life and entropy, this lonesome planet coughed intelligent life onto its shores. That makes us precious and rare.

For me, it's so much more freeing and humbling and awe-inspiring to think that I'm just one small, fleeting being in the vast universe, using this 1.5 kilograms of soggy brain tissue to imagine and question.

Disease and war and danger is understandable in a world that evolved by trial and error, without a master plan. It's unforgivable in a world supposedly guarded by a loving creator. The difference between living on a world that's evolving and a world that's the pinnacle achievement of an all-powerful god is that the evolving planet will keep evolving. Religion tries to take the despicable way out, running away from our problems to a different plane of existence.

I don't want the simple, narrow answers or the thin comfort that religion provides. The beauty of life lies in the risks we take, the recognition of our own smallness and worth, the marveling we might do at our achievements and the glorious world we find ourselves in, the seeking we do in the darkness, the lights and fires we set along our brief timelines.

My limitations are what make me worthwhile. My existence is made precious because it is ephemeral, because it's doomed but not despairing, because it reaches for the universe that dwarfs it, because it is so improbable and hopeful and lonely and loving.

I'm ready to suffer, and I'm ready to hope.

I'm never going to stop asking the questions, because no answer is ever going to be big enough for all the goddamned wonder I have for the minutest vibrations of atoms, the grand sweeping swirl of galaxies, the ridiculous amazing complexities of humanity.

I'm a child of four billion years of evolutionary success, and I will never stop being in love with this universe.

Love & ... Aliens?

"And I watched those constellations shift, hoping that they would part and I would see her face.  It was at that moment, in that very small town of 30,000 or so, that I truly appreciated the vastness of the universe and the searching we might do in it."  - John Hodgman

I don't have anything to add to this. It's funny and touching and weird. Just watch it.

One down, twenty-four to go.

18. Go for an evening bike ride.

A couple days ago, my friends Bryan&Amy (who, incidentally, live in the apartment above mine) called me up and asked if I wanted to take a bike ride down to a local ice cream shop called Liks.

Obviously I said yes.  I mean, come on, I might be lactose intolerant, but it's handmade ice cream in, like, a zillion flavors.

 We took off when it was still light out.  We took back roads through quiet neighborhoods.  We've had a lot of rain here lately, and all the budding trees decided at once to unroll their leaves.  It was all golden and green and warm.  There's nothing like riding your bike in late, late afternoon to bring you straight back to childhood.

We sat out on Liks patio, where I enjoyed my supernormal stimulus of a s'mores cone.  There was a black lab tied to a nearby bench who was happily snuffling up all the scents the warm evening breeze brought him.  The light went from gold to orange to a dusky blueish purple.

We rode home in semi-darkness, as the light leaked away over the mountains, and it felt like being at summer camp.  There was the same kind of reckless happiness.  We pedaled hard, zipping down hills and racing past sleepy houses, grinning.  We joked about clothespinning playing cards to our wheels and wearing denim jackets, forming our own neighborhood bike gang.

This might have to become a weekly thing.

this exceedingly rare spark

See that little speck of blueness a little more than halfway down in the far right stripe?
That's Earth, from about six billion kilometers away. Image taken by Voyager 1.

The other day, I had a somewhat upsetting epiphany.  I realized that, in the far, far distant future, there will be no more stars in the sky.

Actually, it started with the realization that someday (should intelligent life survive so long), kids will look up into the sky, and Orion will be missing a shoulder.  That's because Betelgeuse, the massive red supergiant that's makes up the hunter's left shoulder, is due to go supernova sometime within the next million years.

And then it made me realize that we live in an absurdly brief period,when stars burn in the darkness, when galaxies bloom, when there is warmth and light and motion.  In the end, entropy wins.  It won’t be long, on the cosmic scale, before every star burns out and every spinning planet goes still.  Heat will dissipate, fusion will cease, and even the microorganisms that turn our bones to dust will have long since gone extinct.

Pretty weird to think about.  Life is an anomaly in the universe, this exceedingly rare spark that we all share.

And yet, in this brief bright time, we spend our days fearing each other, fighting over infinitesimally small differences, feeling disconnected and discontent

It's easy to forget that all life on the planet is made from the same four nucleic chemicals, built with the matter forged in the hearts of stars - each and every organism, from algae  to tigers to viruses to us.  Even the spider that just ran across my bed (sending me into paroxysms of horror - looks like I still have lessons to learn about regarding my fellow life forms as fellow life forms).

