The Effects of Setting One's Head on Fire

Disclaimer: there are a couple semi-graphic descriptions in this post. Stop reading here if that sounds bad to you.

Have you ever wondered what it's like to run around like those stuntmen in the movies with your head in flames? I know I have. Ever since I first saw something like that on the TV screen, I've secretly wondered how it feels. Recently, I was granted the rare and unexpected opportunity to find out.

It was the most terrifying thing I've ever experienced. It was the only time in my life that I thought I might be about to die.

I didn't realize my head was on fire until I drew a deep breath. The gas which entered my lungs contained none of its customary oxygen, and my panic set in. When covering my face with my hands proved futile to extinguish the blaze, my panic turned to desperation and my heart beat faster (they told me in the ambulance that my blood pressure was 180 over 110).

That's when it happened - that terrifying moment of "OH SH--... WHAT HAVE I DONE??" There wasn't any time for my life to flash before my eyes, or for me to have any enlightening philosophical epiphanies. I didn't sense anything supernatural. I didn't see a light at the end of a tunnel. In that eternal half-second of terror, my thoughts only got as far as "this could be it."

Then, rather than getting pensive about the afterlife, my instincts kicked in and I did the sensible thing: I pulled my shirt off.

The next 10 minutes are a bit blurry - the first thing I remember seeing is the terrified face of my co-worker Preston, on the phone with 911. I ran to the bathroom to rinse my face with water (which I recommend if this ever happens to you - apparently it cuts recovery time in half), killed the equipment power, and started spraying water on the fire that was still going.

When the paramedics showed up, I felt the most profound sense of relief. It was so wonderful to lie down on that bed and just let someone take care of me. I knew I was still breathing, and that seemed like a good sign, and I was sure the fluids they were pumping into my veins would feel ok. So I just relaxed, really for the first time in weeks. They told me I was going to Nashville and I said "hell yeah! I love Nashville!"

What followed was a blissful 6 weeks recovering with my family in Colorado. And the conclusion I came to was this: maybe those 5 seconds with head on fire were almost worth it after all.

just kidding. ;)

Time for the weekend

Now it's that magical moment - I've got all the equipment shut down for the weekend, with only one pump still humming in the background, waiting for the kill switch. All the doors are shut and locked except for the one I'll use to leave. Things are peaceful here for the first time all wee

Wait... I'm wasting this moment blogging??? peace, I'm out.

To hold all things together

While I was an undergrad at Georgia Tech, I remember thinking, "I sure would love to live in Tennessee." The little time I'd spent among the green hills of the Volunteer State had called my name. I didn't think it would ever happen. It was my intention to leave the South as soon as I graduated because the world seemed too big to spend so much time in one place (apologies for calling Georgia and Tennessee "one place" - you Georgians and Tennesseans must excuse my gross ignorance). Yet, partly by happenstance and partly by choice, here I am in Tennessee. Tragically, though I love the place deeply, I can't wait to leave.

For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to work for a start-up company that does something really cool. I would read about companies like Changing World Technologies (in Missouri, they use thermal depolymerization to turn turkey offal into fuel) or SpaceX (the founder of PayPal founded a company to build a manned space vehicle to replace the Space Shuttle), and I would think, "If I could just get in touch with one of some of these guys, I'd offer to sweep their floors - anything just to get in the door." Be careful what you wish for - there have been days here at SunsOil (a small company in rural East Tennessee making Biodiesel from various low-cost feedstocks - my NDA prevents me from publishing specifics) when I have yearned to do something as sanitary as sweeping the floor.

This past summer, I recall telling a friend that I was kinda looking forward to winter, specifically the cozy aspects of it. But lately there have been nights when I've been bundled to the gills, putting on putting on layer after layer, as many hats as would fit on my head, undershirts wrapped around my face - anything to keep the cold out; all I could think of was how sweet summer will be.

