The stability song
I've decided to write a song. I'm not so much with the music or the lyrics, but I'll italicize the words and make odd line breaks and everyone perusing the Internets like child molesters that thought they missed me this month can remember that they didn't. That same everyone can also be insulted that I just compared them to child molesters. Then they can wonder why good-looking singer-songwriters are such jerks. Then the ones that are singer-songwriters can be upset that I insulted them too. Oh. Man. The child molesting singer-songwriters are going to be furious. Maybe they quit reading in early September. Please don't tell them. I hope they don't have an RSS feed.
This is a song about being stable.
I didn't write it. I wasn't able.
This is my song about stability
Sitting here in all my futility
Working hard every day.
Just so I can say,
Oh, I'm working haaaaard
This is a song about being still
I wouldn't sing it. I'm not Phil.
This is a song about not moving.
Broken down and not grooving.
Working hard every day.
Just so I can say,
Oh, I'm working harrrrrd.
Traveling the countryside
In my gas-guzzlin' ride.
I'd rather take the train.
I'd rather it not rain.
I'd rather you silence that phone.
I just don't want to hear it.
I'm busy working hard.
Why-oh-why
does your ringing,
sound three point five times better than my singing?
I'm not classically trained,
I'm not filled with pain.
I'm not having fun.
But
I'm
Working
Hard.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Pink Perfection at the "Sugar Shack"
The sun was painting the sky in a daily farewell. Pink lemonade strips were woven between fluffy white cumulus clouds. A rain was coming, but only one. Followed by another. Rain, like underwear, is puzzled by its number. Unlike underwear, rain is not nearly so puzzled when it comes to gender. American rain lacks an obvious gender, but French rain is female. The buttons on her shirt are on the left, for the rain-servants. French rain can wear short skirts and get away with it. When French rain gets asked out for coffee, the thunder almost always picks up the check. This makes American rain exceedingly jealous because American rain has to pay for its own coffee. Plus American rain is tired of Pat jokes. What's that? It's American rain.
At night, after the sun has set and the little ones are asleep, sometimes American rain cries itself to sleep. It's very hard to tell because tear drops on rain drops can be a subtle phenomena only detectable by trained eyes. Although, there was a man with no eyes at all who could hear the tears. They drove him mad and he invented a shampoo for children and sensitive adults, but his brother... His brother Johnson lived in a Sugar Shack next to the home of American rain. Johnson didn't have the incredible ears of his brother Johnson, but since people often confused the two of them anyway, this story has shifted in his general direction.
Now, Johnson lived in a Sugar Shack. That sounds sweeter and/or dirtier than it was. He worked part time as a painter and the other time he spent thinking of ways to get out of working altogether. In a fit of inspiration, Johnson painted his modest meadow dwelling to look like a spun sugar egg. There are those that claim he had a Gretel fetish, but the most commonly held theory is that the younger Johnson decided that he could charge tourists to gawk at his shack. It was not altogether a bad plan, especially when one considers that the Precious Moments chapel attracts 400,000 visitors a year.
(The answers to your questions are yes, I'm reading Tom Robbins again and Pink Perfection and "Sugar Shack" were my dinner. The former was a smoothie, the latter a platter with baked beans, crepes, eggs, and Black Forest ham.)
The sun was painting the sky in a daily farewell. Pink lemonade strips were woven between fluffy white cumulus clouds. A rain was coming, but only one. Followed by another. Rain, like underwear, is puzzled by its number. Unlike underwear, rain is not nearly so puzzled when it comes to gender. American rain lacks an obvious gender, but French rain is female. The buttons on her shirt are on the left, for the rain-servants. French rain can wear short skirts and get away with it. When French rain gets asked out for coffee, the thunder almost always picks up the check. This makes American rain exceedingly jealous because American rain has to pay for its own coffee. Plus American rain is tired of Pat jokes. What's that? It's American rain.
At night, after the sun has set and the little ones are asleep, sometimes American rain cries itself to sleep. It's very hard to tell because tear drops on rain drops can be a subtle phenomena only detectable by trained eyes. Although, there was a man with no eyes at all who could hear the tears. They drove him mad and he invented a shampoo for children and sensitive adults, but his brother... His brother Johnson lived in a Sugar Shack next to the home of American rain. Johnson didn't have the incredible ears of his brother Johnson, but since people often confused the two of them anyway, this story has shifted in his general direction.
Now, Johnson lived in a Sugar Shack. That sounds sweeter and/or dirtier than it was. He worked part time as a painter and the other time he spent thinking of ways to get out of working altogether. In a fit of inspiration, Johnson painted his modest meadow dwelling to look like a spun sugar egg. There are those that claim he had a Gretel fetish, but the most commonly held theory is that the younger Johnson decided that he could charge tourists to gawk at his shack. It was not altogether a bad plan, especially when one considers that the Precious Moments chapel attracts 400,000 visitors a year.
(The answers to your questions are yes, I'm reading Tom Robbins again and Pink Perfection and "Sugar Shack" were my dinner. The former was a smoothie, the latter a platter with baked beans, crepes, eggs, and Black Forest ham.)
Thursday, September 14, 2006
I got Lost in the fictional town of Neptune
DVDs and cliffhangers are a bit like Oreos and freedom. With only work, pauses for meals, and the jaunts to the bathroom to slow me down, I have made my desperate grasps for closure and in trusty television fashion I have been left wanting. They can take the commercials out of the TV, but they can't take the consumer off the couch. With the ads gone, my desires are more uncertain. I don't know whether I want Budweiser or Kellogg's Corn Flakes, but I know that I want. Somewhere deep inside of me, I want. I hunger. I thirst. If not glued to my seat, I'd pull out the blender and mix everything I could find. Twizzlers, hummus, milk, and mystery. Is that a me-shaped mold on my couch? If I'd rotated couches, I could now make multi-colored plastic me's and sell them off to pay for other things I might crave.
