The Smell of a Burning Clutch

Gifts are usually affiliated with Christmas, and exchanges, but this is sin to Emerson. Emerson believes that gifts should be a part of one’s self. This means that you can’t just go out and buy something for someone, that isn’t a true gift. According to Emerson, a true gift is the sheepherder’s lamb, or the painter’s picture, or the poet’s poem, not an Xbox 360, unfortunately. The gifts should be given willingly, and not by force or out of obligation, so as one can tell, Emerson was definitely the Scrooge of Christmas time, disgusted by the fake gifts that people give to one another. Emerson goes on to say that rings and jewels are apologies for gifts, or that they are false, and that the giver hasn’t given the appropriate amount of time for the gift, thus expensive gifts such as these are fake, no matter how expensive they are.

I was encouraged to give an “Emersonian gift”, and as we talked about it more and more in class, I decided to go on and execute it. Although it’s not a pair of Gucci shoes, I gave a true Emersonian gift to my twenty-five year old cousin. I set aside a whole Saturday in an empty Albertsons parking lot with him, in my 1989 BMW 325i 5 speed, teaching him how to drive manual. He was slow to learn, but after a while, he finally got the hang of it, and after 3 hours in the parking lot, and countless amount of stalls and profane words, he was able to drive stick. People may look at that day as a “waste”, but according to Emerson, I gave a part of my self, and dedicated my whole Saturday to him, to teaching him that I enjoy, but my clutch doesn’t, to teaching him something that his father couldn’t teach him ten years ago, to teach him that he is able to drive any car now, not just a crappy slush box.

I though that an Emersonian gift was total bull, and that it could never be better than Call of Duty 5, but after seeing him accelerate from neutral without exceeding 3000RPM, and seeing that huge grin on his face, I could tell that he appreciated what I had done for him. Now he better give me an extremely NON Emersonian gift, a brand new clutch, for I need it, and demand it.

Nature

After a traffic filled, stressful drive home from a test polluted and very exhausting day of school, I usually go for a spirited drive around Poway and Miramar, but today, I decided to try something new. I wanted to get in touch with nature, and not like in the book “Hatchet”, but to just soak in the atmosphere and amazing ecosystem of the canyon and creek by my house in the desolate region of Scripps Ranch.

I sat on a log, with the stream gently lapping the mud. I can see crawdads and water skippers mingling with each other. I hear rustling, and instead of reaching for my .22 pistol, I wait, and see a rabbit, it hops onto the trail where people bike and walk their dogs, and is followed by a baby bunny, the size of my fist. In less than a second, I saw them both jet off, I wondered what spooked them, and then it hit me. With a loud shriek, I heard the hawk, soaring a hundred feet above us, circling its prey, and I finally realized how harsh the world is. Little baby bunny and momma rabbit were just trying to go for a walk and Mr. big bad hawk comes and ruins the day, luckily, both the bunnies will live to see another day.

I walk on, my Nikon D50 with the 50mm f/1.8 in one hand, my .22 pistol in the other, clad in jeans and a flannel, I walk alone. I jump across the four foot wide creek, and find myself inches away from a coyote den. I shudder at the sight, for coyotes are why I bring the gun, they are the cause of so many dead cats, dogs, and other small animals. Whenever I see one from my house, I wish I had a scope on my .308, they’re what I hate, they are my target, and I have found their home. I kick all the branches, and the family is nowhere to be found. I am both glad, but disappointed, “hopefully they are already dead, but unfortunately, I couldn’t be there”, (traces of my anger from the day are still obviously present). I hate them, but I suppress my hate and continue on the path, stopping to smell the roses, without the cliché.

I look on down the road and see how much of an impact man has made, the six foot wide path for trucks and motorcyclists to come and off road, I look up the hill, and see the massive houses, and huge retaining walls, proof of man’s huge, and ugly footprint on the world. It’s awful, and can’t be undone, soon, the creek will run dry, and turn Pomerado road, into a huge highway. Nature is taken for granted, and sooner or later, there will be nowhere to go and “let it all out” after a hard day.