Forklifts for Sissyphus

It's raining again in North Carolina. The Bald is one of those places, however, that dries off in a matter of hours. The rock around here doesn't seep like they do back in Kentucky. Regardless, I'm indoors at the library, feeding my creative needs through this ill-kept blog.

The strange thing about this library is that people like to sit right next to me, instead of one computer space down. If this were a men's restroom, they'd be breaking all sorts of unspoken rules. Use the next urinal over, creeper.

In any case, as my general mediocre opinion of the climbing subsides and I'm once again psyched about the Gneiss climbing here, I have to take a rest day. Every day the problems here seem to throw a new twist into the general nature of bouldering that I once held in my mind. Delicate, and sometimes thuggish, problems are keen on punting me onto my ass. And it's unfortunate that sometimes the landings have arranged themselves in such a way that my tailbone lands squarely on a knife-blade edge of a bolder, and I limp away like I just had an inexperienced med-student roughly check my colon for cancer. Regardless, I'm really starting to enjoy the flat sloping blocks that sometimes appear on problems, but still have a respectable loathing for the horse-pens style slopers that grind the skin of your hands to mere dust.

Tomorrow I may be heading up to the Grandmother Boulders and Blowing Rock. But then it's scheduled to rain for two days. Sweet. Maybe an indoor gym session?

I've just finished reading Catch-22, and I'm beginning to think that may the phrase shouldn't be used by politicians, news pundits, or other public figures you can find by flipping on the television. I'm not sure why I think this, and if I were still in college, I would love to pawn off a paper on the matter as a senior thesis. But, alas, my days in the ivory tower are gone, confiscated by the immigration police known as real life experience and adventure.

Whatever the fuck that means.