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Topics - Vlaara the Brown

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Spamalot / Just Knitting Things
« on: September 14, 2014, 03:32:41 PM »

Tell them passerby
that according to brownie law
we lie.

Spamalot / "You have been struck by a spear of grief."
« on: September 10, 2014, 12:34:58 AM »
the damage is non-melee

I am supposed to just let it go. Forgive him.

I ask you, why? Why should I forgive him, would I so easily forgive any other person whose only defense for killing my brother was he was drunk? I don't feel like my anger is unjustified, or unproductive. I am mad as hell because he will get away with it. No recourse for those of us left. So I rage, rage against that smoldering light.

We would stop occasionally and stare in wonder at the walls and ceiling of his room. The constellation known as Guy, the pattern as inexplicable as the night spine.

They tell me I'm only hurting myself by holding on to it, as if I have some agency. Is this what we do with those who sinned with such violence? Remember only the good, and not the very act that prompted these good memories of you? The lesson you taught me:

killing yourself is an act with great power.

General Disconation / Die
« on: September 08, 2014, 12:24:40 PM »
Autocorrect change "for" to "die" which seemed fitting for TZT.

I was typing for the record because I just wanted to talk about what's going on with me.

Obviously my youngest brother committed suicide. I'm fucked up still but it's usually not visible. I can talk about it but I don't want to. I can joke about it already and I'm just processing it all internally. Part of that is writing which I share snippets with you.

I'm intelligent and worldly I know this too will pass. I AM wallowing in it partly because I have no choice but a lot because I am not ready to let go yet. Anyhow I'll share the finished story when I'm done. Also some big means restriction projects upcoming, inspired in part by the headless corpse that is my brother.

General Disconation / a moment
« on: September 04, 2014, 12:40:06 PM »
dad you know who i miss?
no who

my baby stands there with his head down holding a copy of the funeral bi-fold. MY baby Guy, not yours.

These are the moments my heart is black and I have nothing for you.

You did this to him.


General Disconation / bad analogies
« on: September 04, 2014, 02:54:02 AM »
I don't know what I was doing, falling or what.
I find myself in a chasm

I have all the tools I need to get out
but I'm tired

General Disconation / It was too much!
« on: August 29, 2014, 02:39:01 PM »
Had we not paid enough? the godly asked

It was too much!

 we thought we had escaped. Or perhaps we have and that was the parting shot of ill intentioned spirits.
 It is but the nature of the beast, on occasion one of its many appendages ups and destroys itself!

Cold comfort indeed!

General Disconation / 12 hours
« on: August 28, 2014, 12:02:54 PM »
went to sleep at like 6pm tired as hell, didn't wake up until 7 am. not even lying awake, straight slept for 12 hours

been doing this a lot. normally i sleep 5-6 hours a night max, pretty much my whole life.

i just wanna stay in bed but there is so much to do, like EverQuest.

kidding, I'm enjoying EverQuest but I got way more important shit to do. I am doing a pretty good job of keeping EQ to a minimum but this sleeping business has to stop.

Spamalot / just for the record
« on: August 28, 2014, 11:59:07 AM »
i also love EverQuest.

Spamalot / the face of a god
« on: August 24, 2014, 02:53:36 PM »

my little God among Gods! This one is the destroyer

Rowan the Destroyer. I ask you, what is best in life?

What Is Best In Life.

Spamalot / As promised
« on: August 23, 2014, 02:59:23 AM »

General Disconation / Lightadam
« on: August 21, 2014, 06:41:10 PM »
fuck you, I wasn't done reading those yet.

Spamalot / Not All Posts aspire to be Art
« on: August 21, 2014, 06:22:55 PM »
Some just are.

Don't you think? The kinds of posts that can only be made after a long time of getting to know each other.

Artfully done,

but not the lot of them. You have to sift through a lot of shit to find a good post. It's kind of like Skars I guess. See big Skars you are important, you are so much a part of TZT that you exhibit its very essence!

Spamalot / bible study
« on: August 21, 2014, 01:36:11 PM »
two feet in the red dirt.

Iggy! I know you aren't talking about the red dust. But everything ends up being about it anyhow.

Iggy Azalea - Work (Explicit)

(you have to listen to the song for the right effect, the problem is you can't just listen to the song. You have to appreciate the humanity of it. You have to recognize the reason why the Gods love music! God creates things for their own pleasure.)