I heard I might crave one of the new Apple gadgets. The nano comes in color now. Just what I need. The wee little shuffle is so small it can be swallowed and passed through the system. Eat it with fiber and it'll shuffle inside of you for a full battery cycle*. (*Not recommended or proven) I'd run out to buy one, but I'm not speaking with my iPod at the moment. We got in a tiff recently. My silver mini was blocking out the world all proper-like, spitting my music collection through the buds and directly into my brain. Swept up in a Funnel Cloud blowing down Metro's tracks in a crush of suburb-dwellers, my eyes passed over the weakened force. Silently I commiserated with the masses. Ties were loosened, bone-crushing heels clung to feet, eyes remained downturned. As my cloud paused and the doors that always seem to be closing hinted at opening, a woman waited next to me. She was leaving. I was staying. She was dressed in her conservative best. Her big black heels raised her golden hair slightly above my dumpy lid. She turned to me and I watched her lips move. Words, a sentence, spilled from the moist pinkness below the brown eyes tilted just slightly in my direction. She was speaking to me. In an instant I reviewed the rules of public transportation. No eating. No drinking. No music without headphones. No littering. Oh. Yea. And the unwritten rule, the genesis of the infamous Metro stare, the rule that says nobody ever talks to anybody, especially not the smelly bearded men, a party with whom I was currently registered.
The woman was talking to me. Having reviewed the rules in my head, I also did a short equation. Attractive + woman + stranger + Metro = Avert eyes! Avoid the burning of human connection! I ignored my calculation as she had ignored hers and ripped a bud from my ear.
"Excuse me?" I asked.
"Nothing," she muttered as she walked out the doors.
"Please stand clear, the doors are closing," said the only other woman that ever talks to me on the Metro.
Buds?! What kind of buds are these, Apple? The kind that shut out the secrets of the universe. The kind that prevent me from telling the Internets about the specifics of a failed pick-up attempt. These are not my buds. These are tiny white fists pummeling destiny. They are awkward little hands strangling fate. They are the miniature subwoofers adding pulsating depth to an otherwise ordinary moment.
DVDs and cliffhangers are a bit like Oreos and freedom. With only work, pauses for meals, and the jaunts to the bathroom to slow me down, I have made my desperate grasps for closure and in trusty television fashion I have been left wanting. They can take the commercials out of the TV, but they can't take the consumer off the couch. With the ads gone, my desires are more uncertain. I don't know whether I want Budweiser or Kellogg's Corn Flakes, but I know that I want. Somewhere deep inside of me, I want. I hunger. I thirst. If not glued to my seat, I'd pull out the blender and mix everything I could find. Twizzlers, hummus, milk, and mystery. Is that a me-shaped mold on my couch? If I'd rotated couches, I could now make multi-colored plastic me's and sell them off to pay for other things I might crave.
I heard I might crave one of the new Apple gadgets. The nano comes in color now. Just what I need. The wee little shuffle is so small it can be swallowed and passed through the system. Eat it with fiber and it'll shuffle inside of you for a full battery cycle*. (*Not recommended or proven) I'd run out to buy one, but I'm not speaking with my iPod at the moment. We got in a tiff recently. My silver mini was blocking out the world all proper-like, spitting my music collection through the buds and directly into my brain. Swept up in a Funnel Cloud blowing down Metro's tracks in a crush of suburb-dwellers, my eyes passed over the weakened force. Silently I commiserated with the masses. Ties were loosened, bone-crushing heels clung to feet, eyes remained downturned. As my cloud paused and the doors that always seem to be closing hinted at opening, a woman waited next to me. She was leaving. I was staying. She was dressed in her conservative best. Her big black heels raised her golden hair slightly above my dumpy lid. She turned to me and I watched her lips move. Words, a sentence, spilled from the moist pinkness below the brown eyes tilted just slightly in my direction. She was speaking to me. In an instant I reviewed the rules of public transportation. No eating. No drinking. No music without headphones. No littering. Oh. Yea. And the unwritten rule, the genesis of the infamous Metro stare, the rule that says nobody ever talks to anybody, especially not the smelly bearded men, a party with whom I was currently registered.
The woman was talking to me. Having reviewed the rules in my head, I also did a short equation. Attractive + woman + stranger + Metro = Avert eyes! Avoid the burning of human connection! I ignored my calculation as she had ignored hers and ripped a bud from my ear.
"Excuse me?" I asked.
"Nothing," she muttered as she walked out the doors.
"Please stand clear, the doors are closing," said the only other woman that ever talks to me on the Metro.
Buds?! What kind of buds are these, Apple? The kind that shut out the secrets of the universe. The kind that prevent me from telling the Internets about the specifics of a failed pick-up attempt. These are not my buds. These are tiny white fists pummeling destiny. They are awkward little hands strangling fate. They are the miniature subwoofers adding pulsating depth to an otherwise ordinary moment.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
My little weather
In the east, the storms have names. Ernesto is on his way. He's a Spanish storm prone to light destruction and searing bouts of depression. He's recognizable by the tears he cries. The weathermen all hail Ernesto. Ernesto will affect us all, they say. Especially our ratings, they don't say. Storms like him are big news. Here the storms take their time in coming. They plot and plod, spinning around those beady eyes and leaving a trail of fallen branches. We name them because we have time to name them. They aren't our friends, more acquaintances really. Freaks of nature, we claim behind their backs as we all track his progress eagerly on TV and radio and Internet. Even through our insults, we build a relationship with the storm. We introduce him to the family. We think about him while we purchase toilet paper and SPAM. We know him. Maybe we fear him. We definitely talk about him. Ernesto was quiet. I never would have expected this.
In the middle, storms are nameless. They answer to cyclone and tornado. The east may think this reflects a lack of imagination. What many in the middle gain during commutes, they lose in a storm. Proper names and waiting periods give way to green skies and the swirling winds. It's not a lack of interest that prevents naming convention. It's a lack of time. Storms in the middle are lust and raw energy. They are bumping against a bathroom stall, grunting, destroying. They are singular. They are in the moment. Storms in the middle sneak in, blow by, and leave us wondering where that came from. We remember them, but in a vague way, in a numbered way. That tornado in '86. The big one in '99. Storms in the middle are no less personal, they're just less personal to so many people. They don't give us a chance to talk about them until they are gone. It's like a tornado hit this place.
Storms in the west are a mystery to me. They seem to occur less frequently. In the west, mother nature is both more open with her emotions and more reserved. In some places, she doesn't allow them to build up inside and then come out in a rush of power and anger. She releases them daily with a sprinkling of rain and a mixture of sunshine and clouds. In other places, she withholds the emotions all together. She cries no tears and we sweat, but more figuratively than literally because it's all so dry. Of course, she has her moments, lightning and thunder and rain that still make children cower, but they seem to lack the magnitude found in the middle and the east. She makes up for this in other ways. Fires, earthquakes, droughts, she is a complicated woman.
Meanwhile, Ernesto stops at the beach for a frozen daquiri, a ride on the waves, and a desperate search for somewhere to let out his frustrations. Ernesto is on his way.
