I’m happy to announce a few updates. Nothin’ special. But thanks to dfc, the home page is a little re-vamped and I’m working on getting acquainted with the gallery.
That’s all. I just needed to take a break in between readings and doses of DayQuil.
There’s something to be said for the fact that I confidently feel: I could tell a story for every moment of my existence, … however short or however long that moment may be.
And surely this suggests something other than me being a good story teller! It only implies a (the?) way in which we necessarily experience the world.
The wedding-thanksgiving-reunion trip to mexico was a good ride. “All you could eat and drink inclusive” was a miracle… Amazingly, I didn’t spend a dime the entire trip (though, i do have some friends to thank for that!). Pictures will come, and with them… tales. Tales of Hahn and the flabongo. Tales of Greg and getting cut off from Francisco, our personal bartender. Tales of Schleicher, and what was her name? Tales of Burcham and projectile vodka in the face. Tales of Joe G. and booty-dancing at the Blue Parrot. Tales of Shoop and being that guy, over and over again. Tales of Balke and our mutually disdainful re-confrontation with Tequila shots. Tales of Wahn and his attempt to reinstitutionalize the color ‘pink.’ Tales of Lindsey and the envy of every man on the dance floor. Of Amie and the word “shwooom!” … and of course, the couple of the eternal hour: Jeremy and Caitlyn — my, how they looked beautiful on the Caribbean beach, under a wedding arch of flowers and rhythms.
I should add, for the first time in a while, I felt pretty comfortable with my spanish. (That’s for you Linzi! … thanks for showing up by the way…) That, and I finished reading, “The Way of the Gladiator.” What a ride that was. Man! I finished the book and had this to say, “This book makes me feel as if our present day personalities must be awfully mild. Our contemporary notions of entertainment bear no trace of the sadistic debaucher (in comparison); we instead distract ourselves from the painstaking desperation that is Life with delightfully fruity sitcoms, and lovey-dovey dating shows. What a miserable group of cowards we are! The Romans would have had each of us in the arena in a heartbeat!…”
But for now, I must address this sore throat, and progressive cough. Two weeks of school left, and millions of hours of focus. Yes, millions.
today is a busy day, for which i’m thankful. i generally enjoy knowing that I have a lot to do, and feeling that now is the only time I have to do it. It keeps me racing. It keeps me at battle. However, i try to keep it real, and take moments each day to step out and step back. Having friends like Jake Werblow makes this even easier. Today, he sent me the following “link of the day”. Naturally, I checked it out, and seeing these famed men really put in perspective the many ways I COULD be living my life right now. Thankfully, my projects in Oregon feel validating enough … though I am enjoying beard-status.
Secondly, i went out to the movies last night with my friends Seth and Aly. This felt like the first time I’ve been out to the movies (I mean real cinema, not independent movie theatre) in what felt like an eternity. We went to see the movie, Friday Night Lights, and rest assured it was a good flick. I got into it, fa sho’. But what blew my mind was how the 20 minutes of previews were commercials! I couldn’t believe it. Commercials for perfume, and clothing, —- things that i couldn’t even get at the concessions. I underestimated the luxury that I live in … an apartment with no television. That stuff will wear you down fast! But I digress…
Once the actual movie previews/trailers began, I felt right at home. I love watching movie trailers. They’re so epic. Each trailer is designed to evoke some particular emotion in you. I saw an awesome trailer for a movie called, Alexander. I am going to like this movie, especially when i finish this book I’m reading, The Way of the Gladiator, which should happen on tomorrow’s plane ride to Cancun!
Moving right along, I also saw this trailer that scared the hell out of me. This movie is easily going to be one of the scariest and most horrifying films of the year, guaranteed! It’s called, White Noise. Just plain terrifying. Dude, i’m serious. I shook with fright over the 30 second preview.
Okay, that’s a ramble. I gotta go. Tonight, i get to have dinner with my long-time college friend, Michael Fox, in Portland. Oh, and one more thing: After hearing it first on NPR, I recently picked up a new CD, and I’m diggin’ on it, hard — Citizen Cope, especially (originally?) the song called, “Penitentiary.” He might not be for everyone, but I find his CD provides a certain musical, sentimental nauseaum that reverberates deep in my soul. Maybe it’s just me.
I received this email as a forward from my mom today. Pretty cool:
“I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg
The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at
Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn’t mttaer inwaht oredr the ltteers in a
wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer
be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll
raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not
raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Amzanig huh?
yaeh and I awlyas thought slpeling was ipmorantt!”
Go Brain!
I watched Scarface the other night. I’m starting to believe that the secret to amassing (maintaining?) power is staying below the radar of the collective will. I will speak more of the collective will. But for now, I just needed to make a note to myself.
I’m infallibly attracted to Tony Montana. The idea of him. The power of such a being. His hunger. His drive. This is a well-grounded man, in respect and in honor and in trust. These are ideals. His ideals. But ideals we could share, no less. And if you can’t see that, fuck you.
There is a certain futility of Time. And I capitalize this purposefully. Time is an idea, way before it’s anything else. Even Time itself is never graspable. I’ve begun to see it as a grid, a new dimension we’ve added to the neutrality that is raw experience, a new cognitive department that we’ve placed atop pure sensation. Can’t you see it as such? It makes me sick, sometimes.
It was invented. That part alone blows my mind. Time was created by us. To slice up space … into manageable segments. Manageable segments that we could all agree to and depend on. Despite it’s innocent conception, we’ve unleashed a power that rules with relentless perfection. With each tick and each tock, the metronome of life drags us, dictates us. Pulling us along in the only direction it knows how - forward.