The hustle, the cosmic hustle.

You sinned brother, this is who and what you sinned against. You do not join the enemy.

WE still live despite you.

That was your sin!

You joined the enemy!

General Disconation / Concerto, in A minor.
« on: August 21, 2014, 01:19:04 PM »
Men speak of blind destiny, a thing without scheme or purpose. But what sort of destiny is that? Each act in this world from which there can be no turning back has before it another, and it another yet. In a vast and endless net. Men imagine that the choices before them are theirs to make. But we are free to act only upon what is given. Choice is lost in the maze of generations and each act in that maze is itself an enslavement for it voids every alternative and binds one ever more tightly into into the constraints that make a life.

So many alternatives already voided for so many of us. How tightly are we bound into the constraints that make our lives now?

We are free to act upon what is given, but for those who are given nothing??

You think this bleeding heart too tender?

We push and strain even now against the constraints handed to us by physics

Pushing ever outward, the will to order.

God only gave us so many rules, the rest we make up as we go along.

And we're so fancy

Spamalot / looky here
« on: August 18, 2014, 10:27:03 PM »

the best, really.

General Disconation / If you're pro choice, you're pro-choice.
« on: August 16, 2014, 06:22:41 PM »

an underhanded compliment to Joe Miller in there, which is true but man does Begich want Miller to win. His point is good though.

Sen. Mark Begich (D-AK) "If You're Pro-Choice, You're Pro-Choice"

General Disconation / unschooling, revisited.
« on: August 15, 2014, 07:06:30 PM »
not really, a good article that makes me think a lot of my youth and what I might be like if I was schooled this way?

Rye Hewitt putting his pack basket, which he wove himself, to good use. He and his brother Fin learned how to make the wooden baskets from a friend of the family who also unschools her children.   Photo: Penny Hewitt

In early September, in a clapboard house situated on 43 acres just outside a small town in northern Vermont, two boys awaken. They are brothers; the older is 12, the younger 9, and they rise to a day that has barely emerged from the clutches of dark. It is not yet autumn, but already the air has begun to change, the soft nights of late summer lengthening and chilling into the season to come. Outside the boys’ bedroom window, the leaves on the maples are just starting to turn.

School is back in session and has been for two weeks or more, but the boys are unhurried. They dress slowly, quietly. Faded and frayed thrift-store camo pants. Flannel shirts. Rubber barn boots. Around their waists, leather belts with knife sheaths. In each sheath, a fixed-blade knife.

By 6:30, with the first rays of sun burning through the ground-level fog, the boys are outside. At some point in the next hour, a yellow school bus will rumble past the end of the driveway that connects the farm to the town road. The bus will be full of children the boys’ age, their foreheads pressed against the glass, gazing at the unfurling landscape, the fields and hills and forests of the small working-class community they call home.

The boys will pay the bus no heed. This could be because they will be seated at the kitchen table, eating breakfast with their parents. Or it might be because they are already deep in the woods below the house, where a prolific brook trout stream sluices through a stand of balsam fir; there is an old stone bridge abutment at the stream’s edge, and the boys enjoy standing atop it, dangling fresh-dug worms into the water. Perhaps they won’t notice the bus because they are already immersed in some other project: tillering a longbow of black locust, or starting a fire over which to cook the quartet of brookies they’ve caught. They heat a flat rock at the fire’s edge, and the hot stone turns the fishes’ flesh milky white and flaky.

Or maybe the boys will pay the bus no heed because its passing is meaningless to them. Maybe they have never ridden in a school bus, and maybe this is because they’ve never been to school. Perhaps they have not passed even a single day of their short childhoods inside the four walls of a classroom, their gazes shifting between window and clock, window and clock, counting the restless hours and interminable minutes until release.

Maybe the boys are actually my sons, and maybe their names are Fin and Rye, and maybe, if my wife, Penny, and I get our way, they will never go to school.

Hey, a father can dream, can’t he?

There’s a name for the kind of education Fin and Rye are getting. It’s called unschooling, though Penny and I have never been fond of the term. But “self-directed, adult-facilitated life learning in the context of their own unique interests” doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, so unschooling it is.

It is already obvious that unschooling is radically different from institutionalized classroom learning, but how does it differ from more common homeschooling? Perhaps the best way to explain it is that all unschooling is homeschooling, but not all homeschooling is unschooling. While most homeschooled children follow a structured curriculum, unschoolers like Fin and Rye have almost total autonomy over their days. At ages that would likely see them in seventh and fourth grades, I generously estimate that my boys spend no more than two hours per month sitting and studying the subjects, such as science and math, that are universal to mainstream education. Not two hours per day or even per week. Two hours per month. Comparatively speaking, by now Fin would have spent approximately 5,600 hours in the classroom. Rye, nearly three years younger, would have clocked about half that time.

A stubborn calf. Fin and Rye also take care of their own dwarf goats.   Photo: Penny Hewitt

If this sounds radical, it’s only because you’re not taking a long enough view, for the notion that children should spend the majority of their waking hours confined to a classroom enjoys scant historical precedent.

The first incidence of compulsory schooling came in 1852, when Massachusetts required communities to offer free public education and demanded that every child between the ages of 8 and 14 attend school for at least 12 weeks per year. Over the next seven decades, the remaining states adopted similar laws, and by 1918, the transition to mandated public education was complete.

It was not long before some parents and even educators began to question the value of compulsory education. One of those was John Holt, a Yale graduate and teacher at the Colorado Rocky Mountain School who published his observations in How Children Fail in 1964. Ultimately selling more than a million copies, it was an indictment of the education system, asserting that children are born with deep curiosity and love of learning, both of which are diminished in school.

Holt became a passionate advocate for homeschooling, which existed in a legal gray area, but he quickly realized that some parents were simply replicating the classroom. So in 1977, in his magazine, Growing Without Schooling, he coined a new term: “GWS will say ‘unschooling’ when we mean taking children out of school, and ‘deschooling’ when we mean changing the laws to make schools noncompulsory and to take away from them their power to grade, rank, and label people, i.e. to make lasting, official, public judgments about them.”

Holt died in 1985, having authored 11 books on child development. But along with veteran teacher John Taylor Gatto, author of Dumbing Us Down: The Hidden Curriculum of Compulsory Schooling, he popularized a movement. Well, maybe popularized is a tad generous; while it’s generally accepted that unschoolers comprise about 10 percent of the 1.8 million American children who learn at home, hard numbers are scarce.

In addition to fundamental curricular differences, there is also something of a cultural schism between the two styles. Home-schooling is popularly associated with strong religious views (in a 2007 survey by the National Center for Education Statistics, 83 percent of homeschooling parents said that providing “religious or moral instruction” was part of their choice), while unschooling seems to have no such association. “Unschooling has always been sort of code for being secular,” explains Patrick Farenga, who runs the unschooling website “It’s about understanding that learning is not a special skill that happens separate from everything else and only under a specialist’s gaze. It’s about raising children who are curious and engaged in the world alongside their families and communities.”

I can almost hear you thinking, Sure, but you live in the sticks, and you both work at home. What about the rest of us? And it’s true: Penny and I have made what most would consider an extreme choice. I write from home, and we both run our farm, selling produce and meat to help pay the bills. Everyone we know who unschools, in fact, has chosen autonomy over affluence. Hell, some years we’re barely above the poverty line. But the truth is, unschooling isn’t merely an educational choice. It’s a lifestyle choice.

And it can happen anywhere; these concepts are not the sole domain of rural Vermont hill farmers living out their Jeffersonian fantasies. Kerry McDonald left a career in corporate training to unschool two of her four children in Boston, though her husband, Brian, still works as a technology consultant. “The city is our curriculum,” says McDonald. “We believe that kids learn by living in the world around them, so we immerse them in that world.” Their “classrooms”—sidewalks, museums, city parks—may appear drastically different from those of my sons. But the ethos remains the same, that a child’s learning is as natural and easy as breathing.

Unschooling is also perfectly legal in all 50 states, so long as certain basic stipulations—from simple notification to professional evaluations, “curriculum” approval, and even home visits—are met. But many unschoolers have been reticent to stand up and be counted, perhaps because the movement tends to attract an independent-thinking, antiauthoritarian personality type.

To the extent that I hadn’t demonstrated these qualities previously, the arrival of my 16th birthday provided ample opportunity, rooted in two events of great and lasting importance. The first, of course, was the acquisition of my driver’s license. This came with a craptastic Volkswagen Rabbit that my mother had driven for the past half-dozen years and sold to me for $200.