And when it comes to humanity, all of our differences lie in a single percent. I am 99% genetically identical to everyone I know, and to the people on the other side of the planet.  Unfortunately, the human brain isn't good at thinking on a global scale, let alone a cosmic one.  It's mostly just really, really good at thinking about itself and its immediate wants.

I'm not good at being considerate of people a few continents over, or a few generations down the line.  I'm not even good at being considerate of my future self, as evidenced by my continued penchant for eating french fries.  So how can I expect human beings to be thoughtful and global-minded?

I guess I don't, really.  But if humans, or whatever humans evolve into, are going to travel across the galaxy and maybe meet other life forms out in the vast wild universe (something I consider a worthwhile goal), I can at least work on trying to be a bit more far-thinking myself.

After all, life everywhere should be reaching out to find each other, so we'd be able to know, as we head toward the day the last star fades, that we're not alone.

p.s. Be sure to read my friend Becky's blog of flash fiction, Pretending to Know You.  She's putting her one wild and precious life to good, creative use.

25 before 26

It's a ridiculously beautiful day today.  Perfect, almost-cliched spring weather.  It makes me want to take a walk, one that lasts all day and brings me to new places.  It makes me want to load up a wagon and find a frontier to brave.

The weather's also got me thinking about the future.  Springtime always puts me in mind of swelling blossoms and ripening fruit and summer storms.  Spring's an anticipatory season.  It looks to what comes next.

What am I going to do with my one wild and precious life?

It's still something I'm trying to figure out.  Do I want to open a weird, enthusiastic coffeeshop?  Do I want to work in a bakery and come home smelling like cookies?  Quit everything and be a writer?  Get into the publishing business?  Go back to school and become a professor?  A museum curator?  A librarian?  An astronomer?  A speech pathologist?





For now, I think I'll try to set some short-term goals.

Before my next birthday, I'm going to:

1. Get a story published.
2. Put together a manuscript.
3. Find a grown up job that offers stability and benefits.
4. Go to the Celestial Seasonings tea factory in Boulder.
5. Write and shoot a short film, just for the hell of it.
6. Take silly pictures in a photobooth with Nick.
7. Stay up late to watch at least two meteor showers.
8. Try to make dolmathes.
9. Make a pitcher of lemonade from scratch.
10. Sit outside to watch a thunderstorm.
11. Read, at the very least, eight new books.
12. Make popsicles.
13. Learn to cut Nick's hair.
14. Make JiffyPop on the stove.
15. Go to at least two street festivals.
16. Watch a sunrise.
17. Have a picnic.
18. Go for an evening bike ride.
19. Take a road trip (even if it's only an hour long).
20. Busk at least one afternoon.
21. Make something beautiful and sell it.
22. Make something beautiful and give it away.
23. Finish Emma's alphabet book.
24. Invent a board- or card- game.
25. Stay up all night having an adventure.

Well, that's one year planned.  Now I just need to figure out a lifetime.

Ready.

Set.

GO.

We humans are capable of greatness.

videos by Reid Gower

In a conversation I had with Becky a few weeks ago, I started putting into words why I'm so fascinated by astronomy, and space, and how we, as a species, need frontiers. To keep us hopeful, and humble.

The idea of future space exploration fires me with hope and fear and a desperate, lonely tender love for humanity.

Humanity is so lonely - the only intelligent species on our planet, the only ones burdened with the knowledge of our own existence and limitations, with no one to talk to and no one to understand us, and we revolve all alone in space, a little blue dot full of a curious and heartbroken people. Thinking of interstellar exploration makes us aware of how rare and amazing we are. It puts us in the right perspective. It makes us realize that we have a future, and we should do everything to make sure it's long enough for us to get to the stars.

Wouldn't it be terrible if there were other intelligent species out there, ones who've been through fire and waste, ones who've come so close to self-destruction, ones watching anxiously to see us take our first wavering steps, waiting to say hello, but we killed ourselves before we even got the chance?



"Projects that are future-oriented, that (despite their political difficulties) can only be completed in some distant decade, are continuing reminders that there will be a future." - Carl Sagan