So the question I pose is this: How do I reconcile these things? How can I take the bitterness of the winter cold and hold it together with the joy of a fireside? Is one the evil dark side of the other, or do the two complement each other, imbuing one another with meaning and context?

Could it be that the warmth of the springtime sun is sweeter in the knowledge that it follows the winter snows? Could I live each moment rejoicing that I am working my dream job, all the while holding that knowledge alongside the hope of whatever adventures I'll find myself in next?

This is my goal: To hold all things together - the winter with the summer; holding in my mind the beauty and ugliness of each - allowing the two to commingle in my mind and bring forth one another's unique magnificence.

What are the stars thinking?

Tonight was a hard night at work. It was very cold out, and as luck (or whatever) would have it, it also happened to be the first night in a long time that I've had to spend a significant amount of time outside. I'm talking like 15 degrees. That's -10 to you non-Americans.

Most of the night was one hassle after another. Easily the most aggravating night in weeks. And with the cold, my hands hurt so bad I could hardly form clear thoughts, much less verbalize them to others.

But there was one moment when I was outside, and I happened to look up and saw that the sky was crystal clear, and there were stars and an almost-full moon shining brightly. My first thought was something that's buoyed be before through stressful stuff: "The stars are up there, and they don't care about my problems. Thus, my problems don't seem important enough for me to worry about them." But tonight, I thought "or, maybe the stars DO care, and they're cheering me on." I like it.

Spiders

Apologies for the delay in getting this posted - life's been pretty hectic of late and it's easy to let details like the blog slip a little.

More apologies to anybody out there who isn't a big fan of spiders. This post is all about them. One, in particular, that I found hunting in my kitchen a while back.

So without further ado:

I read somewhere that spiders don’t have muscles. They move around by alternately filling and emptying their legs with blood; extending and retracting each leg for maximum creepy effect.

Perhaps it’s symbolic that they locomote by pumping blood, because they seem so single-mindedly intent on draining blood. Friends, I witnessed a chilling spectacle the other day: A spider on the prowl.

The entire scene happened between my blinds and my window, and I watched from the outside. It was a beautiful Tennessee fall day, the air as clear as glass; the first of the yellow leaves drifting lazily down in the breeze. I was sitting out on the porch drinking my coffee, enjoying the morning, and I noticed that a fly had gotten trapped between my blinds and the window. It’s fascinating that the fly is so intent on flying through the glass that it never thinks to turn around and escape to relative freedom of the room on the other side of the blinds. I’ve found numerous flies lying dead on my windowsills because they spent their entire lives railing against the closed window.

But this fly faced far more terrifying dangers than starvation. I glanced back a moment later, and a new creature caught my eye: a spider, about the size of a fingernail, was sitting on the outside of the blinds. A wild thought crossed my mind: “she looks hungry.”

I’ve always felt beneficent towards spiders, because I appreciate the fact that they eat bugs I don’t like. So I leaned in closer to get a better look at the spider in my window. She was black, with faint orange pinstripes running down her legs. Elegant. And then she moved. Just a tiny turn, seemingly random – but then again. Again. It was as though she were tracking something with her body… I followed her line of sight, and there it was – plain as day – she was indeed hungry, and the trapped housefly was her intended prey.

My heart thumped a bit faster. Could it be? Could this spider seriously think she could catch an insect, almost her same size, that could fly? Insanity. But the longer I watched, the more I realized that she was deadly serious. Her patience was stunning. She would stay utterly still, silently waiting for the fly to approach, and then track it precisely with her body when it was close. If the fly didn't come close enough for a strike, the spider seemed perfectly content to wait for another chance, as though she knew the fly would not escape.

Every now and then the spider would change her location, trying to find a more advantageous position from which to pounce.

Then, suddenly, opportunity reared its head. The fly, blithely oblivious to its mortal danger, alighted a few inches from the spider, and the spider grasped at its chance. Unfortunately, the climax of the chase ended in failure for the spider… The fly proved too big for the spider to hold on to, and escaped its grasp after only a moment’s struggle.