The second was the quiet arrival of Vermont’s minimum dropout age. More than three million American teens leave school annually, a number that makes up about 8 percent of the nation’s 16-to-24-year-olds. Dropouts comprise 75 percent of state inmates and 59 percent of those in federal prison. They earn, on average, $260,000 less than graduates over their lifetimes.

My 16th birthday came on November 23, 1987; by the end of that day, my freshly minted driver’s license was cooling in my wallet. And by the midpoint of my junior year, I had pointed that little Rabbit, already bearing the scratch-and-dent evidence of my negligence, out of my high school’s parking lot for the last time.

The irony of my dropping out can hardly be overstated. At the time, my father—who earned his undergraduate degree at Cornell and his master’s at Johns Hopkins—was employed by none other than Vermont’s Department of Education. My mother graduated from Iowa’s Grinnell College and was a substitute teacher. My family’s immersion in structured education was total. It wasn’t merely the medium through which my parents made their way in the world: it provided the means to support their children, one of whom was now flipping the proverbial bird to the very hand that fed.

It might lend a degree of credibility to my role as my children’s primary educator if I could report that I dropped out of high school for reasons of virtue, perhaps to pursue a rigorous course of self-directed study in thermonuclear engineering or to dig wells in some impoverished sub-Saharan village. But the truth is, I left public school because I was bored to the point of anger. To the point of numbness. To the point of rebellion.

Day after day I sat, compelled to repeat and recite, and little of it seemed to have any bearing beyond the vacuum of the classroom. Everything I learned felt abstract and standardized. It was a conditional knowledge that existed in separation from the richly textured world just beyond the school’s plate-glass windows, which, for all their transparency, felt like the bars of a prison cell.

Peter Gray knows just how I felt. Gray, a Boston College psychology professor who wrote the 2013 book Free to Learn: Why Unleashing the Instinct to Play Will Make Our Children Happier, More Self-Reliant, and Better Students for Life, is unsparing in his criticism of compulsory education. “Children are forced to attend school, where they are stripped of most of their rights,” he says. “The debate shouldn’t be about whether school is prison, because unless you want to change the definition of prison, it is. School deliberately removes the environmental conditions that foster self-directed learning and natural curiosity. It’s like locking a child in a closet.”

What kids need instead, Gray contends, is exploration and play without supervision. It is this that allows them to develop self-determination and confidence. If he’s right, current educational trends are not promising: in 2012, five states voted to increase the length of the school year by no less than 300 hours.

Of course, unschooling is not the only choice. Increasingly, families are turning to options like Waldorf, the largest so-called alternative-education movement in the world. It was founded in Stuttgart, Germany, in 1919, based on the teachings of Austrian philosopher Rudolf Steiner, who believed that children learn best through creative play. In 1965, there were nine Waldorf schools in the U.S.; today there are 123.

Sending our children to a Waldorf school was never an option for us, if for no other reason than tuition, which can run as high as $30,000 a year. But when Fin turned five, the age at which we deemed it necessary to introduce some structure to his days, Penny and I sought to integrate aspects of the Waldorf curriculum into his learning. We purchased reams of thick craft paper, along with pastel crayons and watercolor paints. Penny arranged a small “schooling” station at our kitchen table, under the assumption that our firstborn would sit contentedly, expressing his innate creativity even as he learned the rote information necessary to navigate the modern world.

The Hewitt family (plus goat). They've lived and worked on their Vermont farm for over two decades.   Photo: Penny Hewitt;

It was, to put it mildly, a flawed assumption. Fin chafed at every second of his perceived captivity. Crayons were broken and launched at innocent walls. Pages of extremely expensive paper were torn to flaky bits. Bitter tears were shed, even a few by our son. It was an unmitigated disaster.

It was also a watershed moment for our family. Because as soon as we liberated ourselves from a concept of what our son’s education should look like, we were able to observe how he learned best. And what we saw was that the moment we stopped compelling Fin to sit and draw or paint or write was the moment he began doing these things on his own. It was the moment he began carving staves of wood into beautiful bows and constructing complex toys from materials on hand: an excavator that not only rotated, but also featured an extendable boom; a popgun fashioned from copper pipe, shaved corks, and a whittled-down dowel; even a sawmill with a rotating wooden “blade.”

In other words, the moment we quit trying to teach our son anything was the moment he started really learning.

In my early twenties, having passed my General Educational Development test and endured two semesters in Vermont’s state college system, I lived for a time in a $75-per-month bungalow just outside the bucolic Vermont village of Warren. This was at the apex of my immersion into bicycle racing and backcountry skiing, and I worked infrequently in a bike and ski shop, subsisting on the time-honored action-sports diet of boxed noodles, canned tuna, and expired Clif Bars liberated from the shop’s dumpster.

The bungalow was attached to a rambling, ranchlike structure that looked out over the valley; it was one of those seventies-era, quasi-communal homesteads that carried the lingering scent of sandalwood incense and the fetid body odor unique to heavy tofu consumption. A sign by the door read Resurrection City. Resurrection from what? I had no idea, and no one seemed to know.

During my yearlong tenure at Camp RC, as it was affectionately known, the main house was occupied by a single thirtysomething fellow named Donald who homeschooled his two young sons, Crescent and Orion. Or maybe he unschooled them. I do have a vague recollection of them sitting at a table, studying… well, something. But, for the most part, the boys ran wild, exploring the surrounding woods. On weekends, Donald packed up his orange VW van and drove with Crescent and Orion to bike races and music festivals, where they hawked vegetarian burritos. By the ages of six and eight, the boys were prepping orders and making change.

I was blown away. And jealous. This was the childhood I wished I’d had, equal measures freedom, responsibility, and respect, with none of the rote soul-crushing memorization that had soured me on school. Sure, Crescent and Orion could be a bit wild—I once found the front bumper of my truck kissing a spruce tree that stood between the driveway and the house—but they were precocious and self-aware, brimming with confidence and curiosity. They looked you in the eye and spoke in full sentences. They were constantly running and laughing and playing. I’m not sure how else to put it except to say that never before had I known kids who so fully embodied childhood.

When Penny, then my girlfriend, came to visit, she noticed it, too. “Those kids are amazing,” she said. “I didn’t even know there were kids like that.”

Fin and Rye almost always wake up before dawn. We do not have an alarm clock, but early rising is our habit, ingrained over the decade and a half we’ve run our small farm. We tend to chores as a family: Penny heads to the barn to milk cows, I move the rest of the herd to fresh pasture and slop the pigs, and the boys feed and water their dwarf goats, Flora, Lupine, and Midnight.

By seven the chores are finished and we convene at the wide wooden table for breakfast—eggs, usually, and bacon from last year’s pigs. After breakfast, I repair to my desk to write and Penny heads to the fields or orchard. Fin and Rye generally follow their mother before disappearing into the woods. Sometimes they grab fishing poles, uncover a few worms, and head to the stream, returning with their pockets full of fish, fiddlehead ferns, and morel mushrooms. Occasionally I join them, and these journeys are always marked by frequent stops, with one boy or the other dropping to his knees to examine some small finding, something I would have blithely, blindly stumbled over.

“Papa, look, wild onions.” And they’ll dig with their young fingers, loosing the little bulbs from the soft forest soil. Later, we’ll fry them in butter and eat them straight from the pan, still hot enough that we hold them on the tips of our tongues before swallowing.

Other times, they work on one of the shelters that they always seem to be constructing; their voices carry across the land as they negotiate materials and design.

“Fin, let’s put the door on this side.”

“Did you say ten and three-eighths or ten and five-eighths?”

“Rye, we need another pole on this end.”

These shelters are so prolific that occasionally I come across one I hadn’t even known existed, and I can see the evolution of the boys’ learning in the growing soundness of these humble structures. Winter’s first big snowfall no longer spells collapse; the boys have learned to slope the roof and to support the ridgepole at its center. They face the openings southward and build on a piece of well-drained ground. They use rot-resistant cedar for anything that will contact the soil.

ich brings us to the inevitable issue of what will become of my boys. Of course, I cannot answer in full, because their childhoods are still unfolding.

But not infrequently I field questions from parents who seem skeptical that my sons will be exposed to particular fields of study or potential career paths. The assumption seems to be that by educating our children at home and letting them pursue their own interests, we are limiting their choices and perhaps even depriving them. The only honest answer is, Of course we are. But then, that’s true of every choice a parent makes: no matter what we choose for our children, we are by default not choosing something else.