In the east, the storms have names. Ernesto is on his way. He's a Spanish storm prone to light destruction and searing bouts of depression. He's recognizable by the tears he cries. The weathermen all hail Ernesto. Ernesto will affect us all, they say. Especially our ratings, they don't say. Storms like him are big news. Here the storms take their time in coming. They plot and plod, spinning around those beady eyes and leaving a trail of fallen branches. We name them because we have time to name them. They aren't our friends, more acquaintances really. Freaks of nature, we claim behind their backs as we all track his progress eagerly on TV and radio and Internet. Even through our insults, we build a relationship with the storm. We introduce him to the family. We think about him while we purchase toilet paper and SPAM. We know him. Maybe we fear him. We definitely talk about him. Ernesto was quiet. I never would have expected this.
In the middle, storms are nameless. They answer to cyclone and tornado. The east may think this reflects a lack of imagination. What many in the middle gain during commutes, they lose in a storm. Proper names and waiting periods give way to green skies and the swirling winds. It's not a lack of interest that prevents naming convention. It's a lack of time. Storms in the middle are lust and raw energy. They are bumping against a bathroom stall, grunting, destroying. They are singular. They are in the moment. Storms in the middle sneak in, blow by, and leave us wondering where that came from. We remember them, but in a vague way, in a numbered way. That tornado in '86. The big one in '99. Storms in the middle are no less personal, they're just less personal to so many people. They don't give us a chance to talk about them until they are gone. It's like a tornado hit this place.
Storms in the west are a mystery to me. They seem to occur less frequently. In the west, mother nature is both more open with her emotions and more reserved. In some places, she doesn't allow them to build up inside and then come out in a rush of power and anger. She releases them daily with a sprinkling of rain and a mixture of sunshine and clouds. In other places, she withholds the emotions all together. She cries no tears and we sweat, but more figuratively than literally because it's all so dry. Of course, she has her moments, lightning and thunder and rain that still make children cower, but they seem to lack the magnitude found in the middle and the east. She makes up for this in other ways. Fires, earthquakes, droughts, she is a complicated woman.
Meanwhile, Ernesto stops at the beach for a frozen daquiri, a ride on the waves, and a desperate search for somewhere to let out his frustrations. Ernesto is on his way.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Unpaid advertisement
I picked up a little tip while I was in an Apple store the other day. I can create "Smart Albums." These albums group together my photos according to criteria I set.Oh the power. For instance, by first labeling all my wedding photos (with a little trick called Batch Change) so the comments field contains "Wedding," I am now able to instantly album-ize all photos taken at weddings this year. That way I have them all at my digital fingertips and I can tell you fun facts like: 132. My camera has snapped 132 pictures at weddings in '06. I can certainly up my totals while I ride the latter half of Wedding Wave 2006. One day, when I'm feeling particularly mean, I will create a slideshow from all the weddings I attended, set it to sappy music, and torture single people everywhere. Although, I must admit that I have ended up in about one quarter of the pictures, so what I really need is a Smart Album and accompanying slideshow titled, "Me. The digital years." That way I can torture everyone equally.
As, Bon Jovi didn't quite say, "It's i-life!"
(And it's now or never...)
Better yet, I should create a tune in Garage Band to go with my slideshow. Vanity in the 21st century ROCKS!
I picked up a little tip while I was in an Apple store the other day. I can create "Smart Albums." These albums group together my photos according to criteria I set.Oh the power. For instance, by first labeling all my wedding photos (with a little trick called Batch Change) so the comments field contains "Wedding," I am now able to instantly album-ize all photos taken at weddings this year. That way I have them all at my digital fingertips and I can tell you fun facts like: 132. My camera has snapped 132 pictures at weddings in '06. I can certainly up my totals while I ride the latter half of Wedding Wave 2006. One day, when I'm feeling particularly mean, I will create a slideshow from all the weddings I attended, set it to sappy music, and torture single people everywhere. Although, I must admit that I have ended up in about one quarter of the pictures, so what I really need is a Smart Album and accompanying slideshow titled, "Me. The digital years." That way I can torture everyone equally.
As, Bon Jovi didn't quite say, "It's i-life!"
(And it's now or never...)
Better yet, I should create a tune in Garage Band to go with my slideshow. Vanity in the 21st century ROCKS!
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Memorandum
To: Mr. Daimon
From: Mr. David
Subject: Comments on endurance
Dear Mr. Daimon:
Please come back to the U.S. of A so I can chase you around and around shaking my fist in a threatening manner. I had a history teacher once who said, "Old is 15 years older than you." I intend to live by those words. Runners are in their prime at this age. Cyclists have only just begun. I will not be putting up with your negativity.
If you have questions or need to reach me, I'm going to be out running.
Thank you.
If your comment was some sort of reverse psychology kind of thing, good work.
To: Mr. Daimon
From: Mr. David
Subject: Comments on endurance
Dear Mr. Daimon:
Please come back to the U.S. of A so I can chase you around and around shaking my fist in a threatening manner. I had a history teacher once who said, "Old is 15 years older than you." I intend to live by those words. Runners are in their prime at this age. Cyclists have only just begun. I will not be putting up with your negativity.
If you have questions or need to reach me, I'm going to be out running.
Thank you.
If your comment was some sort of reverse psychology kind of thing, good work.
Friday, August 25, 2006
There's a black hole in Minnesota
Rochester, MN It's unfair to blame Minnesota for the downturn that my vacation has taken. I overestimated my energy level and underestimated Ma Nature. Tired and rained upon, I managed to eat a salad by a lake, wander almost aimlessly until I stumbled to the pinnacle of Americana, the symbol of all that we are and can ever hope to be, the Mall of America. Shops, restaurants, theme parks all in one building- this is why we beat the British and this is why we fight the terrorists.
It's not the enormous mall's fault that consuming could not lift my spirits. It's not like the mega mall didn't try. I mean, virgin mango daiquiris, come on, people that want to be cheered get cheered by that sort of thing. I sulked on and then drove on. As I trudged up the stairs to my Motel 6 boudoir, I thought about how nice it would be to find a Laundromat. Yes. A Laundromat. I drew my curtain and there. Shining before me was a MegaWash. Open 24 hours. With a hop, skip, and a little tail wiggle, I unpacked the dirty clothes and prepared to wash the California out of them. Overjoyed seems a bit strong, but as my clothes spun, I had a moment to relax and enjoy the quiet slow rock of the MegaWash. I read. I pinballed. I folded. I returned to Tom's light a happier lad.
