Confessions of a Bike Rider

I want to get something off of my chest. I ride bikes. But thats not the real confession. I ride bikes, but I'm not a bike mechanic.

I am conflating two bikes into one, presently. Preparing for my epic bike tour back home to Covington, WA. In the process of conflation, I removed my bike stand from one bike, and began to attach it to its destined new bike. I situated it in the right place, and tightened the bolt. I tightened it some more, and some more, and some more; right before the climax I remembered a similar moment, about a year a go, when I over tightened my brakes and stripped the bolt. Right at that moment, the top of my kickstand shattered and snapped. Darn. Pretty weak metal, no? Now I had a broken kickstand.

But thats not all. I managed to bricolier (bricolage) a spacer for the now broken kickstand and attempted to salvage its use. When all was said and nearly done, the kickstand remained a mite too long, so attempted to bend it out farther. No luck. Shortly after applying force, the kickstand snapped into two. Now I held a twice broken kickstand. Most impressive. At this point, I'd like for you, the reader, to realize the intensity of the word "snap" in this instance. This was not your ordinary "snap". This was the kind of life threatening "SNAP" that makes you want to "hide your wife and hide your kids", to look around to make sure nobody can see you because you know they heard you. 

That being said, I don't think anybody heard me, so I confessed to my roommate and his lady inside. They understood.

I am George Simons. I ride bikes, and I break my kickstands not once, but twice in the same night.

One partial Role of Film

I bought the role in the basement of the Romney. I needed something to help maintain my sanity. I figured some exposure would work. I try unsuccessfully not to speak in riddles. Sometimes my photographs are more straight forward. Sometimes their not. You decide.

This is Rexburg.

The News: Keep Rexburg Real

I'm getting married. Rexburg is changing. But that doesn't free us from our civic duty as Rexburgians. It doesn't relinquish us from the burden we carry as patriotic citizens. Instead, it increases the anti. It begs us to deepen our investment in local culture, clarify our geographic identity, and fight to form our reality.

Who are we Rexburg? Who are we BYU-Idaho? Who are we?  Are we just a bunch of unshaven children breaking the honor code? Our are we children of God living to the full privileges of our birth right?

I travelled to Oahu, HI this last semester, and I peregrinated around the island. I saw things that many don't get to see in a life time. I saw roosters being raised for cock fights. I saw families living complete off the grid, habituating houses and reaping from farms established forty years ago. I swam with mating dolphins and saw breaching humpbacks, snorkeled with sea turtles, sold organic produce at a farmers market, spent time with the one I love on innumerable beaches, and slept, homeless, on Waikiki. But most of all, I saw people that cared about their local culture. People protested local issues on hand made signs in their front yard. People raised their children in the tradition of native hawaiian. A tradition and language which  only recently nearly reached death.

"A 1983 survey estimated that only 1,500 people remained in Hawaii who could speak it, most of them elderly. Today there are probably 6,000 to 8,000 Hawaiian-language speakers throughout the state, most of them under the age of 30, said Kalena Silva, professor of Hawaiian studies at the University of Hawaii-Hilo." Star Advertiser.


It was amazing to witness such a turn around happening. I don't suppose to know all of the answers, but I mostly desire that we all be aware of the questions. I desire that we don't allow ourselves get tossed to and fro with every wind of doctrine. I desire that we are aware of the influences touching our lives. 


As for me and mine we're starting off by putting on a bike awareness rally June 30th. It's going to be real. Really real. More details are coming. But let us know if you know of any musicians that have a soft spot in their hearts for the beauty of bicycle transportation. We're gonna make it happen and it's gonna happen big.

 

So get on your bikes and ride- Ride the Revolution!

The logo was taken from Meredith's penny farthing stamp on canvas. She's pretty cool.

So I finally gave in and put my photos through some washes. Everyone else was doing it. This actually marks a relapse for me, since way back when in junior college I was wash and filter crazy- I had a pressure sensitive stylus pad and I was out of control. My sups chill Photog professor told me to lay off the filters as he sipped back on his daily Earl Gray- you just got to focus on the good darks and lights. I don't know, black and white was never my thing, and the only reason I did all those filters in the first place was because my art teacher had called all my other work "chincy"- Chinchy!

So from there, after my mission, I made a purify pilgrimage to cleanse my camera obscura's soul, and my own. After spending months working with people whose life goals were to commit genocide against all camera-tilting-cheesey-over-contrasty-warm-toned wedding photographers, my work became remarkably clean, simple, and sober. And now that I'm out?

Looks like its back to the filters. I think they're rather tasteful.

Except for maybe this next one, but it seems to be what everybody likes.

The fire burns warm in the almost pot-belly stove. The bench near by- vacated. Lon reads the Funnies in a suit and tie, jacket removed, and cuffs rolled up. Last night I interviewed John Chesley on that bench. He sat awkwardly before my camera, revealing his inner feelings and telling stories of his relationship with Jackie Monson that brought him to this day- the red dot blinking- to the day of his marriage.

Now, the marriage is nearly done, only the reception remains. The lunch was exquisite. The mood divine. The sealer stumbly, yet accurate and spiritual. At the end of the ceremony, they were asked to rise, the bride and the groom. They stood, and looked before themselves into eternity, between two mirrors. In the mirror before them, their images reflected endlessly, as it was tossed back and forth between the two. A representation of the generations without end that would come as a result of their covenants. They turned, and in the mirror behind them reflected again endlessly their images. A representation of those who had come before, their ancestors, Joseph Smith and Brigham Young, and all who paved the way. And in the middle, stood them, two children in adult clothing, a beautiful gown and handsome suit. Children.

Yet children of God. Their potential roared as the silence around them listened.

Wealth disparity, flat, or even regressive taxes, seem to be commonly supported by many of the mormons, with whom I deal.

Robin Hood and his merry man now march on France and much of Europe. Germany approves. And Italy is already implementing.

"A tiny levy on trades in the financial markets that would take money from the banks and give it to the world’s poor" is the proposition. They call it the Robin Hood tax.

The 99 percent continue to protest in cities across America. A third of our nations wealth is still held by the 1 percent.

The Obama administration remains reluctant to support such a tax however for fear that it will drive away business.

My question here is- in times of such inequality and disparity, how can we as Christians support such a thing as wealth inequality?

I have no grand political arguments. I'm not a mastermind economist and I don't pretend to understand theoretic mathematical concepts. I offer no persuading numbers.

All I say is this-

 There is a closed door.
A person comes and opens that door.
The person walks through.

In this simple example, are we to imagine that the only person involved in opening that door was the person that did the deed of opening?

Nay.

Surely the carpenter who crafted the door should have some credit, for without him there would be no door to be opened. And the custodian? did he not make sure the hinges were properly greased so as to be easily opened? And who told the person the location of the door? Should we imagine that they found it all by themselves? And what of that persons parents? Did they not raise them, and nourish them to be strong enough to open the door? Did they not teach them how to turn the knob and get on through?

And so it is with money. It is narrow minded and foolish to say that I have all of my money because of myself and all of my hard work.

Now I'm not talking about welfare, and government handouts, and such nonsense systems that stunt the growth of a countries citizens. And I realize that mormons are one of the top donating demographics for philanthropies and such.

But what I'm getting at is that we should not assume that what is ours is really ours. We should get through that door and say -Ahha! I made it- and close the door on all the other people behind you. To do so would be ungrateful and, in our terms faithless.

I try to remember that we're all in this together and that not a penny of mine is a penny of mine.

Pomegranate Sorbet

I created pomegranate sorbet. Two fresh pomegranates. Hand sqoozed. One half of a lemon. Hand squozen. Pure cane sugar. Frigid water. Mixed all into the White Mountain ice cream freezer. Meredith, the Goddess of my heart, stirred. I, the master of my heart, churned. More ice was added. Post beef wellington, thinly sliced potatoes toasted crispy, and pleasantly sauteed green beans, we enjoyed the paleteous sensations of fresh pomegranate and lemon frozen goodness. It was aromatic. It was sweet, powerful, strong. It was nearly unbelievable. It was choice. 

Someone may have toppled over upon tasting the art of its confection, I, however, did not. I smiled blissfully, fully aware of the loved ones around me that shared its joy with me. 

And then we were off to the Yule Ball.