Fault Line (The Song)

I posted this song previously—about two years ago if memory serves.  I thought I would repost again since my post for yesterday was about a fault line of a different nature.

--Mitchell Hegman.

Vido Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQDLf8xI7BE

A Fault Line

Seismologists are in the process of establishing a dashed line.   The line is being drawn through the mountains less than a dozen miles from my cabin.  The line will define the location of a previously unmapped strike-slip fault—a fault that sees two sections of the Earth’s crust grating against one another like a pair of cars side-swiping in a tight parking lot.  The result is something of a rumbling and rolling earthquake.

This all started back on July 6 when a magnitude 5.8 rattled the hell out of everyone within several hundred miles of the Lincoln epicenter.  That was the largest quake Montana has experienced in 40 years. Since then, according to earthquaketrack.com, activity near Lincoln has been fairly constant.  As of this morning, the Lincoln area has seen 20 earthquakes in the last 7 days, 61 in the past 30 days.  The other day, a magnitude 3.5 rumbled through.

There are three types of faults.  One type is the strike-slip fault such as the one near Lincoln.  A second type occurs where two sections of the Earth’s crust abruptly pull apart, forming a valley.  The third type of fault thrusts one section of curst overtop another. 

Determining where the strike-slip fault lies is detailed work.  In addition to studying seismic graphs, scientists study creeks and rivers to see if they can identify points where the flow suddenly jogs sideways: an indication that the landscape has shifted laterally underneath them.  

At the same time, this is nothing new in these parts.  Many of our iconic mountain ranges were thrust skyward by thrusting earthquake faults. The Big Belt Mountains, rising immediately behind my house, are an example.  In those mountains you will find, at 8,000 feet, tickled by passing clouds, the limestone sea beds (complete with sea shell fossils) of an ancient ocean upheaved by eons of earthquake activity.

We are still in the process of making mountains and shifting rivers out here.  Unfortunately, it’s something akin to making sausage.  The process is not all that pretty.  Following the magnitude 5.8, I found cracks in the concrete slabs of my driveway some 40 miles from the epicenter, cracks in the concrete siding at the base of my cabin walls, and waking to the shaking and rumbling was a bit unnerving.

--Mitchell Hegman.

Don’t Walk a Mile in my Shoes

From a general standpoint, I think the admonition to “walk a mile in another man’s shoes” before you judge him is valid.   For me specifically, instead of walking a mile in my shoes, maybe you could stop wearing underwear for a week (I stopped wearing them years ago).  While doing so may not entirely alter your thoughts about me, I can guarantee a few startling moments. 

--Mitchell Hegman

The Road to Automatic Love

Clearly, we took a wrong turn.

If we backtrack, maybe we will find two signposts.

One that reads: Automatic Weapons.

One that reads: Automatic Love.

Obviously, we are not on the road to Automatic Love.

But we can imagine.

Your grandmother’s house will be the first home along the way.

Brilliant white with red shutters.  Happy-face violets in the wind boxes.

Children have set up a lemonade stand under the leafy canopy of a giant oak.

The sign draws travelers in: “free cookees with eech glass!”

The road we missed is not so long, not so punishing,

and the locals cheerfully wave to uncertain wanderers.

There are no wrong turns.  No potholes.

No snarling traffic.

Bang, bang, bang!  On the road to Automatic Love, that’s the tattoo of a small boy playing his tin drum as he marches off into a field of timothy and foxglove.

--Mitchell Hegman

That Girl

I knew that girl was right for me the morning she smacked me with a fly-swatter.  Why she smacked me is not near as interesting as why her hair seems electrified when caught in backlight or why the sound of her voice always makes me feel as though I am on my way up.

The fly-swatter was made of leather.  Handmade by the Amish near Roundup, Montana and without logical reference.

That girl’s voice is made of clear water, green hills, and a dash of warm ocean breeze.  It’s a place where I want to go.

I seek her out when she first wakes, when she is perfectly soft and dreams have gifted her with a smooth optimism, smooth understanding.  I can speak my normal nonsense and she understands me.

And she merely laughs when my cat hisses at her.

When she was gone for a few days, I sent her a selfie of me and my cat.

Not a joke.

One of us missed her fiercely.

And speaking of light, if I stand outside my door, the light issued from the sun requires eight minutes and twenty seconds to reach me.  I sometimes imagine what sort of things might happen in that time.  A flight of geese could lift from the lake and fly to the valley wheat fields.  A footrace might be started and won.  The last dozen leaves might fall from my mayday tree.  A bee could sting me whirl off to perish in the blonde grass. 

But eight minutes and twenty seconds is not near enough time for me to spend with that girl.

I ask for more.

--Mitchell Hegman.

Followers

Back in 1994 a really ugly thing occurred—something that sent thousands of innocent people flailing across floors all around the world.

It was a dance called the Macarena.

Not just a dance: a craze.  The song Macarena, which inspired the dance, was performed by Los del Rio, a Spanish duo approaching middle age.  I was deeply concerned about society as whole as I witnessed otherwise normal people jerking about to a truly awful song.  A song which, by the way, extols a young woman who cheats on her boyfriend with two men at once.

Here’s the thing, I didn’t hold the people caught up in the Macarena craze responsible for their actions.  I blamed the song (a sparsely musical chant) and accompanying video for the entire mess.  The masses were merely followers caught up in a bizarre singularity that took them by surprise.  Perhaps everyone was drinking at the time.

I am about to make a larger point here.

Yesterday, after reading my carping about October running around calling itself the “eighth month,” my friend, Ken, correctly noted that November and December are likewise singing false tunes.

November means “ninth month.”

December means “tenth month.”

Clearly, they are the eleventh and twelfth months, respectively.

Okay, my point really isn’t “larger.”  It’s a medium-sized or maybe a small point.  But here it is: I don’t hold November and December accountable for where they stand.  They had no choice but to follow October.  To do otherwise would triple our confusion.  Also, like those dancing to the Macarena, they are natural followers.

--Mitchell Hegman

October

October has been misplaced in a most glaring manner.

Normally, I am not terribly persnickety about where we situate our months.  January is fine where it’s located.  Some years, I will admit to wishing January was closer to July so we could have a few warmer days.  But I muddle though.

April looks lovely sitting there between March and May.  When spoken, April tastes like sugar on my tongue.  Songbirds sing in the mornings.  I can return to my once snowbound cabin nestled in the toes of the Great Continental Divide.

June: absolutely.

September is perfectly stationed to usher in the “ber” months (translated in Montana as: brrr, it’s getting cold).  Give me those cool evenings, warm days, big skies, and calm evenings.  Mountains stand taller in September.  Bluebirds gather into cheery flocks that twiddle about the fences along our country road.

All the other months are fine in a workmanlike manner.  No issue.

Now, back to October.

I have no particular complaints with October’s associated weather.  We are transitioning between hot and cold—I totally get that.  I have no issue with the spelling (as I do with February and, frankly, calendar).  My problem is this: the name October literally means “eighth month.”

Hello, October, you are not the eighth month!

I know it’s not your fault, October.  I understand that you are a vestige from the Roman calendar.  I appreciate that some late-coming goobers threw January and February up into your face.  But don’t be strutting around the calendar like you are the “real” eighth month.  Because you’re not.

--Mitchell Hegman.