Divinely Electrified Revelation, Oakdale's Church Signs

Religious institutions are a crucial part of the life of this place. Places of worship are routinely visited by lay and devout members of various faiths, and they serve also as necessary sites of social intercourse and generally relaxed engagement.

Churches of all stripes of Christianity reside here but there are so few that might fit outside of this narrow category.

Given their significance to the overall character of the town, the establishments furnish and encourage many of the creative efforts contained within it. Many musicians find their first notes in pious contexts, with, to a lesser extent, participation of artists and writers.

Even more amusingly is how devout comedians (or just lay people with a penchant for witticisms) find their outlet in electrified Church, simultaneously a way for the Church and the author to display themselves while serving as a hopefully-engaging means for increasing future service attendance and participation.

Each display is unique, and they are regularly updated - nearly weekly - with some of the latest in divinely-inspired insights and pithy knowledge. Some are less self-conscious than others, and with a few, you can really see how they provide parishioners with the opportunity for their own chance at comedic or prophetic stardom.

Sometimes the messages they are quirky. Othertimes they are corny. Occasionally they are confusing. But always, they are a sight to see.

And such is the will of God in this place without a place called Oakdale.

Moving on Forever: The Orchards of Oakdale

Knowing the rural involves first coming to terms with the noteworthy symbols that make up its circulated spectacle. In popular culture, two of these symbols are the orchard and the pasture, but coming to understand what they might signify and how they differ, not to mention what it feels like to be around and describe them shows how limited such portrayals have so far been.

The orchards, pastures and fields that surround Oakdale are a standing testament both to its profound faith as well as its indefatigable working spirit. These plots are to be found in patchworks in every possible direction, on the outskirts and even very nearby town.

Produce and livestock of all kinds inhabit these places, giving them a checkered, quilted appearance from above. Almond, walnuts, grapes, and a variety of other fruits and vegetables sustain this place (and its agri-coffers), while the warmer weather encourages the cultivation of heat-tolerant plants. Numerous cattle ranches can be founded patterned alongside endless rows of budding or aged and matured trees, the likes of which mirror and emulate the endless of mosaics of Escher. But I think these rows - their neat construction and seeming endlessness - are responsible in part for the enduring Christian sentiments that appear to buoy and anchor this place (and are buoyed and anchored by it).

By this, I mean to say that apparently infinite stretches of road, electricity relay towers, pasture and crop formations imply a kind of eternity in presence and aesthetic that cannot help but utter poems of and prayers from those that live on and around the land (or those that witness it themselves). But this is not to establish cause: just to muse on an odd parallel in their prevailing values.

These patches can be viewed easily enough as long one has a car or a bike (even a tractor); just don't expect to get anywhere quickly, as a parked yellow bus or monstrous trailer might occlude your scenic progress.

 Importantly, orchards and pastures exhibit crucial differences aesthetically and functionally. Orchards are orderly, defined, rigorously planned and plotted rows and columns of trees that cover massive expanses of otherwise uninhabited dirt. Pastures, however, are open fields, the kind for cows or horses to graze on: the sort that unfold to provide sublime views of the world beyond.

Every now and again however, there are stark and beautiful marriages of these distinct geographical features of rurality. One example is pictured here, and special scenes like this one uniquely emerge with the early days (or pre-days) of Spring, heralding its arrival and warning all of its impending showers. The green patches that are found lining and dividing trees are soft and sparse but often appear just as ordered as the trees themselves, instigating us to wonder if they are just young trees aspiring to be like their much older brethren.

Originally, in fact, and as dated photos suggest, Oakdale was the Almond Capital of the World, and while such a moniker is nothing to scoff at, city promoters endeavored for more, finally settling on a much more grandiose (and difficult to substantiate) "Cowboy Capital of the World," which it defended in a brief but noteworthy standoff with a Texas town for the title (decided by and over rodeo ticket sales).

Oakdale would be nothing but for Orchards and Pastures, and these features nourish many local families through the production of countless items of produce and the generation of milk; but even more notably, they provide the means by which we are able to show ourselves in regional, national and international markets. The Central Valley's rural productive apparatus sustains a significant portion of the California economy to say nothing of how Oakdale plays a partial but significant role in this commerce, the way in which these features of land are utilized and deployed, aside completely from their aesthetic presentation and potential.