I woke this morning to the gray that has stalked me on this trip. It was gray all day and in kind I was in a fog of my own. For 5 miles, I broke free of the fog as I made my way along Bear Creek on foot-pounding good jaunt. I realized something during my run. I have taken out the long slow distance over the past two years. I should do something about that; it's likely the cause of my deteriorating endurance. Other than that moment of light, this day has been less than bright. I have some small hope for an entertaining evening, but at the moment I wonder if that, like Bunyan and the big blue ox are merely myth. Babe, I wonder.
Rochester, MN It's unfair to blame Minnesota for the downturn that my vacation has taken. I overestimated my energy level and underestimated Ma Nature. Tired and rained upon, I managed to eat a salad by a lake, wander almost aimlessly until I stumbled to the pinnacle of Americana, the symbol of all that we are and can ever hope to be, the Mall of America. Shops, restaurants, theme parks all in one building- this is why we beat the British and this is why we fight the terrorists.
It's not the enormous mall's fault that consuming could not lift my spirits. It's not like the mega mall didn't try. I mean, virgin mango daiquiris, come on, people that want to be cheered get cheered by that sort of thing. I sulked on and then drove on. As I trudged up the stairs to my Motel 6 boudoir, I thought about how nice it would be to find a Laundromat. Yes. A Laundromat. I drew my curtain and there. Shining before me was a MegaWash. Open 24 hours. With a hop, skip, and a little tail wiggle, I unpacked the dirty clothes and prepared to wash the California out of them. Overjoyed seems a bit strong, but as my clothes spun, I had a moment to relax and enjoy the quiet slow rock of the MegaWash. I read. I pinballed. I folded. I returned to Tom's light a happier lad.
I woke this morning to the gray that has stalked me on this trip. It was gray all day and in kind I was in a fog of my own. For 5 miles, I broke free of the fog as I made my way along Bear Creek on foot-pounding good jaunt. I realized something during my run. I have taken out the long slow distance over the past two years. I should do something about that; it's likely the cause of my deteriorating endurance. Other than that moment of light, this day has been less than bright. I have some small hope for an entertaining evening, but at the moment I wonder if that, like Bunyan and the big blue ox are merely myth. Babe, I wonder.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Oh you're not hardcore...
Salinas, CA- Dark Italian Coffee, free wi-fi, an empty downtown Sunday morning three blocks from the National Steinbeck center. Six locals and I wander the streets trying to pick the best coffeehouse and breakfast establishment, only I don't need breakfast. I've been up off and on since yesterday, which I suppose each of us could say about ourselves since conception or whenever napping truly begins, sometime after stem cells, no doubt. I meant I didn't sleep particularly well last night. Some less hearty souls might blame the ground for it was hard; I came prepared for that. I blame the chill. I'm not sure where I thought I was going, but I should have brought some heavier clothing. At 4:30 AM Pacific time, I could no longer abide by the upside-down-sprint-crawling-in-place method of warming up, so I left my campsite and went for a drive.
There are certain advantages to traveling alone. No one was around to complain that I was up and driving before 5 AM. No one would be concerned or have to find sleep of their own if I just stopped by the Pacific and took a little nap in my nice warm car. I had hopes of waking up to a gorgeous sunrise or some such poetry, but instead found the sky and the world to be what I can only assume from my short trip to be typically overcast. I was hoping my poetry would have yellows and pinks dancing on an ocean blue. I got greys and browns dancing on different shades of grey and brown. The poetry is subtler here.
Popping Pop-Tarts and guzzling water from a gallon jug, I made the drive back to camp in the light. Under grey skies I could see beauty in the countryside that had not been present in total darkness. I could also see golf courses. It is a strange sensation to sense the nearness of a vast ocean but not be able to see it. There is an endless quality to ocean and darkness, a pull outward toward the unknown. It is somewhat less strange to see the ocean in the morning. Vastness ends at the horizon. Vast still, but limited somehow. An ocean at night truly goes on forever and begins at the edge of sight. Golf courses, with their out of place and neatly trimmed fuzz of green, by early morning light and in total darkness offer a different flavor of strange. I had not felt the pull of golf course as I drove by in the dark. Now that I could see them, I did feel a slight pull inward. The ocean pulls out; golf pulls in. I am not sure what that says about adventure and privilege.
It's still morning and I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. I've put golf and the ocean a bit behind me. I've filled myself with coffee and filled screens with this jumble. I feel mentally calmer and bladderly more excited. I don't know what the day or the night brings, which is more like life than most of us want to admit. I'm going to be ok with that. I want to camp tonight to continue to prove my... cheapness, a quality that I seem to place up there with honesty on the pedestal of important qualities, but warmth is a quality that has its own particular value and so I will likely end up in a seedy motel watching HBO and wondering exactly what I had hoped to gain from this whole thing and then remembering that this struggle between golf and ocean, in and out, me and my particular set of values is fun. I'm thinking, awake, suffering, free. Speaking of suffering and free, I'm not used to this much coffee...
Salinas, CA- Dark Italian Coffee, free wi-fi, an empty downtown Sunday morning three blocks from the National Steinbeck center. Six locals and I wander the streets trying to pick the best coffeehouse and breakfast establishment, only I don't need breakfast. I've been up off and on since yesterday, which I suppose each of us could say about ourselves since conception or whenever napping truly begins, sometime after stem cells, no doubt. I meant I didn't sleep particularly well last night. Some less hearty souls might blame the ground for it was hard; I came prepared for that. I blame the chill. I'm not sure where I thought I was going, but I should have brought some heavier clothing. At 4:30 AM Pacific time, I could no longer abide by the upside-down-sprint-crawling-in-place method of warming up, so I left my campsite and went for a drive.
There are certain advantages to traveling alone. No one was around to complain that I was up and driving before 5 AM. No one would be concerned or have to find sleep of their own if I just stopped by the Pacific and took a little nap in my nice warm car. I had hopes of waking up to a gorgeous sunrise or some such poetry, but instead found the sky and the world to be what I can only assume from my short trip to be typically overcast. I was hoping my poetry would have yellows and pinks dancing on an ocean blue. I got greys and browns dancing on different shades of grey and brown. The poetry is subtler here.
Popping Pop-Tarts and guzzling water from a gallon jug, I made the drive back to camp in the light. Under grey skies I could see beauty in the countryside that had not been present in total darkness. I could also see golf courses. It is a strange sensation to sense the nearness of a vast ocean but not be able to see it. There is an endless quality to ocean and darkness, a pull outward toward the unknown. It is somewhat less strange to see the ocean in the morning. Vastness ends at the horizon. Vast still, but limited somehow. An ocean at night truly goes on forever and begins at the edge of sight. Golf courses, with their out of place and neatly trimmed fuzz of green, by early morning light and in total darkness offer a different flavor of strange. I had not felt the pull of golf course as I drove by in the dark. Now that I could see them, I did feel a slight pull inward. The ocean pulls out; golf pulls in. I am not sure what that says about adventure and privilege.
It's still morning and I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. I've put golf and the ocean a bit behind me. I've filled myself with coffee and filled screens with this jumble. I feel mentally calmer and bladderly more excited. I don't know what the day or the night brings, which is more like life than most of us want to admit. I'm going to be ok with that. I want to camp tonight to continue to prove my... cheapness, a quality that I seem to place up there with honesty on the pedestal of important qualities, but warmth is a quality that has its own particular value and so I will likely end up in a seedy motel watching HBO and wondering exactly what I had hoped to gain from this whole thing and then remembering that this struggle between golf and ocean, in and out, me and my particular set of values is fun. I'm thinking, awake, suffering, free. Speaking of suffering and free, I'm not used to this much coffee...
Friday, August 18, 2006
Oh the places...
The backpack is all stuffed with tent and clothing. I'm leaving on a jet plane knowing to the minute when I'll be back again, unless I get delayed by weather or maintenance or some unforeseen circumstances. I'm looking for a few of those starting after noon- weather, maintenance, and unforeseen circumstances. In the mornings though, all foreseen circumstances, please. After lunch, it's time to start wandering in my rented carriage. Chauffeur and passenger all rolled into one, I'll be a human Cordon Bleu and adventure will be my cheese. I have direction, as that seems to be my hot pants of late, but the plan is only loosely defined. I've packed freedom, of course, and underwear. I trust both will be clean and still fit tomorrow. There are certain things I need to take care of and certain things I have to admit to myself. I'll pay my respects to a dear friend by spending some time with the fishes. I may admit that the allure of the big city is less my style than the drive away from it. Or I may find the opposite- that the big city is an enormous powerful magnet and I am but a slender paperclip powerless against her pull. How quickly will I discover that my travels are much less profound and so much more Pictionary? Person. Place. Thing. Object. Action. Difficult. All play.
The backpack is all stuffed with tent and clothing. I'm leaving on a jet plane knowing to the minute when I'll be back again, unless I get delayed by weather or maintenance or some unforeseen circumstances. I'm looking for a few of those starting after noon- weather, maintenance, and unforeseen circumstances. In the mornings though, all foreseen circumstances, please. After lunch, it's time to start wandering in my rented carriage. Chauffeur and passenger all rolled into one, I'll be a human Cordon Bleu and adventure will be my cheese. I have direction, as that seems to be my hot pants of late, but the plan is only loosely defined. I've packed freedom, of course, and underwear. I trust both will be clean and still fit tomorrow. There are certain things I need to take care of and certain things I have to admit to myself. I'll pay my respects to a dear friend by spending some time with the fishes. I may admit that the allure of the big city is less my style than the drive away from it. Or I may find the opposite- that the big city is an enormous powerful magnet and I am but a slender paperclip powerless against her pull. How quickly will I discover that my travels are much less profound and so much more Pictionary? Person. Place. Thing. Object. Action. Difficult. All play.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Sunday, August 13, 2006
K through 21
Hairy-chested kindergarteners have nothing on me. I skipped the trip to the babysitters, haven't had to color inside the lines in more than a month, and had a beer with my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It wasn't as delicious as I'd hoped, but then memorizing my phone number has not proven to be as valuable as "they" claimed it would be. Like chasing the girls at recess, I have found this day to be an excellent stress release. I'd climbed a few too many jungle gyms, piled on a few too many Mother's Day outs sans mom, and just plumb had my fill of Legos and Lincoln Logs. To negate that overburdened feeling, I've filled my day with idle TV-watching, like Saturday morning cartoons only on Sunday and with Gilmores on DVD. Every day cannot be filled with activity. Sometimes we just have to take a moment to buy more Johnson and Johnson's "no more tears" shampoo, even if we're too much of a big boy to need it. Or we have to remember to use the kickstand on the shiny blue bike with the banana seat instead of always flinging it into the grass. Or we have to come home when the street lights turn on. And no it doesn't matter if one of them is out and never comes on, it's still time to come home. And yes, have a drink before bed, but just one, and that's it.
Hairy-chested kindergarteners have nothing on me. I skipped the trip to the babysitters, haven't had to color inside the lines in more than a month, and had a beer with my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It wasn't as delicious as I'd hoped, but then memorizing my phone number has not proven to be as valuable as "they" claimed it would be. Like chasing the girls at recess, I have found this day to be an excellent stress release. I'd climbed a few too many jungle gyms, piled on a few too many Mother's Day outs sans mom, and just plumb had my fill of Legos and Lincoln Logs. To negate that overburdened feeling, I've filled my day with idle TV-watching, like Saturday morning cartoons only on Sunday and with Gilmores on DVD. Every day cannot be filled with activity. Sometimes we just have to take a moment to buy more Johnson and Johnson's "no more tears" shampoo, even if we're too much of a big boy to need it. Or we have to remember to use the kickstand on the shiny blue bike with the banana seat instead of always flinging it into the grass. Or we have to come home when the street lights turn on. And no it doesn't matter if one of them is out and never comes on, it's still time to come home. And yes, have a drink before bed, but just one, and that's it.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
What you get is not what you want and what you want is not what you get
In a clearing between the deep green of conifers, two enormous log bridges floated in the air above the smoothest pond I've never seen. It was calm, serene, beautiful. One end of each log was sliced perfectly. The other ends were too far away to see. As if in a helicopter, I hovered into this serene clearing. There was a mack line of disc players on one of the logs. That should provide some picture of the scale. They played comfortably; the fear of falling wasn't a factor. I landed on the other log, not landed really, but appeared. I had the urge to cross the log, to reach the other side I couldn't see. I started to walk and then I lost my balance. I was clinging to the underside of this enormous log when I lost my grip. Suddenly I found myself a lot higher above the water than I'd realized. I was higher up and I was falling. It happened very quickly. I plummeted toward the sheet of pond and then with a splash I woke up.