I can report that Fin and Rye both learned to read and write with essentially zero instruction, albeit when they were about eight years old, a year or so later than is expected. They can add and subtract and multiply and divide. I can report that they do indeed have friends, some who attend school and some who don’t, and their social skills are on par with their peers. In fact, Penny and I often hear from other adults that our sons seem better socialized than like-aged schoolchildren. Fin and Rye participate in a weekly gathering of homeschooled and unschooled kids, and Fin attends a weekly wilderness-skills program. In truth, few of their peers are as smitten with bushcraft as they are, and sometimes they wish for more friends who share their love of the wild. But even this is OK; the world is a place of wondrous diversity, and they must learn that theirs is not the only way.

What if they want to be doctors? They will be doctors. What if they want to be lawyers? They will be lawyers. Peter Gray, he of the 
belief that school is prison, has studied graduates of the Sudbury Valley School in Framingham, Massachusetts, where “students” as young as four enjoy complete autonomy to design their own course of study, even if that involves no studying at all, and found that they have no difficult gaining entry to elite colleges, nor in achieving high GPAs. A home-based education, even one as unstructured as my sons’, does not preclude acceptance into a university; in fact, many colleges have developed application processes geared specifically toward homeschooled students, and while there are no major studies of unschoolers exclusively, homeschoolers are significantly more likely to take college-level courses than the rest of us.

“I look back at unschooling as the best part of my life,” Chelsea Clark told me between classes at the University of South Carolina School of Law, where she was accepted on full scholarship after graduating Phi Beta Kappa from the university’s undergraduate program. “It was a huge advantage, actually. I had the confidence of knowing what I wanted to do, and I wasn’t burned out on classroom learning like most college kids.” Chelsea was unschooled throughout her high school years in the small town of Dorchester, South Carolina.

Still, perhaps the best answer I can give to the question of what price my children might pay is in the form of another question: What price do school-going children pay for their confinement? The physical toll is easy enough to quantify. Diabetes rates among school-age children are sky-high, and the percentage of 6-to-11-year-olds who qualify as obese has nearly tripled since 1980. And what do children do in school? Exactly. They sit.

Inactivity is also bad for the brain. A 2011 study by Georgia Health Sciences University found that cognitive function among kids improves with exercise. Their prefrontal cortex—the area associated with complex thinking, decision making, and social behavior—lights up. The kids in the study who exercised 40 minutes per day boosted their intelligence scores by an average of 3.8 points.

Yet the physical and cognitive implications of classroom learning have played minor roles in our decision to unschool Fin and Rye. It’s not that I don’t want them to be healthy and smart. Of course I do—I’m their father.

But, in truth, what I most want for my boys can’t be charted or graphed. It can’t be measured, at least not by common metrics. There is no standardized test that will tell me if it has been achieved, and there is no specific curriculum that will lead to its realization.

This is what I want for my sons: freedom. Not just physical freedom, but intellectual and emotional freedom from the formulaic learning that prevails in our schools. I want for them the freedom to immerse themselves in the fields and forest that surround our home, to wander aimlessly or with purpose. I want for them the freedom to develop at whatever pace is etched into their DNA, not the pace dictated by an institution looking to meet the benchmarks that will in part determine its funding. I want them to be free to love learning for its own sake, the way that all children love learning for its own sake when it is not forced on them or attached to reward. I want them to remain free of social pressures to look, act, or think any way but that which feels most natural to them.

I want for them the freedom to be children. And no one can teach them how to do that.

Spamalot / oh shit
« on: August 14, 2014, 10:33:23 PM »
forgot i was installing EQ, my machine is acting up again. i think silverlight is fucking it up because it keeps making weird registry keys or something.

ok, installing EQ, and then what? Duxa's all in one shit?

also which disc imaging thing should i use


On July 4, 2014, around 8:30 am, I rode down to the beach on my ATV below Hooper Bay to check for driftwood. Within 20 minutes or so, I got to the big rotten walrus that had beached earlier this spring on the southside of the Nuvuk Spit.

When I was about 300 yards or so away, I saw something bobbing up and down from each side of the super-sized walrus (probably due to the stomach being bloated). The walrus is decaying and rotting. The right arm bone is showing with the meat rolled down from being rotten. About five days earlier, I had seen a raven picking on the walrus and figured that was it until I got closer and realized it wasn't a raven.

I stopped and spent a half-hour or more waiting to see what it was. Whatever it was, it stayed behind the walrus, with its head bobbing. Maybe it was bobbing its head to see over the walrus to see if I was still there, or maybe it was bobbing his head while it was eating the rotten meat from the walrus. But I could not tell what it was until it finally stood up.

When it did, its left leg came out first and stood up real easily on the right side of the walrus. It was huge, very tall and dark, but its legs seemed somewhat brownish. Its body was very broad and muscular. It stood up with its legs semi-apart and fists clenched and I could see knobby knees. Its hair seemed raised on its upper body. We stared at each other for five long minutes or more. It looked like it was challenging me.

It was unusual for anyone to stand there so long as it did just looking at me. He was standing erect and seemed larger and bigger than any people that I have seen fishing in the area before. If it wore clothing I could have seen colors of his coat or clothes. He finally turned his head to look down at the walrus and started walking northerly along the beach. He took long strides as he walked.

At first I figured he was still a person and was going to his boat, but there wasn't any boat or ATV nearby. When he got to a big log, he picked it up real easily and started walking back to the walrus. He seemed to walk a little slower with the log.

That's when I finally remembered I had a camera – I took it out and began to take video of it, even though I was getting terrified and every sense of my body was in a fleeing mode. But I stayed since it didn't seem to mind me too much of my being there.

Almost right away, I couldn't take any more video as my card got full, but I watched it a few minutes longer as he reached the walrus and saw him use the log as a lever to try and turn over the walrus. (A live walrus weighs 4,000 pounds, so a dead one must weigh 1,000 to 2,000 pounds.) And I didn't want to get closer because the ground between me and the creature was really rough and if I had to run away even in my ATV, the ground would slow me down.

One funny thing about this is he didn't even ask for help or assistance – and I knew that walrus was old and rotten which no human would touch or consume. Only the seagulls and ravens had picked on it. No person would never attempt to salvage very bad meat from long-dead animals as this thing was trying to do.

Then it began to get visibly frustrated being unable to turn the large rotten walrus over with the log, although I didn't hear any sounds or noises from the creature. I knew the sand was soft and soggy there and the tide was starting to come in. Finally I decided to get out of there seeing his demeanor changing with each unsuccessful try at turning the big walrus over, and I was getting too terrified of it. I didn't want to stick around no more. I cautiously left the area looking back constantly to be sure I wasn't followed by it. I could still see him using the log and working on turning that walrus over.

When I got further along and could see it no longer I felt safe enough to pick up some driftwood on the way out. I got a small load of driftwood and went on back home, being glad that everything turned out good even with whatever it was I saw that morning.

The next day on July 5 – this time taking my shotgun along – I went down to the old walrus but the creature was gone. I decided to check the rotten animal and found it to be about 3.7 feet high and the creature was much, much taller than that. I also found a small steak knife stuck into the meat but nobody cuts up seals or walruses with such knives. This creature apparently had found the knife from somewhere and learned how to use it. There was a good-sized piece cut off from the neck area, about a foot and a half by a foot wide. The meat was ruggedly cut with a lot of cut marks. It smelled very terribly – people in Hooper Bay wouldn't be touching that stuff.

I took the knife and stored it in a ziplock. It's really smelly and stings your nose due to the odor. I looked for the log the creature had used but had no luck finding it. Maybe it floated back out to the ocean with the tide.

Later that day at the post office, I learned from a cousin and her husband that while clamming in a nearby area they came upon large footprints. Another person told me he had found unusual footprints that had toenail or claw marks and when he compared them with his own size 10 shoes, they were bigger by 5 inches, more or less. He had been fishing for humpies, but when he found the tracks he upped and took off for home.

After the sighting, I told fellow Hooper Bayers about the creature. In hindsight, maybe I should have kept this to myself, but I wanted the community to become aware of other beings and creatures that live with us. There are creatures out there. My grandmother instilled in my mind daily when I started hunting around eight-years-old, saying to me, "Do not ever panic when you encounter something that is strange." She told me, "One of these days, now that you are traveling to the wilderness, you will meet creatures that live with us, but they don't trust people".

(Editor's Note: Photos are used with the permission of Bosco Olson. The photos of the Bigfoot are still pictures from the video, and were used for measurements on the creature and the walrus. The creature is 2.5 times taller than the walrus – so if the walrus is 3.7 feet according to the witness, then the creature is 9.25 feet tall. Each freeze-frame photo shows a dark creature with a coned head, a broad and muscular body, large feet, and carrying a 15' x 1' log that a person would have difficulty carrying, if at all, since it would weigh several hundred pounds. The video has not been offered for public viewing as of this time.)