On the Road to Town

Oakdale's streets are as diverse as the different kinds of weeds one might fight bordering their paths.

In town, most are well-paved, cared-for and maintained. Newly laid eggshell white paint glares at drivers as their cars speed by, diverting their attention for just a moment's glance. There are exceptions, though; rundown paths line the town the town, and distinguish areas of blight.

Even in the large, top-heavy vehicles that assertively roam this place, one can feel the grit, the holes, the imperfections. No street is immaculate here, just some better at staving off a final judgment of "broken" than others. Woe goes to more public investment in infrastructure.

Outside of town, roads, like many public utilities, have been left derelict. Some more well-tended-to than others, many of them are crumbling, scattering, and in need of attention. They meander in and around an assortment of farms, pastures and meadows, reminding us both of what they are for and the sheer impossibility of any plans of escape for the denizens of this place.

The exception to this rule is the road that enters town from the north and departs it to the west, to the Golden Gate. This foundational tanned trail gives Oakdale one of its raison d'être so to speak. The road curves and winds as it becomes Oakdale, travels along our slow, stalled main streets and escapes again to the wonder of the rolling yellow hills of rural California. 

Roads and paths that puncture, border, criss-cross, grid and set Oakdale also echo a feeling of infinity that similarly characterizes the Orchards and Pastures (fields) that lie on the town's fringes or (sometimes) very near town. Often, towering electrical relays pair with roads and accompany them on their long, seemingly-endless stretch.

These roads give Oakdale is outline - pencil-marks - from which the rest has been colored and filled in.

A Storming Self

Sometimes we have existential shocks: failures on the part of our environments to provide for us or our own inability to meet the expectations or desires we have for ourselves. These are difficult, challenging and terrifying moments, even if they aren't physically threatening or harmful. But they are nevertheless key and changing, watershed moments in our lives that may throw us off the paths we have previously been on. Weathering them is no easy task, and they may shake the very existential foundations upon which we've been living for as long as we have. But they are not insuperable, and we must draw on our past habits and conventions but deploy them in new and novel ways to ferry us through such bleak, dark waters.

Often, we overcome and persevere (although there are many instances where this may not be the case), but how we do so is important, is key.

Watch Out For the Scabs

It is no doubt easy to fault a place like Oakdale for it's well-intentioned but often off-the-mark political zeal, but every so often an event takes place that defies this slightly off-color character and intensifies and deforms the existing climate of debate. Even where there is the opportunity for intelligent and reasoned political conversation, cringe-inducing, grimace-producing statements often surface. These facts are noteworthy if for no other reason than because politics as a topic of conversation is otherwise avoided entirely, granted that this taboo is by no means unique to this place.

But the way in which it implies a consensus is expressed in the kinds of demonstrations that do arise, when they do. For when there is any kind of statement, it is something objectionable or galvanizing and rarely anywhere in between. But I do desire to defend Oakdale here, as the kind of activism this picture displays is not reflective of its character but is evidence of a more pressing need for political institutions to provide reasonable and healthy avenues for participation and expression, lest efforts like this capture and absorb any kind of extant displeasure with the 'status quo.'

What's additionally disconcerting about the picture included is not the predictably stomach-churning portrayal of Obama-as-ruthless-dictator (and the attendant sidelining of all legitimate and supportable criticisms we might make of him and the policy atmosphere that follows him) but the signature by which we might be able to identify the author of this attempt at two-people-chair-and-a-stand activist method: "LaRouche." His named is emblazoned on the bottom strip discretely but nevertheless undeniably as if this is his most famous painting. Interestingly, this image does have its own particular history: first authored in 2008 in the lead up to the election. it nevertheless remains an odd contribution to a checkered American popular political discourse, attracting criticism from the likes of both Limbaugh and Stewart.

But he also represents, in a very concrete way, the saturation of money in political affairs, and the penetration of these efforts into Oakdale. Meanwhile the presence of these 'activists' invites the image of being popularly-organized, reassuring and affirming us in our patriotic sentiments in a time of doubt about our ability to actually participate or to have the ability or care to. Unfortunately, these ostensible moments of popular expression and freedom-affirming instances of speech, sadly remain soaked in the ocean of money that has drowned popular participation and washed onto shore nothing but concern over the stability and justness of the institutions we defend.

Still, this single photo can only say so much, and while it is tempting to say that this tendency towards provocative and radicalized punditry that would make headlines as uttered by any politician is a mere byproduct of an underdeveloped political culture or 'backwards' opinions, I would instead volunteer the position that this kind of political action is little reflective of Oakdale and only preys on it, substituting conspiracy theory-like partially-formed (inchoate) opinions for opportunities for actual consciousness-raising learning opportunities that might spark serious political conversation or at least sustain what is already happening. Perhaps talking about these issues more might even illuminate how marginal LaRouch and company really are (while their solitary presence on the side of the road seems to imply a kind of ubiquity), or, in the process, we might all finally come to realize ourselves as basically being Political Animals.

Writing is Like...

My space to work out some of my most complicated, nagging thoughts, not to mention a meditative opportunity to reflect on and examine some of my assertions, beliefs, assumptions, sentiments, feelings, plans, thoughts and relationships in a way that I might appreciate new, novel and perhaps helpful and informative perspectives. There is never any promise with this activity that I will come to any epiphanic conclusion; but conclusions are never good substitutions for trails of thoughts, pathways of reflection, alleyways of contemplation. Finding the ideal conditions for expressing and articulating thoughts is what is writing is about, limiting the form to a medium of a certain kind, much like painting. And, in my arrogance, I want to say that it is a preferred form: that, unlike painting or music, it provides us - its presumed users - with a level of precision, detail and pointedness (that is, in the most skilled and diligent of its users) hardly found elsewhere. But this, I think, is an unjustified conceit: it is merely another way to represent 'reality' or to muse on the features and aspects of the world, which many have long purported it to reflect and mirror cleanly: a whole issue on its own.

For now, all I care about is that writing is like prayer for me: my genuflection to a god that, in our creation, could be.

(Self) Transported

While walking in Oakdale, you might cross one person, someone you've likely never met before that likely lives just a block or two down from where you wake and sleep. Your interaction will undoubtedly be awkward, them dressed in sweat pants and being dragged along by a dog they can't seem to let go and you witnessing this in full force and view. As you pass an unnecessarily large illuminated marquee proclaiming the divine existence and authority of THE DIVINE BEING (hereafter TDB), wondering all the while why such a divine being needs that kind of publicity if he/she/zhe were all that divine anyways.

But that's aside from the point, and if you look too closely anyways, you must just be struck by a marauding truck, some monstrous beast of a vehicle that exists nowhere else on the planet except for warzones and this city, and while it careens on by, defying every extant cost-efficient, friction-reducing design and engineering recommendation, one can't help but sympathize - if just for a moment - with how cool it might be. But for every moment, there are ten others that stink of environmental degradation, general noisiness, obnoxiousness and unbridled masculinity. So this is what people think of you.

As dusk wears on, fewer people stroll the sidewalks, and more white and red lights dominate the streets. This is when one must be hyperviligant, observant on all sides of lurking beasts: you never know when one might pounce.

...

For a moment after passing the bike-topic mini-mountain hastily constructed outside of a 7-eleven in anxious anticipation of a slurpee, you recognize something that had been there all along but that from which all of the other sights and sounds had been distracting you: the profound stillness in the air, a cold coming on slowly but not forcibly or meanly, greeting you on your walk home from school or work (or both), casually talking up your flank as you tiredly shoulder the increasingly burdensome bag that you can't seem to empty too quickly of books. But that is your lot, you know, and you accept it, even welcome it. To cafes, to bars, to places where it really isn't socially acceptable to sit and read; even propriety doesn't stand in your way, old friend, you bookish one you.

This is how you end your days, sometimes how you begin your days, and you look forward to its anchoring function in your life, the time when you can think, reflect and ponder, make sense of and order your life, like you order your days with calendars and clocks; if only existential desires might fit the same kind of form. And you try to do that very thing, with varying levels of success. Let's see how it works this time.

Oh how common is such a world.