In a clearing between the deep green of conifers, two enormous log bridges floated in the air above the smoothest pond I've never seen. It was calm, serene, beautiful. One end of each log was sliced perfectly. The other ends were too far away to see. As if in a helicopter, I hovered into this serene clearing. There was a mack line of disc players on one of the logs. That should provide some picture of the scale. They played comfortably; the fear of falling wasn't a factor. I landed on the other log, not landed really, but appeared. I had the urge to cross the log, to reach the other side I couldn't see. I started to walk and then I lost my balance. I was clinging to the underside of this enormous log when I lost my grip. Suddenly I found myself a lot higher above the water than I'd realized. I was higher up and I was falling. It happened very quickly. I plummeted toward the sheet of pond and then with a splash I woke up.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Saturday afternoon at the quote factory
It's a gradual descent into a life I never meant... R. Kiley
In the end, perhaps we should simply imagine a joke; a long joke that's being continually retold in an accent too thick and too strange to ever be completely understood. Life is that joke, my friends. The soul is its punch line. T. Robbins
You said you provided your guests with a welcome basket of eyeballs. All I found in my room was a trash vase filled with old tragedies. You also claimed to offer free overnight humping in your garage. Not true, Fella. M. Libs
It's a gradual descent into a life I never meant... R. Kiley
In the end, perhaps we should simply imagine a joke; a long joke that's being continually retold in an accent too thick and too strange to ever be completely understood. Life is that joke, my friends. The soul is its punch line. T. Robbins
You said you provided your guests with a welcome basket of eyeballs. All I found in my room was a trash vase filled with old tragedies. You also claimed to offer free overnight humping in your garage. Not true, Fella. M. Libs
Thursday, August 03, 2006
My broken Landis
Dear Floyd,
You have hurt me. I watched the Tour this year with more delight and more fervor than ever before. I watched and cheered for you in a boyish way, in a way I have not cheered for a stranger since I was a boy myself. You see, long ago, baseball burned me. They broke my heart and I still haven't forgiven them. I stopped cheering after those baseballers struck. I stopped tuning in on my transistor radio. I stopped being glued to television screens. I found out that there was very little power and very little satisfaction in pouring my heart out in hopes that my little hollers could somehow affect the universe enough to force in one more run, or basket, or field goal of professionals. Professionals were people doing a job. Some focused on the money. Some got caught up in drugs. Either way, it didn't take long to find a more appreciative audience. I found my teammates. They don't get paid and ideally they don't cheat.
Every so often, I dabble in fanaticism again. I start to believe. I start to think that I can be more, I can be great, because I get to witness greatness on that 20 inch box. Then you come along. I devoured your amazing story. The difficulties you have overcome. Your dedication. Your gritty determination. And I watch. I watch hours of men pedaling through France.
Floyd. Some places torture war criminals by making them watch men pedal through France. But I watched on the edge of my failing couch. I tried to will you to success. I believed in you. And you did not let me down. You delivered a stirring victory. An epic story. One for the ages. It seemed glorious. Instead, it teeters on tragic. Whether you're innocent or not, and oh, I cling to the hope that you are, the victory is tainted. I'm shaken. You didn't deny it like an innocent man. But how? How could you be that stupid? Or if this is some vast conspiracy... It's too much. I can't go on. One parting shot- suddenly Zidane, the man who lost his temper in a heated battle looks like a hero. Assuming he wasn't on drugs, at least he was competing on an even playing field. Is that really too much to ask of professional athletes?
I don't have tears to cry. Please make it go away.
-Dave
Dear Floyd,
You have hurt me. I watched the Tour this year with more delight and more fervor than ever before. I watched and cheered for you in a boyish way, in a way I have not cheered for a stranger since I was a boy myself. You see, long ago, baseball burned me. They broke my heart and I still haven't forgiven them. I stopped cheering after those baseballers struck. I stopped tuning in on my transistor radio. I stopped being glued to television screens. I found out that there was very little power and very little satisfaction in pouring my heart out in hopes that my little hollers could somehow affect the universe enough to force in one more run, or basket, or field goal of professionals. Professionals were people doing a job. Some focused on the money. Some got caught up in drugs. Either way, it didn't take long to find a more appreciative audience. I found my teammates. They don't get paid and ideally they don't cheat.
Every so often, I dabble in fanaticism again. I start to believe. I start to think that I can be more, I can be great, because I get to witness greatness on that 20 inch box. Then you come along. I devoured your amazing story. The difficulties you have overcome. Your dedication. Your gritty determination. And I watch. I watch hours of men pedaling through France.
Floyd. Some places torture war criminals by making them watch men pedal through France. But I watched on the edge of my failing couch. I tried to will you to success. I believed in you. And you did not let me down. You delivered a stirring victory. An epic story. One for the ages. It seemed glorious. Instead, it teeters on tragic. Whether you're innocent or not, and oh, I cling to the hope that you are, the victory is tainted. I'm shaken. You didn't deny it like an innocent man. But how? How could you be that stupid? Or if this is some vast conspiracy... It's too much. I can't go on. One parting shot- suddenly Zidane, the man who lost his temper in a heated battle looks like a hero. Assuming he wasn't on drugs, at least he was competing on an even playing field. Is that really too much to ask of professional athletes?
I don't have tears to cry. Please make it go away.
-Dave
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
New age
I think I accidentally grew up in the last week. One minute I was carefree and unmotivated, then I spun around three times and poof I'm working late and fixing my resume and having actual ambitions. It's like I've aged 5 years since last Tuesday. Or maybe it's just the weight of my friggin' moustache.
I think I accidentally grew up in the last week. One minute I was carefree and unmotivated, then I spun around three times and poof I'm working late and fixing my resume and having actual ambitions. It's like I've aged 5 years since last Tuesday. Or maybe it's just the weight of my friggin' moustache.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Monday, July 31, 2006
It was a short break
Beach Ultimate. The words are an engraved invitation for flight. Churning legs and soft landing spots beckon the bodies to take off. Soaring after plastic, someone seems to be flying by in every direction at every moment. Had gravity gone missing at any given instant, 50 people would have floated into space. Instead, soft thuds reverberated through Wildwood, New Jersey for two hot days.
Sand comes in two flavors. There's the empty sweetness of a completed pass or a successful block and there's the grainy dryness of an effort that falls just a little short. I tasted the sweetness and the dryness. I covered myself in sand. I played in it. Bathed in it. Wore it like a suit or a hundred thousand itsy-bitsy badges of honor. I had a blast! My team played without the usual distractions and personality conflicts. That's not to say we didn't make mistakes or get beat, but we played with more trust and more peace than I've played with in quite some time. We played like we were having a good time. The teams we played seemed to share that attitude. It's been a long time since there was so much shared awe, shared spirit, shared good nature at an Ultimate Tournament. Wildwood reminded me of the good old days. It's the old man in me creeping out, but I was reminded of the good things about sport. People putting it all out there opposite one another, but not against one another. There were contentious moments, but mostly there were smiles. It was glorious and hot. When it became too much of either there was salt water and waves for a refreshing change of pace.
There were many thrilling moments in the last two days, but my vanity and my blog allow me to toot a few of my own.
-There was the swing pass I plucked from the air. The throw went up and I saw it the whole way. With a mighty step and a leap at about shoulder height, I went for the disc. Arm outsretched, body trailing behind, I flew in front of my man and ripped away a pass intended for him.
-There was the momentum shift. Tiring more easily than I would have liked, I fell behind my man as he streaked for the end zone. The throw went up and I summoned my reserves to get back on defense. The disc hovered for a moment caught by some wind. I accepted my good fortune by grabbing it away from the waiting receiver, landing, pivoting, and throwing to my open teammate at the other end of the field for a score.
-There was the crowd. I'm not sure how I ended up on top of this heap, but the disc ended up in my clutches and I ended up on their haunches.
Beach Ultimate. The words are an engraved invitation for flight. Churning legs and soft landing spots beckon the bodies to take off. Soaring after plastic, someone seems to be flying by in every direction at every moment. Had gravity gone missing at any given instant, 50 people would have floated into space. Instead, soft thuds reverberated through Wildwood, New Jersey for two hot days.
Sand comes in two flavors. There's the empty sweetness of a completed pass or a successful block and there's the grainy dryness of an effort that falls just a little short. I tasted the sweetness and the dryness. I covered myself in sand. I played in it. Bathed in it. Wore it like a suit or a hundred thousand itsy-bitsy badges of honor. I had a blast! My team played without the usual distractions and personality conflicts. That's not to say we didn't make mistakes or get beat, but we played with more trust and more peace than I've played with in quite some time. We played like we were having a good time. The teams we played seemed to share that attitude. It's been a long time since there was so much shared awe, shared spirit, shared good nature at an Ultimate Tournament. Wildwood reminded me of the good old days. It's the old man in me creeping out, but I was reminded of the good things about sport. People putting it all out there opposite one another, but not against one another. There were contentious moments, but mostly there were smiles. It was glorious and hot. When it became too much of either there was salt water and waves for a refreshing change of pace.
There were many thrilling moments in the last two days, but my vanity and my blog allow me to toot a few of my own.
-There was the swing pass I plucked from the air. The throw went up and I saw it the whole way. With a mighty step and a leap at about shoulder height, I went for the disc. Arm outsretched, body trailing behind, I flew in front of my man and ripped away a pass intended for him.
-There was the momentum shift. Tiring more easily than I would have liked, I fell behind my man as he streaked for the end zone. The throw went up and I summoned my reserves to get back on defense. The disc hovered for a moment caught by some wind. I accepted my good fortune by grabbing it away from the waiting receiver, landing, pivoting, and throwing to my open teammate at the other end of the field for a score.
-There was the crowd. I'm not sure how I ended up on top of this heap, but the disc ended up in my clutches and I ended up on their haunches.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Illuminating, isn't it?
I've had green, pink, blue, purple, and the traditional yellow. Lots of the traditional yellow. I have "1-800-Collect" and "Project CHEERS," undoubtedly an acronym long-since forgotten like the designated driver they acknowledged now sitting alone in the corner of the bar, his drunken friends wandering off with women of questionable mores. It isn't that I didn't understand their purpose or even that I had not attempted to use them to fulfill their destiny. I knew what a highlighter was. I knew why one might wield said instrument. But knowing and truly highlighting are two very different things. I don't know what the Bible says about highlighting, but in seventeen years of school, after countless thousands of dollars, through more highlighters than digits, highlighting still remained a mystery to me. Once in college, during an experimental phase, I had marked a passage of The Golden Ass in orange, but without my highlighter decoder ring, without my powers of deduction a la Sherlock Holmes, or my gritty crime-fighting wit like so many Hardy Boys, and even without that super-sleuthing boyish prowess of the one and only, the legend, Encyclopedia Brown, I was just coloring. I lacked understanding. I lacked clarity. I was inside the lines, juvenile. If I highlighted a passage in the forest and no one ever reread the passage, did it make a sound? I was a war protest on the White House lawn.
Then one night, not unlike last Thursday night, I had a revelation. Fluorescent inspiration hailed me like a taxi cab. Highlighting, the art form, is a two part process. I knew that, somewhere deep inside of me, but a quesadilla awakened that knowledge, and I perceived that not unlike the strata of said quesadilla, there are also multiple layers in highlighting. The first involves applying color to a page, of course. This part is not done willy-nilly. No, no. Selection of a passage is crucial. The highlighted must capture meaning, symbolism perhaps, or a theme, or just a quote that might later be doled out like Halloween candy to greedy little ghost-impersonators. The second step is perhaps more crucial than the first. The second step is the Aboriginal step. It's the boomerang, the return to the first step. A rebirth, if I may. This rebirth, though not as painful as the first time through, should still recall some of that early awe as meaning springs to life yet again beneath the colored lines of my handiwork.
The tingling sensation that I feel; it lets me know that my highlighting and my shampoo are working.
I've had green, pink, blue, purple, and the traditional yellow. Lots of the traditional yellow. I have "1-800-Collect" and "Project CHEERS," undoubtedly an acronym long-since forgotten like the designated driver they acknowledged now sitting alone in the corner of the bar, his drunken friends wandering off with women of questionable mores. It isn't that I didn't understand their purpose or even that I had not attempted to use them to fulfill their destiny. I knew what a highlighter was. I knew why one might wield said instrument. But knowing and truly highlighting are two very different things. I don't know what the Bible says about highlighting, but in seventeen years of school, after countless thousands of dollars, through more highlighters than digits, highlighting still remained a mystery to me. Once in college, during an experimental phase, I had marked a passage of The Golden Ass in orange, but without my highlighter decoder ring, without my powers of deduction a la Sherlock Holmes, or my gritty crime-fighting wit like so many Hardy Boys, and even without that super-sleuthing boyish prowess of the one and only, the legend, Encyclopedia Brown, I was just coloring. I lacked understanding. I lacked clarity. I was inside the lines, juvenile. If I highlighted a passage in the forest and no one ever reread the passage, did it make a sound? I was a war protest on the White House lawn.
Then one night, not unlike last Thursday night, I had a revelation. Fluorescent inspiration hailed me like a taxi cab. Highlighting, the art form, is a two part process. I knew that, somewhere deep inside of me, but a quesadilla awakened that knowledge, and I perceived that not unlike the strata of said quesadilla, there are also multiple layers in highlighting. The first involves applying color to a page, of course. This part is not done willy-nilly. No, no. Selection of a passage is crucial. The highlighted must capture meaning, symbolism perhaps, or a theme, or just a quote that might later be doled out like Halloween candy to greedy little ghost-impersonators. The second step is perhaps more crucial than the first. The second step is the Aboriginal step. It's the boomerang, the return to the first step. A rebirth, if I may. This rebirth, though not as painful as the first time through, should still recall some of that early awe as meaning springs to life yet again beneath the colored lines of my handiwork.
The tingling sensation that I feel; it lets me know that my highlighting and my shampoo are working.
Friday, July 21, 2006
More Tour
Lance who? Maybe I wasn't mature enough to truly appreciate the 7 Lance Armstrong victories or maybe dynasties aren't as fun as we think. Maybe I missed the beginning of the Lance story or maybe I just didn't have OLN, but for some reason this Tour de France has me as excited about sports as I've been in I don't know how long. I'll give you the 60 second recap, but you should really read the NY Times for more.
Floyd Landis, a favorite and a Mennonite, hid his hip injury from all but his closest friends. He walks with a limp, but rides like mad. He takes the yellow jersey early and decides he doesn't want his team to defend it. He lets this rider Oscar who no one really sees as a threat get back into contention after being down by more than 30 minutes. Oscar is in a breakaway on one stage that gets him all the way back to the front and suddenly Oscar is wearing the yellow jersey. All part of the plan they say. Then Floyd rides like a machine up the mountains, takes back the yellow jersey and Oscar is down by 10 seconds. Next day of big hills, Floyd looks solid. He goes in a breakaway with the other leaders chasing this lone man Rasmussen who is climbing like no one else. Rasmussen is gone and then Carl Sastre makes a move to break away from the group Landis is in. Landis watches him go and looks like he's on a site-seeing tour. He is dropped. He can barely pedal as all the major players pull away. He is losing 2 minutes, 4 minutes, 8 minutes when it's all said and done. With three days left, the tour is over. Even Floyd says this gap is disheartening. So what does Floyd do? He comes out today and flies. He breaks away on his own and blows the doors off the last mountain stage, with bonuses he cuts Oscar's lead to 30 seconds. What the? It now comes down to time trials. Floyd is good at time trials. This is going to be fun.
Lance who? Maybe I wasn't mature enough to truly appreciate the 7 Lance Armstrong victories or maybe dynasties aren't as fun as we think. Maybe I missed the beginning of the Lance story or maybe I just didn't have OLN, but for some reason this Tour de France has me as excited about sports as I've been in I don't know how long. I'll give you the 60 second recap, but you should really read the NY Times for more.
Floyd Landis, a favorite and a Mennonite, hid his hip injury from all but his closest friends. He walks with a limp, but rides like mad. He takes the yellow jersey early and decides he doesn't want his team to defend it. He lets this rider Oscar who no one really sees as a threat get back into contention after being down by more than 30 minutes. Oscar is in a breakaway on one stage that gets him all the way back to the front and suddenly Oscar is wearing the yellow jersey. All part of the plan they say. Then Floyd rides like a machine up the mountains, takes back the yellow jersey and Oscar is down by 10 seconds. Next day of big hills, Floyd looks solid. He goes in a breakaway with the other leaders chasing this lone man Rasmussen who is climbing like no one else. Rasmussen is gone and then Carl Sastre makes a move to break away from the group Landis is in. Landis watches him go and looks like he's on a site-seeing tour. He is dropped. He can barely pedal as all the major players pull away. He is losing 2 minutes, 4 minutes, 8 minutes when it's all said and done. With three days left, the tour is over. Even Floyd says this gap is disheartening. So what does Floyd do? He comes out today and flies. He breaks away on his own and blows the doors off the last mountain stage, with bonuses he cuts Oscar's lead to 30 seconds. What the? It now comes down to time trials. Floyd is good at time trials. This is going to be fun.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Pain in the city (and also in the mountain stages)
Last night while watching the Tour de France, that's Tour DAY France according to one commentator, though I really shouldn't judge since no one in my office could say, "au bon pain" in a way that our French-speaker could understand, it was pointed out by my watching friend that many of the competitors were about the same age- 31. One of the commentators must have picked up on her statement, because he added, "these men have put in a lot of years of pain." I think he also said something about making withdrawals from a pain bank, but the whole pain bank scenario involving deposits and withdrawals of pain was a little awkward though it did convey his sentiments. By 31, these riders have had many years of training and they know what their bodies can do. Without getting all Carrie Bradshaw, I wonder if we could pick out a similar timeline for emotions. Is there a point where emotionally we figure out how hard we can go up the mountains? We've had some nasty falls, some even over the guard rail. We're talking scraped skin and broken bones. We've had some success too, maybe even won a stage win or a smaller tour, but at that certain age we reach that emotional understanding. We know what we're capable of and so on that next hill we know just how much energy to expend.
Or
Maybe we get dropped.
Last night while watching the Tour de France, that's Tour DAY France according to one commentator, though I really shouldn't judge since no one in my office could say, "au bon pain" in a way that our French-speaker could understand, it was pointed out by my watching friend that many of the competitors were about the same age- 31. One of the commentators must have picked up on her statement, because he added, "these men have put in a lot of years of pain." I think he also said something about making withdrawals from a pain bank, but the whole pain bank scenario involving deposits and withdrawals of pain was a little awkward though it did convey his sentiments. By 31, these riders have had many years of training and they know what their bodies can do. Without getting all Carrie Bradshaw, I wonder if we could pick out a similar timeline for emotions. Is there a point where emotionally we figure out how hard we can go up the mountains? We've had some nasty falls, some even over the guard rail. We're talking scraped skin and broken bones. We've had some success too, maybe even won a stage win or a smaller tour, but at that certain age we reach that emotional understanding. We know what we're capable of and so on that next hill we know just how much energy to expend.
Or
Maybe we get dropped.
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