General Disconation / Ideas for making money at home
« on: August 01, 2014, 02:36:19 PM »
I'm back home in Naparyarmiut and staying with my uncle, trying to help him move out of our village and into the city. He is cool but is skitzo, lives off about 1000/mo in disability. He is intelligent, and I know he's written in the past so I was thinking he could make some money writing, probably all have to be religious though.

Anyhow, anyone have success with anything but poker and wood turing?

General Disconation / one sip
« on: July 30, 2014, 01:49:01 PM »
and i have to poop

General Disconation / Image Macro about gas and oil companies
« on: July 26, 2014, 04:01:57 PM »

I wonder how good of a job they are doing? Wasn't there some long explanation on reddit or something about gas and oil companies? Because when I look at that number now all I can think about is OK, so the cost to the environment etc. vs the benefit we get from using oil -- and factoring in the money the oil companies is part of looking at how good of a job we are doing at extracting, and using oil? I think there would be a lot of "waste" on the using side as well, so we buy all this oil at these prices and the oil companies profit -- but then what do we use the energy for? That seems just as important.



General Disconation / Being friends with white people
« on: July 25, 2014, 08:11:06 PM »
The two friends who I called to come help me last week were both white. I do have a lot of good friends, and a lot who would help me if I asked but they were who I wanted to have with me for this. Both of them knew my brother for almost as long as they knew me. I haven't known them for my whole life but it feels like it anyhow. I know I said this already but the other part is that no matter how I come across sometimes I do know and love a lot of white folks, and it's tough to tease these things apart sometimes but no matter what I say I know white people aren't inherently evil, you are just raised that way.

kidding, kidding.

I am thankful for my entire support group.

In other news I amused myself with these FB comments:

General Disconation / Do you think this is true?
« on: July 25, 2014, 02:34:56 AM »

Spamalot / 1st servicel today
« on: July 23, 2014, 12:45:35 PM »
man, i am pretty unassailable. i really feel like i took a beating on this one, just tired.

not looking forward to this prayer service

since im not drinking if someone could get wasted in lieu of myself i would appreciate

General Disconation / Faydark*
« on: July 22, 2014, 10:52:25 PM »

Spamalot / woke up this morning
« on: July 21, 2014, 04:16:27 PM »
I guess this is real

Cried with my mom this morning as we remembered what was only a couple days ago. Oh my mom, she shouldn't have to deal with this. I'm going to be fine, I'm feeling a bit haunted still. I don't think anyone in this house is going to be suicidal anymore.

I got the call in the morning, I am in disbelief. I am a crazy person, pacing around my house yelling at my brother for being such a fucking dumbass. My kids are a little scared and avoiding me. I don't want to start driving because I know what is waiting on me.

Are you ready to go yet?

Ya, just give me a minute.

I wish I could lose myself in that minute.

What I don't want is I don't want to walk into this house. The grief in here oppressive and I retreat to the room immediately. MY babies want to follow me in there because they are scared. I yell at my baby to get the fuck out of there.

The smell is sweet, the mess is everywhere.

Son he had no head

My dad walked in after me, we just stand there.

My brain is trying to reconcile all the information I know.

Guy? How could it be you?

I am suicidal, my brother is suicidal, my sister is suicidal.

My middle brother is here to visit, does he remember me sitting with him in the hospital while HE was dying? Does he remember what he did to me then?

Are we too dysfunctional to know better? Do I need to drag around an upper middle class white person who can look at us and let me know when to take being suicidal seriously?

I have pieces of his skull in the freezer, mom doesn't know.

It came unbidden the first couple times. I knew what it was instantly.

The words came out of my mouth


I peel some scalp from the curtains, and survey the scene


Little bits of you everywhere my brother. My baby, my baby brother. My heart was hard towards you but I didn't mean it.


Just like cleaning up a moose kill my uncle says.


We did it, we scrubbed and scraped and laughed.


We cleaned it up in there Guy doesn't live in there anymore.


We cleaned that room for Not-Guy.

THAT is who lives there now. He is in the corner I can see him.

Not-Guy lives with us now.

My new brother.

Spamalot / ohohhhh
« on: July 17, 2014, 11:54:49 AM »
here we go again. 7 am phone call informing you your brother is dead.

not Idaru

you never met him, my baby brother. probably shot himself.

General Disconation / fat fingered two tabs
« on: July 15, 2014, 11:43:17 PM »
i don;t know what was in them, was it important???

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