I was disappointed with the spider’s loss of her prey, but there was little I could do for her. One thing’s certain: I’ll never take the apparent peace of my kitchen for granted again… who knows what horrific battles are being staged right beneath my nose?

Shooting Stars

I love shooting stars.

For the past year, until a week ago, I lived on a farm outside the town of Athens, Tennessee. Apart from the faint glow emanating from Athens, on a moonless night, the sky is completely dark. Black as pitch, except for the extraordinary array of stars.

One night several weeks ago, I arrived at the farm late one Sunday night from a weekend trip to Atlanta, and the stars were even more spectacular than I was used to. I didn't have to go to work until 5 pm the next day, so I figured I'd stay up and watch the sky for a while.

And then there it was. The tiny streak of light, so faint that it could have been my imagination.

I find nothing so difficult as walking away from a meteor shower. So after that first meteor, I was hooked. I lay on the hood of my car and watched for nearly 2 hours. I lost count of the stars after 5 or 6, but I figure by the end of it I must have seen 15 or so.

I hadn't eaten anything in hours, so my stomach was rumbling pretty badly. Nevertheless, I couldn't tear myself away. I tried all the tricks I could think of. I would say to myself "ok, if you don't see one in the next 10 seconds, go inside." I would count 1 - missssssissssssipppppppi -2 ..... and then even after I had drawn 10 seconds out to 100, I would say "ok, next time I see a shooting star, I'll go in."

Seconds later, I'd see one. But it certainly was faint. So faint that it might have been wishful thinking. And when they show up in the corner of my eye like that, how can I be sure? I'll go inside after the NEXT one. So it went for hours.

What is so mesmerizing to me about shooting stars? Why can't I tear myself away? The little streaks of glory entrance me so. Maybe it has to do with how fleeting they are. Perhaps it's the knowledge that a shooting star is an extraordinarily violent occurrence somewhere, far off - yet to me it doesn't even make a sound.

Shooting stars are like fireworks that nobody told you about, and discovering them is like walking into a surprise party. What are they celebrating? They won't say, but they sure seem jubilant about something.

Here We Go

I can tell already that "humble" was the wrong word to use in this blog title... My narcissism is rising as I type. All the compliments and encouragement from people feels pretty good. I found myself checking my own blog all week, scrolling down to see who had posted the new comments.

But that's neither here nor there. The real matter at hand is the details. The unfortunate truth is that I work too much. I clocked nearly 70 hours last week, and potentially that many again this week, so I find that each week becomes one long fight against fatigue.

One of the most tragic things about being extremely busy is that my eye for the details starts to glaze over. All of life is rush, rush, rush: wake up and eat breakfast fast so that you can move a load of stuff to the new apartment but then it's almost time for work so rush on over to the plant and oh no!! I forgot to pick up a loaf of bread for sandwiches!

The moon kept me sane the other night. I can't remember which night it was exactly; most nights blur together. I was waiting for a truck to arrive at the plant, probably around 1 or 2 am, and I decided it was a good time for a lunch break. So I took my ham and turkey sandwich (with pepper jack cheese! mmmm...) outside, and there was the moon. A day or two past full, it had risen a few hours before. I noticed it up there, and I grabbed my opportunity. I love opportunities like this, chances to focus and step out of my circumstances for a moment. I sat there for minutes - slowly eating my sandwich; slowly breathing in and out; slowly gazing up at the moon. As I sat there, for a little bit, the plant behind me faded away, the trucker who was several hours late faded away, and everything seemed to make sense for an instant.

Then real life comes back, and it's time to start rushing again. But after that moment of centering with the moon, I might have rushed less, even though the world was rushing around me. In the cosmic perspective of the moon and the earth whirling their heavenly dance across the solar system, my problems with a late truck driver and a dysfunctional boiler seem to shrink a little bit.