We can never escape it. It’s bigger than us. At best, we can only ignore it, full well knowing it will find us again, full well knowing it looms just beyond. The more we try to ignore it, the more we probably notice it - and it’s futility. It doesn’t go anywhere.
Our inconscient allegiance is too strong. There is no running away from it. We inextricably refer to it’s secret code. One. Two. Three. We can’t help but feel the seconds with each breath. Every moment is tainted with this temporal residue. There is no real freedom here. We are slaves to her logic.
Tick. Tock. She judges with me with her swinging hands. Scolding me with her steadfast consistancy. She laughs. It’s just a game for Time. For good ol’, infinite Time. In the shadows of her towers, haunted by the chimes of her bells, I scramble to meet her standards, to meet her demands … to subscribe to the reality she provides. Bewildered, behind, I implore her to slow down. Relaxed, reflective, I dare her to speed up. I’m no match. What a competitor. In this game, Time always wins. Being a part of a species that has strove throughout the centuries to conquer all it’s touched, it’s a shame we’ve created an eternal beast that will always kill us.
It’s about the stories we tell, right? This whole gig. This whole life gig. Aren’t we just pushing forward, or perhaps side to side, riding the wake of the stories we tell and live? It’s worth proposing.
This weekend was a full one. My hoarse voice should serve as an indication that I made certain use of all my waking moments. Some prospective grad students were in town, and over the coarse of the weekend, 3 of us began inquiring about eachothers’ childhoods. Innocently at first, about growing up in Miami, or Wyoming, or Milwaukee. I began as an outsider, but with paid attention and advertent eyes, I was slowly brought in.
Most students’ stories dealt with broken families, divorce parents, and abusive patterns. There was a personal struggle; a need to overcome. A sense of triumph, of subversion. Onlisteners responded with “oohs” and “ahhs” and “oh no’s” and “I’m sorry to hear thats”. Everyone shared, and soon people were looking at me. It was my turn.
Where do I begin? But this question is all too cliche. Most of me knew these weren’t people that would take a huge investment in me. We were most likely never to talk again, especially in this context. Providing the fullest, clearest detail was of no importance. I was free. Free to concoct my own reflective reinactment. I spattered forward. Covering whole epochs of time in short, choppy dialect. Sweeping from event to event. It was a list. A flow chart. An outline of the stories I could tell. It was so objective.
At this realization i found myself outside of those experiences. I ended by saying, “and that… that was my childhood. But they’re just stories now. Aren’t they? They’re just stories now. I’m a becoming-being now, a progressive identity now. I like who I am. I can appreciate where I’ve been. You might say it’s where I’ve been that’s, in part, made me who I am. But they’re just stories now.”
I wonder how reasonable it is to think that stories necessitate being. They foster it. They provide it. It’s only through stories that we relate to other people and places and events. Through stories that we catch up with an old friend; through stories that we make business negotiations; through stories that the breadth of life is passed (pun intended).
But as much as we must tell stories to secure the past, we speak of our past to stay in the present. But to be aware of our present we must storify (!) our experience as it happens. We must have a story for living, a system for life. One story must always be in the making.
And to catch people in this level of the game, Aware and struggling to know it, is what sweeps me off of my feet. You can see the energy in their eyes. That commitment to living in their stride. These are the ones that incite passion into moments, and infuse consciousness into being. These are the story-tellers.
I started the Jump Attack program yesterday. I feel great. My body is sore. My muscles are tired. And I really feel confident that this program is going to help increase my explosiveness, quickness and verticle jump. This book is so fun to work out to. There’s all these helpful pictures and really specific explanations on how to have “Perfect Form” on all of the lifts (some of which I’ve never done before). And the author’s tone (Tim Grover — Michael Jordan’s personal trainer) is super intense. It’s like, I want to work out for this guy! It reminds me of the days of “Tae-bo II” with my friends Minerva, Colby, Annilee and, of course, my friend and yours, the infamous Billy Blanks.
Anyways, if you’re up for a good work out, in addition to your usual ultimate routine… i think this one will be a promising one. Oh, and check this: After the workout, I went to this picture-presentation of this guy that cycled around Turkey, and after that I went to the little Chinese Restaurant on 13th. Not only did pay $7 for so much food that I had to take half home, but I got a fortune cookie that read: “You will become stronger as you become tired” … or something like that. It was perfect for the moment.
I know… I know… it’s been a long time coming, but can you blame me? I know there are people as excited to hear about nationals as I am excited to tell it. So, what’s the word? The word is: WE WON! We won the whole thing. The mixed nationals championship is ours! Seattle Shazam took the tourney in one of the most exciting ways possible — well, at least I think so. And to top it off, the women’s division title and the men’s (open) were won by the same city - SEATTLE! It was a total sweep.
Sarasota was great, and I have much to say… but for now, i’ll satistfy all of our appetites with some pics. Here are some pics and video from this random Blog site of a guy I don’t know…. and here are Bil’s Pics of all the divisions and a section devoted just to “Shazam.”
I will get back to you about details shortly. This week has been a frantic week of getting back into gear scholastically and I’m hoping to have my life back in order sometime this weekend. Oh, here are the results and scores and here are the Tourney write-ups if you’re interested in how all the games went down from a reporters perspective.
We got medals, and drank beer from giant trophies … there was champagne everywhere and smiles on all of my teammates faces… it was heaven. Really. I even got to meet your sister Volker (but only briefly).
Ok, gotta get back to work…
I’m reading some works of William James, specifically a chapter called “Does ‘consciousness’ exist?” in a comprehensive writing book of his and I started to wonder: