Cubes and Chaos

Cube life during the holidays is a bizarre time. The corporate machine pretends that it is going to surge into the new year with all cannons blazing, setting records, making sales, crushing competition and always putting the golden calf on the alter of the almighty dollar. The reality is the last two weeks of the year watch that great machine grind to a virtual halt. More than 60% of the workforce is on vacation for some length of time and as a result nothing really gets done. The parking lot is empty, the cafeteria is empty, the normal lunch hotspots are barren accept for the few high school and college students still on winter break. It really is not a bad time to work if you have the motivation to do so. There is no one around to harass, bother or otherwise distract you. However, the motivation to work at more than 30% efficiency when the rest of your fellow cube dwellers are on vacation is nonexistent.

What I find fascinating are those people who really do feel the obligation to push harder during this time. They seem driven to make a point, to prove something to anyone who cares to watch that they are true workers and they will get shit done come hell or high water! If you even mention to them that they take it a bit easier, or *Gasp!* leave an hour or two early, and they just about lose their minds. I can almost see the 1’s and 0’s behind their mental processing slow down and repeat a simple message DOES NOT COMPUTE…ERROR…ERROR. These people are not aberrations. I would actually say they are in the majority. They won’t leave early, they won’t taper off their workload to any appreciable degree, and they won’t indulge in a slightly longer lunch or a slightly later start to the day. They just keep charging forward, bayonet in hand, bringing conquest to the cube trenches. I might find it inspirational if I was not so diametrically opposed to this way of thinking. I honestly can’t help it anymore than they can. I think I am one of those people who saunters through life with both middle fingers raised in defiance of the established order. I have no problem leaving early, taking longer lunches, and sleeping in a bit, especially during the holidays. I am not offended or threatened by the hardcore workers who obsess about every minute they spend at work, but I have given up trying to communicate with them. I can’t understand their need to abide by the unwritten codex of day-to-day “rules,” and they can’t understand my need to flow around walls, through cracks and into the nebulous “grey area” where rules are mere guidelines, not law.

This might make me sound like a bit of an anarchist, which is not the case. I respect law and order and understand that it is the glue that holds families, businesses and governments together. However, I am always going to be a small point of chaos in that sea of structure. It is not something I would change in myself even if I had the will or the power to do so. I like going against the grain. I enjoy not walking the path I am supposed to. Once upon a time I was on track to the “ideal” life of the gingerbread house with the white picket fence. The sun would rise and set like clockwork and I was to be a champion for structured and ordered life. Then the train jumped the tracks, and once you set down the path of chaos there is really no turning back. You see everything with different eyes. You crave the unorthodox and the extreme. You respect order, but you rail against it. You never do what you are ‘supposed’ to do, and even when it seems you are behaving and following the path, you are actually bending enough regulations to take your so-called “proper action” to the edge of normal. To those that plan and count and measure, I respect your ideology and the path you walk. But do not fear disorder. Do not shy away from that little bit of chaos in your day-to-day world. Do not feel discomfort when an ambassador of discord, like me, challenges the status quo and unravels a bit of the yarn that is the “normal life.” Sometimes we have to destroy in order to create, to upset the established order to advance, to open our ears and listen to what the universe is telling us…if Mother Nature tends towards disorder and chaos; if she drinks at the fountain of entropy; then who are we to argue?

What is Failtown?

Failtown. We have all been there. No matter how perfect we are (or think we are), sooner or later all roads lead to Failtown. Have you ever been walking on a seemingly perfect day…the sun shining, the birds singing, a quaint smile on your lips, your thoughts drifting to wondrous places…then BAM!!...you walk straight into a tree. Welcome to Failtown. Have you ever driven in Minnesota shortly after a snowstorm? Look to the ditches. You will see Failtown #1, #2, #3…and if you look closely you will see tracks leading deep into the ditches that bare witness to once thriving Failtown communities. Have you jokingly asked a coworker, “You look like you are in really rough shape today, lose a pet or your girlfriend?” Only to have them look up with red eyes and the simple reply, “Both.” You guessed it…welcome to Failtown.

Unless you are living under a rock there is a very good chance you have seen, or at least heard of, the fail blog (http://failblog.org/). I love this website almost as much as I love chocolate, and it is a page completely devoted to those that dwell in Failtown! There is nothing wrong with visiting Failtown. We are bound to travel its winding roads, spacious causeways and scenic paths sooner or later. Failtown is my own personal reminder to never take each day too seriously. At least once every day I visit Failtown. This morning I took milk out of the refrigerator, poured a glass full, put the glass in the fridge and the gallon container on the table where my glass should have been. Yes, I was half awake, but in that half awake state I found my way to Failtown. I managed to follow that visit up with a return trip at lunch by chugging some incredibly hot tea with absolutely no regard to its 211.999999 F temperature…if I had not lost the use of my tongue from the burning liquid I would have proclaimed myself the Mayor of Failtown.

When people come together for the holidays they get warm fuzzies for the gifts and food, smiles and hugs, and the general feelings of goodwill. People will sit before a fire and cuddle, or pray around a table and share a sumptuous meal, or maybe they will just curl up by themselves with a book and drift into the night. I am not going to proclaim a trite and cliché message of, ‘Peace on Earth and goodwill to all!’ Rather, I suggest that this holiday season we share our stories of Failtown. This obviously is not the only way people will occupy their time, but more often than not, stories of our personal trips to Failtown are amusing, if somewhat self deprecating, and sometimes the gift of a laugh or a smile can fill gaps no amount of money or food will ever truly satisfy. If you have a dark sense of humor like I do, there is a lot to laugh at in these volatile times; climate change, economics, war…sometimes I think all of our combined visits to Failtown have led us to a darker, more cynical version of Disney World…Failworld. As individuals there is not much we can do to change this, but since we are all on the same Failworld rollercoaster I would make a single suggestion. Throw your hands up, take a deep breath then and scream like a crazed monkey. There is no escaping the rollercoaster of Failworld, and since we are all here we might as well enjoy the ride.

A House Called Serenity

I used to have a lot to say. I am a talker by nature, and I have been known to monologue on occasion. I talk to complete strangers at the drop of a hat, or talk to myself when no one is looking…or within earshot. But I also used to sit and write far more than I have the past few months. I would get an idea, have a powerful feeling or get lost in a dream and then I would write. I would spend long hours staring into the darkness, hovering somewhere between the waking world and the eternal dreamscape, or I would sit and watch the dying embers of a fire, and there I would find my voice. I would find words, thoughts and dreams and I would write. However, lately it has been hard to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard.

Have I lost my muse? Have I entered the halls of silence and my words no longer ring aloud or taste of truth? Perhaps I have grown boring at my ripe old age of 29 or maybe my existence in corporate America has robbed me of the fire I once had; the undying need to express and share. Have I transformed into the automaton I long feared becoming? Looking back at each time I have sat and put my thoughts to whatever medium was present, whether it was a journal, notepad, napkin or word file, I was always in some sort of turmoil or pain. There would be strife and conflict, pain and endurance. The clash of steel, the screech of the four winds…scars in the making.

Why have I had a hard time writing? Because despite my great love of communication, I don’t know how to speak in a silent catacomb. I can’t hear my own voice in the corridors of calm and silence and it is unnerving. These past months I have found peace, and peace built me a house of serenity. I don’t know when it happened. Maybe peace found me when I was unaware, or maybe we found each other, but for the first time in my life I am enjoying a feeling of oneness and calm. Peace of mind and body. The heart and soul are another matter, but the language of my heart and soul are some combination of English and Latin, wolf and dove, crackling fire and Nordic wind, and to be perfectly honest I have no idea what heart or soul are saying most of the time. I suppose that is why I feel emotion. Maybe it’s my heart’s way of trying to communicate with me. Perhaps that is why I pray; in hope of a higher power helping me to understand the language of the soul. Regardless, I don’t feel like a hammer crashing against the anvil of the world. I don’t feel like an unshaped piece of iron being pounded between the anvil of yesterday and the hammer of tomorrow.

I wish I could say it was something profound that brought me to this place. That would certainly make for a better story, but in truth I think it was a bunch of little steps. A left turn here, a right turn there…a few crossed streams and a few more mended bridges and suddenly I am standing in an endless corridor of calm. There is color here. There are sconces and tapestries and the persistent fragrance of rose and cinnamon. It’s a wonderful place, it is just very hard for me to speak in this world. I am afraid it would diminish the experience; that it would shatter the image. I just need to have a bit more faith and use my voice once again. For those few that read this, you are hearing my voice as I am…for the first time. It has been a tumultuous past few years, and they have covered the entire rainbow of emotion; of love and hate, pleasure and pain. But I am sitting here on a frigid December night, drifting in my music, enjoying a drink, a stupid smile on my face, wondering what tomorrow brings. Alone, but calm. Tired, but at peace. I still have my inner fire, but it burns in a home called serenity and I hope it remains there unto the ending of my days.

Pet Peeves #1 - Concerning Traffic, Malls and Cash Registers

I have come to the conclusion that I have a deep-rooted dislike of slow moving people. I want to qualify that statement. If I am walking behind an elderly couple on a sidewalk, I am not annoyed. It might inconvenience me to move at a snail's pace, but there is nothing I can do about it, and it is not their fault. If I am waiting at a doorway while a parent ushers their little ones through an entrance, I am not annoyed. The younglings might get distracted and chase after a bug, or see their reflection, or encounter any number of things that might draw their wandering youthful attention and cause them to pause and hold up traffic. Is this annoying? Not at all...these are just kids being kids.

Who does annoy me are people that are unaware of the pace of the world around them. People that do not acknowledge that the universe is not set by their sloth-like pace, nor do they have the divine privilege to stand in the most inconvenient of locations for no apparent reason. I will offer three scenarios to better illustrate what I believe might be my greatest pet peeve.

Scenario #1 - Left Lane Traffic
I will be the first to admit that I drive faster than most people. I am not a reckless driver, but I generally prefer to drive above the speed limit when conditions permit. In my defense, I drive a small black sports car and it would be criminal for me not to drive with a little zeal. I still pale to the near sound-barrier speeds of your average driver in and around the greater Chicago area, but by Minnesota standards I am definitely an aggressive driver. This means I spend a lot of my time in the left lane, because last I checked, the left lane is considered the passing lane; the fast lane. This is a concept lost on far too many people. Every week I manage to get stuck behind some fool that believes the left lane means you drive exactly the speed limit. Legally they are in the right. I know this. But in common practice they are not in the right, they are just in the way. When the speed limit reads 70 mph and every other lane is going 65, this does not mean the balding man with the handlebar mustache should sit in the left lane going a mere 70. Does he not notice the massive line of cars rolled up behind him? Does he not notice people bobbing and weaving in and out of traffic to pass his obviously substandard pace? Is this an act of blind arrogance to force those that move faster, to slow down? I just do not understand, but I rejoice when he finally gets the hint, moves over and before he has fully changed lanes has already been passed by fifteen cars going 80+. Am I among those cars? Absolutely. Am I breaking the law? Yes. Do I still feel victimized by the tortoise that finally moved his clunker out of the way? Damn right!

Scenario #2 - The Mall Hall
I live near to a true monument of capitalism; a shining beacon to the shopper in all of us, a sprawling tower of Babylon in the frozen tundra of the upper Midwest, the Mall of America. Yes it is massive and despite its gargantuan size you can spend a day in the bowels of that beast and not find what you are looking for. However, despite its titanic proportions the corridors that control the ebb and flow of traffic are surprisingly narrow. So narrow in fact that a group of three or four people could easily stop, for no apparent reason, in the middle of the hall and deny ease of passage.

They are like great globs of arterial fat blocking the flow of blood to the heart. Couples that were walking hand-in-hand have to separate to bypass this clot in the corridor. Clogs of humanity pile up and lurch around this blockage, too polite to say anything. All the while these arterial plaques stop, stand, and do whatever it is that they feel was so important that they had to inconvenience anyone and everyone that has the misfortune of avoiding them. Why do people do this? Could they not have moved to the left or right of the hallway and taken care of their business away from the primary thoroughfare? Perhaps that would be asking too much. Quasi deities can stand wherever they want, whenever they desire can’t they? Oh wait, these people are not yet ascended to godhood...they are just rude asshats.

Scenario #3 - The Cash Register
I will preface this section by saying that women are not the only perpetrators of this pet peeve, but in my experience they are guilty far more often than men. It's not 100% their fault...the purse gives them the opportunity, and far too many abuse the chance to waste the time of others. How many times have you waited in line to pay for food, coffee, groceries, clothes, etc.? How many times has the person(s) ahead of you paid for their items, and then stood there while they rummaged through their pockets or purse. You stand there and wait while they slowly put the money back in their wallets....then slowly put their wallets back in their purse/pockets...then they sling their items over there arms...adjust their coat, or glasses, or whatever will take even more time...then they move aside allowing the next customer to move forward.

All that is required is a step or two to the left or right. Is that really too much to ask? Is it arrogance that drives this? "I am so important that everyone waiting can just stand there and watch me screw around with my stuff.' Or is it blind ignorance? Are they simply not aware of their position in the moving world? Do they not realize people are waiting on them? Do they not have the critical thinking skills to realize that if they moved just a bit faster or perhaps out of the way they could accomplish their goals while taking into account the convenience of others? Why am I even asking the question…I already know the answer is no.

Pet peeves are not always rational, and I would say they are as personal as fashion and hairstyle. Someday I will write a list of gym pet peeves, or ballroom pet peeves, but for tonight I will settle with this miniature treatise on slow moving people. This is not a parable of the tortoise and the hare, this is the hare telling the tortoise to get his/her slow ass out of the way so I can live life at my pace, not theirs.

Outsider

During my junior year in high school I was asked to write a story about myself. I don't remember the details of the assignment, but I know we were supposed to look within, find something worth sharing, and express it in written word. The option was given to share our prose with our fellow classmates; an option I declined, but I have a vague recollection of the general details that were shared. I remember people telling stories of their youth and others sharing tales of a beloved pet or family member. Some people shared emotionally moving journeys through life's struggles or captured their passion for a favorite hobby. I did not read my small apologue aloud, but I do remember some of my small contribution to this little piece of busy work. It was titled 'Fitting In.' I thought it was an honest, straightforward, unabashed assessment of my place in the social maelstrom of school at age sixteen. I thought it was well written and concise and expected that it would continue to serve my pursuit of the almighty grade. I felt it was solid work and would land me a precious 'A.' To my surprise what it got me was an intervention and several forced trips to the school counselor.

I will be honest, I did not save the document nor do I remember every detail of its contents. However, I do remember the thrust of the argument. I felt then, as I do now, that although we all feel a little awkward, and we all have hard time fitting in (especially in high school!), only a select few of us are truly outsiders. I did not write the document as a quiet plea for help. I did not dye my hair black and adopt the iconic emo-kid hair swoosh. I didn’t walk around with a ‘woe-is-me’ attitude and pout. I simply took an analytical look at the data that was my life at the time and formed a simple conclusion. In a house of glass where life tosses it's occupants around on a whim, it is just safer to place a brick outdoors. At that time I felt like a brick in a house of glass, and it was just best for the social order if the brick found its home outside in the yard.

Fast forward to today and not much has changed. I live alone, I wake alone, I exercise alone, I eat alone and I sleep alone. I have considered this an interim time between social circles, but the more I ponder I have to wonder if there was more to 'Fitting In' than I first suspected. Had I touched on some unseen wisdom in my youth? My intention was to write an honest paper and receive a solid grade for my efforts, but did I inadvertently channel a glimpse of things to come?

My family is comprised almost entirely of hard-working blue collar folks. They are good people, but they look at me like a strange fungus most of the time. I don't hunt, I don't fish, I spent an abnormal amount of time in school, and now I work in a cube. They were a bit more accepting when I was in 'Crush Face!' mode and playing football. However, I gave up the savagery of the gridiron for the slick wood of the ballroom and the gap never really closed.

My coworkers fit into two camps, those that report or might report to me in the near future, and those that I report to. As you might have guessed, the people closest to my age bracket are in a position where I could very quickly become their supervisor, so professional distance is required. Those above me surpass my age by no less than fifteen to twenty years, and as such it is difficult to find common ground. I am sure thirty-somethings exist in this company, but I am yet to find them and if I do, will I see the looks of future friends or of the entomologist coming to find the rare and elusive Cacao Bee…Brandonus Esotericus?

I spend a lot of time at the gym, but that is not a place I have ever sought or found the bonds of camaraderie. I have tried at times, but inevitably I quote some esoteric Latin poet or don't beat my chest with enough Cro-Magnon bravado and huzzah, the brick is set back outside on the porch.

The dancing community is far more accepting, but I often feel like a strange jell-o dessert at dance functions. I am on the table, vibrant in color and I draw attention. People are curious and will poke at me to see what I am made of, or they shake the table to see if I move, but it's a detached curiosity. Unable to really decide what I am, I end up enduring a mild neglect. I never have a problem finding dance partners, but then again, why would I? People’s dance cards might be full, but in the end, there’s always room for Jell-O.

Now, it could just be my age. People become very protective of their groups and their time as they get older. They are hesitant to let new faces and personalities enter their circles as a new voice can disrupt the status quo. The presence of a male with strong alpha tendencies can really toss order into disarray, so it’s often safer and more comfortable to leave the wolf chained up outside. People are also very covetous of their time. With work, hobbies and family, time becomes a truly precious commodity and it is a luxury not easily shared.

I do have friends, but having friends and having a posse are two very different things. I have flirted with the notion of ‘my crew.’ However, every ‘crew’ that rises as an effigy to companionship dissolves before the march of time and circumstance and the brick finds itself back in the grass. It really is not a terrible tragedy. There is much to learn, see and do outside those crystalline walls, but standing on the outside and looking in can do strange things to a person’s psyche. You begin to see yourself very differently than those you count as friends see you. Where laudatory words like unique, original, interesting or fascinating once brought a spark of pride you start to hear them as signs of division. Sometimes you feel very much like a fungus or an exotic insect; a thing best studied and observed from afar.

I am well aware that I am an amalgam of hobbies and interests that are seldom found in the same place. I could argue that I am actually my own house of glass, and most of the world is looking in. They don’t stop for very long because my home is wacky at best…perhaps an experimental dalliance into architecture; interesting to look at, but uncomfortable to enter. I also know that a casual reader might interpret this much like my teachers of bygone days and think I am standing on a precipice looking to jump. I don’t need a hug; I am not sitting here wallowing in self pity. I am simply taking stock in the facts as I see them and wondering how exactly people build up their groups, and once they are built, how do they maintain them?

Is it luck? It can become very challenging to maintain connections over distance and time and life often carries even the closest of friends half a world apart. Does it take a certain degree of sacrifice? Do the outsiders of the world simply not give enough of themselves? Do they give too much? Are they just bad at knowing where, when and how much to give? Are there certain characteristics that can be broken down like a simple equation, a social equation, to determine the calculus of friendship, camaraderie and ‘the crew?’ Maybe it is the fault of the brick. Does it weigh too much to be moved (yes, in an odd way I just called myself fat)…is it too dense to lift (and yes, I just called myself dense)? Perhaps it blends in with its surroundings. Perhaps it looks like a landmine in the grass and people give it space for a good reason.

I have no answers to my own questions. I merely have observations and a history of exploring the outer rim. Sometimes I venture closer to the center of this social galaxy and locate the elusive posse, but invariably I end up taking the path of Halley’s Comet and find myself hurtling back towards the edge…a brick of dust and ice and rock tirelessly finding its way back into the yard. I just hope it doesn’t take another 76 years to find that glass house again…

Love Affair

This is not a sordid tale of temptation and betrayal. It is not a casual jaunt through a steamy paperback loaded with flowing hair, glistening skin and burning gazes. There is no tall dark stranger sweeping in from a foreign land; no pale-skinned beauty craning her neck in the light of the dawn. No exotic lover at the window…no throaty whispers in the night. But this is a tale of lust and passion; intensity and fire. It is a languid stroll through the senses. A seduction of taste, a sweet caress of a craving sated. I will share a tale of my love affair…of my need, my desire and my obsession…with chocolate.

There are many vices in this world. Some turn to alcohol, others to narcotics. Some gamble or seek illicit pleasures of the flesh. I share my vice with pride. I am a chocolate aficionado. One could say I am a chocoholic or cacao junkie, but I think the title I have chosen carries an air of dignity. I have flirted shamelessly with the chocolate ambassadors of Godiva, all in hopes of receiving a free sample. I have fought for the honor and privilege to devour any remaining chocolate from a pan of frosting. I have found heaven in the embrace of a single piece of the finest cocoa…wrought more of artistry and grace, then of taste, and I have slummed it with a block of stale Hershey’s.

I imagine someone reading this thinking, ‘This is absurd. A chocolate addiction is not a vice. A love of all things cocoa is not overly decadent and chocolate poses no danger to anyone.’ I guffaw! What of a Grand Marnier truffle? What about a cup of hot cocoa so thick you could eat it with a spoon? Did you ever have the Starbucks Chocofino? How about a flourless chocolate torte so packed with cocoa it looks like a blissful sliver of midnight? Chocolate is dangerous my friends, but to give in to its call is such a sweet surrender I dare not turn away.

Society worries about the saturation of the media with sexual imagery and themes. There are advocate groups devoted to monitoring and condemning violence in television broadcasts and beyond. Whenever tragedy strikes at the heart of young America we ponder the influence of violent video games. We worry about children seeing too much too soon, but does anyone worry about chocolate? Maybe they should….

Despite the vast volume of violence and sex and all things profane in our day-to-day lives I would argue that chocolate has its own place as a corrupting influence. How many people remember the first time they were moved, for better or worse, by carnal imagery or violence? I imagine quite a few. Now I ask those same people, did that experience come before or after their first confrontation with the fruit of the cacao bean?

Some of my earliest memories are of a chocolate and Oreo cake purchased for my first birthday. I don’t think I could even walk, but I remember that giant blue frosting cake crafted in the likeness of Cookie Monster. I remember the lessons of the immortal Cookie Monster proclaiming his love of chocolate chip cookies. I had bowl after bowl of Cocoa Crispies, Cocoa Puffs and Count Chokula paired with chocolate poptarts. I had hot fudge sundays. I had Twix and Snickers, Milky Way and Reese’s Peanut Butter cups….all of which are wreathed in luscious chocolate. I had hot cocoa in the winter and chocolate ice cream in the summer. I had chocolate milk at school, a chocolate Santa at Christmas, a chocolate bunny at Easter. My youth, my schools, even my most sacred holidays; each felt the presence of chocolate, and all of this I had before I was even aware of the concept of violence or sex! The media might have been hitting me with these themes left, right and center, but they were years behind chocolate in digging their claws into me.

You may doubt the power of chocolate. You might feel that my argument is not at all compelling. But I maintain that the power of cocoa is indeed lethal in the most exquisite of ways. Few things have more corrupting potential. We have witnessed the transformation of the healthiest of indulgences become an orgy of decadence as fruit is doused in molten chocolate. Chocolate oranges, raspberries, lemons, or my personal favorite, strawberries dipped in dark chocolate. We make deep fried batter even more potent by smothering our donuts in chocolate, or working the cocoa into the batter itself! Chocolate cake…chocolate pie…chocolate in our coffee to give birth to the mocha….chocolate in our liquor to make us drunk with bliss as true inebriation sets in.

Chocolate will not destroy our civilization, nor is it to blame for all the world’s ills. It is not the root source of our expanding waist lines, or contributing to the moral decay of society. Chocolate is not evil, but it is dangerous and it is a vice. People stand on pedestals and laud themselves for the things they give up…for the pleasures they deny themselves. I am of a different school of thought. I stand proudly before my peers and share my joy and desire for chocolate. I don’t have a shrine to this wonderful slice of decadence, but I should. Sometimes it feels good to stray. Sometimes it feels so very good, to be so very bad. Chocolate opens the doors to be devious, decadent and naughty, without truly hurting anyone or anything. The only victims are a diet or a little enamel on our teeth. I call that a small price to pay for this little pleasure. We may walk outside the Garden of Eden. Paradise might have been lost. But in the desolation and ruin chocolate was found, and thus we walk in the presence of that small taste of ambrosia, and know that heaven can indeed be found on Earth. Try El Muerte por Chocolate and you will know what I mean…

Litany of the Moment

Last night I suffered my first true glycogen crash during exercise. The evening started normally. I planned to do a mini triathlon, but not in the preordained order of swim, bike, run. I was to start with a 10K appetizer (about 6.2 miles to those not down with the lingo). The main course was going to be a half mile swim. It’s in a 25 meter pool, so that is a lot of laps, but swimming at night is a true avenue to peace and relaxation and I encourage you to indulge if you have not experienced it. The workout was to be topped off with a luscious dessert; a twenty mile bike ride beneath the light of the moon. Something happened, and things did not go as planned. The 10K became 10 miles….the half mile swim became a full mile….the bike….well, my sugar crashed and I could hardly walk let alone peddle after only two miles. It was a frightening experience, but fascinating at the same time. My legs turned to jello and I had brutal shakes throughout my body. I imagine marathon runners and triathletes have all experienced this in one form or another. Only I am neither a marathoner nor a triathlete. In fact, I am not training for any particular race at all...

Fast forward to the following day. I had my midyear review this morning with my boss. It started as they always do with him asking about my evening. I told him a variation of the history written above. He laughed and said I was crazy. I assured him I was not crazy, and tried to explain why I push myself. I have written the 'why' in a previous post, but he interrupted and was not so interested in why, but how. I am not a world class athlete. I am not going to win any medals or find myself on the side of a Wheaties box. I don’t know the first thing about how true professional runners, swimmers, etc. mentally prepare themselves for their races. But I do know that I have not worn a watch in almost ten years, and it is that simple fact that allows me to push myself unto the brink.

I have had an ‘on again, off again’ relationship with serious exercise for years. I will ramp up my running and lifting for two or three months, and then fall off the wagon. Overtraining almost always the loose railroad tie that knocked the fitness train off the tracks. I would not ease into the fitness regiment. I would come out of the gates at a sprint. When I would lift or run I would try mind games to push myself harder and faster; an internal conversation that was meant as a personal challenge.

“If you quit, you fail…not just at this run, but at everything. Are you weak? Do you want to fail? Are you that pathetic? If you don’t keep going everyone will leave you. If you stop now, everyone will hate you! If you don’t finish this rep you don’t deserve to be happy. Everyone is watching Brandon, you can quit, but everyone will see and they will know you were not strong enough...you were not good enough. Go ahead and quit…you're no wolf, your just another sheep!"

This type of “self-motivation” did far more damage than good. Sure, I would finish my long runs and heavy lifts, but I would return mentally and emotionally exhausted. Sometimes I would not be able to get that last repetition, and would feel terrible as a result. Did the threats of my prodding mind ever come to pass? Of course not, but the damage was done, and within a few short months I would need to step away. Mentally, emotionally and physically abused and exhausted.

Everything changed this spring when I attacked physical training yet again. I took a different approach this time. I started from a new angle: sleep and food. I took time each night to find peace in preparing a healthy meal, enjoying it, and getting a full night’s sleep. Not surprisingly my energy increased and after a few weeks I had to return to intense exercise just to burn off the excess fuel. Returning to the gym is always a humiliating experience. You are slower, weaker, less toned and less confident than you were the last time you were serious. So much has been lost you wonder how you will ever get back to where you were. It is very easy to get disheartened at this point and quit. But I kept at it with the cooking and sleeping, I added in some meditation and stretching to maintain peace and focus, and the strength and cardio rapidly returned to a comfortable position. But I wanted to go further, to push harder, and without the psychological abuse I would put myself through in the past.

Enter ‘The Litany of the Moment.’ I don’t know when I started to repeat this simple mantra to myself, but once I did, I quite literally found my 'happy place.' A center, a driving core that could run further, swim longer, lift more, than I ever had previously. It takes a while to set in. The first few exercises, or miles in a run are always a struggle. But the voice within won’t let me think about things like, ‘God my legs hurt. I can’t get enough air. My arms are tightening up. I should just stop. I didn’t eat enough for lunch, and I didn't sleep enough.’ These 'quitting statements' are drowned out by a commanding voice that asks the same question again and again.

Where are you?

At first I ignore it. Or at least I try to. I try to focus on the pain, the surroundings, the music in my headphones…

Where are you?

I can hear my feet hitting the ground. I can smell the iron of the gym. I can taste salt as the sweat from my brow passes the corner of my lips….

Where are you?

I am at the gym. I am outside. I am running on this path…what do you mean where am I?

Where are you?

I’m here.

The first stage is complete. I have let go of my surroundings, I have let go of the presence of the road or the gym or the water. I am simply ‘here.’ But the voice continues….and it is relentless.

What time is it?

I don’t know. I don’t wear a watch.

What time is it?

It’s before dawn…It’s almost midnight….It’s almost time for dinner….

What time is it?

Now?....Yes, it is now.

Stage two is complete. It’s tough to explain the sensation that comes with this, but I stop feeling pain. I stop thinking about the weights or the road or much of anything. It is almost as if I am simply existing in empty space. I am here…it is now…there is nothing else. But I am still moving…

Where are you going?

There.

Where is there?

One step beyond here.

How do you get there?

By moving forward. I must keep moving forward!

I stop feeling time at this point. I stop seeing much of my surroundings or hearing the birds or the people or much of anything. I can hear my breath. I can hear my heartbeat. I can feel heat on my skin, but I am here. I am now. I am moving forward from here to there.

What are you?

I am strong. I am a man. I am Brandon…

What are you?

I am me. I am I. I am alive…

What are you?

Clear…present….focused…one with this moment.

The run passes. The swim passes. The bike…well the bike reminds me that I am human and no matter the number of mind games I play on myself I still need to better prepare for such a long workout. I still need to eat more food and get a bit more rest. However, sitting on the sidewalk, unable to walk and shaking with plummeting blood sugar, I can only sit and marvel at the power of the mind over the body. I was one. I was calm. I was present. I was moving through space, leaping, striding, walking from one moment to the next. There was no past, there was no future. There was only here, now and the step that will take me into the next moment.

I am going on seven months now of intense exercise six days a week. This is far beyond anything I ever dreamed of in my many attempts at fitness. I am not exhausted. Quite the contrary in fact. I am more at peace and have found an inner harmony hitherto unimagined. When my boss asked, ‘How do you do it? Is it discipline or just masochistic tendencies?’ I told him, ‘It’s the Litany of the Moment.’ What’s that? ‘I’m not sure I can explain it right now, but it drives me to excel, it encourages me to succeed, and it helps me keep moving forward. One foot in front of the other…again….and again….and again….’

The List

I am not a man to hold a grudge. When I was younger I could clasp anger close to my chest and never let it go. I would stand on my little podium of pride, wagging my finger in the face of life saying, 'forgive, but never forget.' Walking through fire cured me of this affliction. Life, like a slow-roasting crock pot, cooked away my ability and desire to hold enmity. When people fight, invariably both combatants will emerge from the battle bruised, battered and bleeding. Sometimes we are cut so deep that the confrontation leaves scars that far outstrip the cause or severity of the fight. Most of the time I think people would rather 'forgive and forget;' they would prefer to keep the bridges into their lives open. A grudge keeps the bridge open, but in the same way bridges are open in a military state. Roads and causeways replete with guard towers, riflemen and snarling vicious war dogs. I know people joke about having a 'List.' If someone cuts you off in traffic an appropriate response would be, 'Son of a....that's it, that guy is going on The List!' It's fun, it's silly, but I really do not believe that people keep a little red book of grudges right next to their little black book of phone numbers.

I would like you to take a little stroll back in time with me. A little over a week ago, on a bright Monday morning, Brandon is giving a presentation. The sun is shining, the conference room is packed, and I am assaulting the senses with a true multimedia display. Drawing upon the usual arsenal of powerpoint, visual aids, a short video and my bread 'n' butter, the white board. I am moving to and fro, hither and thither, and the presentation is going incredibly well. I am an animated public speaker so I tend to move quite a bit as I talk. I use my hands, I engage the crowd, and I tend to saunter from one side of the room to the other.

Everything is going swimmingly, but there is some noise coming from the nearby labs, so I turn and close the door. I don't watch the door close, but I hear the latch click and continue on with the presentation. It is important to understand that this door opens towards the white board. When fully open it actually covers a few feet of the white board, and I am drawing on the entirety of my corporate tapestry this day. The presentation is drawing to close, I am moving from one end of the white board to the other...backing up while speaking, gesturing to what has been written over the past hour, talking, sharing, pointing out key items...still backing up, then I turn to make one final point and BAM! By some strange twist of fate the door has managed to open itself. It's almost like a saw blade, and it lines me up with the precision of a carpenter. From nose to chin to sternum to groin I walk into this door and the sound of the impact rings loud and clear throughout the room. There is a pause...a drawing of breath, then all gathered burst into hysterics. I laugh too, because at that point there is little else that one can do. I regain my composure, make a few closing comments and the remainder of the day passes without incident.

Walk with me a short distance into the future. We are now at yesterday afternoon in the same room, with the same white board, just a different presentation. A few of the people in attendance make a few jokes at my expense before I begin because they witnessed my last unintentional foray into physical slapstick humor. I laugh, they laugh, and the presentation begins. I make a point to actually close the door completely, feel the latch catch, and I place a small garbage can in front of the closed door, partly for the amusement of the audience, and partly to make sure I don't have a repeat performance.

I start to speak, and write and present as I have a hundred times before. Halfway into the presentation time slows. I am sure if I was watching the clock on the wall I would have watched the ever-marching second hand gradually slow and eventually grind to a halt. Backing from one end of the white board to another, a member in the audience asks a question about something I had written on section of the board which would have been covered by the door (IF it were open that is). I am happy to answer the question and turn quickly towards where the door WOULD have been if it were open. I plan to point out the data the question is referring to just to make sure everyone is on the same page. I shift my weight, I pivot, and to my horror The Door is waiting for me...again.

I have been in fights in the past. I have been punched, kicked and elbowed. But I have never been hit as hard as this door hit me. From the apex of my legs to the crest of my brow I slam, with force, into this tormentor. Flesh and bone and blood collide with wood and steel and gloss. Losing my composure for a moment I swear loudly, stagger a bit, and then turn to see tears streaming from the eyes of my audience. One man, who I shall simply refer to as Upper Management tries to speak, 'Brandon....anytime I think I am having....a bad...day...I will just....think....' He trails off here, unable to speak for lack of oxygen. He is simply laughing too hard.

There are wicked and macabre forces at work here. I know that this door; this vile wretched baleful door was not guided by the hands of God. If god wanted to teach me humility he would have been far less subtle; a flood, a lightning strike, or at the bare minimum, a little fire and brimstone. No, this was the work of some cruel antagonist. Did someone feed Gizmo after midnight? Does this door, this dark malevolent slab of wood, sit atop a long forgotten burial mound? I don’t care what power drives it, or what force created it. This door has drawn first blood…twice! I don’t hold grudges, but then again I never really had a reason...until now. I have met my nemesis. Building F, room 5404, large wooden door…welcome to The List my now and future foe. Tremble in fear because you have neither the will, nor the opposable thumbs to win this war.

On a side note, I did launch a large number of April Fool’s pranks this past year. Part of me wonders if this is some form of cosmic retribution…no, this is between me and The Door…watch for the final showdown on pay-per-view…

Beneath Her Gaze...

Do you fear the night? When you hear a noise in the shadows do you sit motionless, pinned by terror while your heart returns to its metronomic drumming? For as long as I can remember I have refused to let things unseen hold sway over my imagination. I grew up in a home notorious for unexplained noises echoing through the dark. As an only child I spent more than one night alone with little more than the sounds of a chattering home to keep me company. A home whose floorboards cackled, windows whispered and plumbing and heating was a symphony of percussion and banshee wails. I don't know why I always assumed that the sounds from the dark came from the basement or the attic, but I would ball my hands into little fists and go searching for the things that go bump in the night. I would never bring a flashlight...I was always sure surprise would be on my side if I didn't light my way. I would not arm myself, I would not make escape plans, I would simply stride forth into the darkness and see if equal parts youthful courage and brazen stupidity would see me through the ordeal. I never found a beast of darkness. I never tussled with a denizen of the deep, but on more than one occasion I found Her looking down on me...

I no longer go seeking the hushed whispers of the night...at 29 I have long outgrown that age. What was once a quest to challenge the fiends that disturbed my rest has become something far more subdued and peaceful; late night walks. I often take walks well after midnight along wooded paths and across grass fields. The sounds of the night are still there and beneath the umbrage of stars I find that simple things like trees, bushes or a ripple in the water can still appear fearsome. But while walking last night my eyes were drawn to the sky and again, just as it was so long ago, She was watching. I stopped in my tracks. I could not move. I could not look away. Caught in a near trance I just stood and stared at that singular white jewel in the night's sky; She…Her…My beloved mistress, La Luna, gazing down on me as she has all my life.

I can recall times as far back as age 9 when I would be struck by Her presence. I would be standing one moment, and the next I would be laying on my back, eyes sky bound. I would drift and I would dream and after a time I would come back to my senses and continue on. I have even come to give a sign of respect to that lunar body...I kiss the palm of my right hand, I close the hand into a gentle fist, bring the fist to my heart, open the hand and offer it up, palm wide and full with the offering of the kiss, the heart and the hand to She that is above. I will confess I only do this when I am alone. A casual observer would probably think me strange, but when I am alone I am not ashamed of my passion. When I am alone I am not afraid to share it. And She never passes judgment when the romantic takes hold of me in the dark.

The light of Her gaze has cut through every darkness in my life, though it is not always a healing light. It is often cold and distant and alien, but it can wrap you in tendrils of blue and grey and white and embrace you in dreams of joy and wonder. Those years when I closed my windows, shut my eyes and removed myself from Her sight were the most trying times of my life. I feel a peace and oneness in the light of the moon. I feel whole. I feel complete. I imagine it is very much like being in love.

I wonder if that is true. When do people know when they are in love? Is it a gradual shift from friend to partner...from partner to lover...from lover to one true love? Do people know when it changes? Can they feel it? I think the day I can walk beneath Her gaze, hand-in-hand with a woman and not feel that soft white light, then I will know I am in love. When the seductive mistress of the night's sky tempts and calls and beckons, and yet I am not pinned to the ground in awe and reverence, I will know I am in love. I wonder if She will mourn the loss of Her wolf. Will She feel jealousy as Her alpha child settles with a mate? I think not, for She is timeless and has sent many a wandering hunter on their way. I imagine I will look to the sky one last time to receive that pale kiss upon my brow and then turn to the flesh and blood at my side...the warmth that is, replacing the cold that was. But this day...this night...I still walk and live, stand and fall, struggle and grow, beneath Her gaze. At least someone is watching…

The Dance

People who know me know that I am a dancer. I have been on hiatus for a time, but I still have a passion for ballroom dance. I know why I enjoy the sport. It's a subtle combination of athletic ability, musicality, rhythm, performance and artistry, poise, grace and respect. One can be as serious or as casual as they wish and still derive a lot of joy from dancing. It is still the most enjoyable social activity I have found thus far. I am an inherently social creature, but I am also very physical. What is dance but a conversation between two people that is expressed as much in movement and contact as it is in words?

There is another dance, however, that I have found to be simultaneously a confidence builder and destroyer. It is terrible and joyous, draining and invigorating, humbling and empowering, and at all times, educational. Let me paint a scene. We shall call it 'The Dance - Act I, Scene I.' Two people enter a room. The room is well lit and strangers are present. The pair are well dressed, have taken some time to present themselves favorably, and now stand at opposite ends of the dance floor, scanning to find one another. Their gaze meets and the butterflies begin. This first moment is different for everyone. Some have their heart race, some are assailed by mild nausea, and some have their mouths go dry with fear, while others simply freeze. Personally, I feel tightness across my shoulders, a tension rising through my body, a pressure within my chest and I feel very much the focus of every eye within a thousand yards. Welcome to the first 'step' in The Dance. I am not sure how others deal with first contact, but I take a few breaths, center myself, turn off my thinking mind and turn my instinct dial to maximum volume. I move forward. I feel the situation, I don’t think about it, and I walk forward with confidence, seeking the middle of the dance floor.

This is where things become interesting. Your partner approaches, they stand within arms reach and there is an uncomfortable moment where the truth settles on both of you like a fine mist. You begin to realize just how complicated this dance is going to be, and chances are the butterflies might return for an unwelcome encore.

You both speak English...but very different dialects. You both know how to dance, but your skill level may vary and you don't know the same dances. You both hear music...but you can't hear what the other person is listening to. Despite these barriers, you raise your hand slowly and invite your partner to do the same. You take a respectful dance position; take a moment to calm your nerves, and then you try to dance. Sometimes the first few steps are fluid. They are clear, direct and your partner follows your lead immediately. You will invariably step on a few toes, go forward when they want to go right, go left when they want to go back, and at all times you will start off dancing to a completely different beat. Have you figured it out yet? Do you know this dance? If you have ever dated, you know this dance well.

People can find their way through this process. They can navigate the dance floor, find steps that don't match either partner's style, but are new....because they invented them together. Out of the awkward moments of the initial steps they begin to form their own movements, their own song, and their own rhythm. Where once there were bruised feet and teetering erratic movements, there are now graceful strides that flow seamlessly into turns, dips and beautiful orchestrated drama. This new dance does not happen on that first date, or the second. This dance, which could almost seem choreographed to a casual onlooker, is one of growth and evolution. A perfect manifestation of chemistry, love and harmony. But those first steps can be a trial for even the most accomplished dancers or the best matched pair. I think if people can find themselves moving as one and conversing in a mixed dialect only a few hours after meeting, then they ought to consider themselves fortunate. Their feet just might remain unharmed, their butterflies well worth the discomfort, and their entrance into this great ballroom, this venue, this Dance....well, it was probably worth the effort and the wait.

Many of us are still dancing...but we must not lose hope. I see friends and family that have found their partners. Couples that have written their own music, made their own language, and created their own dances. These people inspire and encourage, and it is because of them that people such as I keep dancing. They stand as shimmering proof that the challenge of The Dance is worth it...even if we break a few toes in the process.

Sinister

"Excuse me, could you hurry up. I don't have all day." This from a woman at the grocery store, on a Sunday morning when the lines for every register are at least ten people deep.

"Hey...HEY! I said I wanted this with extra foam. This is pathetic!" This from an outwardly well-to-do young man concerning his cappuccino.

"Hi, is this the Smith residence?"
"Sorry, you have the wrong number."
"What?"
"I said, sorry, I am afraid you have the wrong number."
"Well, this is the number I was given..."
"I don't know what to tell you sir, but this is not the Smith residence."
"Well what the hell am I supposed to do now?!"
*click*
A conversation with a distraught individual who had the misfortune of dialing a wrong number.

"Hey! Baby baby, you are doing that all wrong, let me show you the proper technique. We will get your back in tip-top shape so you can slip into that nice strapless dress." This from one stranger to another at the gym. The advice was not solicited, nor was it desired.

What are all of the scenarios I have described above? They are samples of interactions I have observed or experienced over the past two weeks. I could have listed many more, but that would have been an exercise in redundancy. I am not going to stand on a pedestal and condemn these people. Everyone has a bad day. Some people rarely have good days, and for all I know I might have witnessed these people at their best. What I really want to know is what the people around me were thinking when these little affronts to goodwill and civil discourse happened before their very eyes.

I watched people standing in line not noticing the intense disrespect, inflated sense of self worth, and general poor manners. Their eyes were not open or their attention was focused elsewhere, and there is no point in wondering what a person thought of a movie they have never seen. What of the rest of those who were present? They saw what happened. They heard the dialogue. What transpired in their minds? Did they feel anything? Did the feel pity? Were they offended? Were they angry?

I was not angry in any of these situations. I was irritated, but I was not angered. However, the little voice within me took on a very different tone. It hissed as it spoke. It dropped into a lower, deeper more sinuous register. The face within went from the smiling young man I see every morning in the mirror to something very different. Its chin dropped a few inches to add a shadow about the lips and eyes. The upper lip rolled back ever so slightly to show a rictus grin. The skin took on an ashen tone. Cheekbones became more pronounced and the eyes took on a golden hue. The face within took on a truly vulpine visage and one not unfamiliar to me.

I found myself toying with thoughts of responding to the rude patrons ahead of me. Firing mocking and cutting words at deserving targets. I wondered if it would be entertaining to watch the fool with his now-perfect cappuccino take two steps and spill it across his tailored suit. I snickered on the inside as the woman in the grocery store had her credit card repeatedly denied. She was in such a rush, and yet there she was, a slave to her own misfortune. Were the people around me thinking the same thing? Did they see justice and divine providence? Did they see anything at all? Perhaps they felt pity. Perhaps they were truly good and kind souls and felt pain at the misfortune of everyone involved. Or maybe they were just like me. Maybe part of them was very much like a viper, and saw the guilty being punished through the gaze of a snake's eyes.

I like to think that people are fundamentally good creatures. How else could we have built society? Yet at times like these I look within and see something very different. I see scales in the den of serpents. I see fangs grinning in the dark. People might be good. People might be noble. But I look within myself and I think that deep down, in the hands of our childlike hopes and innocence, we all hold a hidden dagger. Deep down, we are all a little sinister.

The day the lights went out...

I write this for those who are hurting. I write it for the lonely heart that walks through each day, a phantom, alone and in pain. I write it for the soul that is lost and may never be found. I write it for the shoulders so laden with life's burden that they bow with the weight, the bearer forced to crawl on bloodied knees. I write this for myself. I write this to remember.

It starts as such a tiny thing. Smaller than a pinprick and more subtle than the slightest breeze, but the moment it begins, it spreads. Much like a virus, it starts small. It infiltrates key pathways, commandeers once piece of you at a time. It spreads and infects and consumes, until eventually, you are rotting from within. No one can tell. No one can see. But you feel it, and you have no idea of the hellstorm that is coming to take you. In time, everyone can see it because it is reflected in your eyes, spoken with your words and seared on your heart like a brand. But it starts as such a small imperceptible thing. Depression. A wandering daemon that consumes man, woman and child, the young and the old, the strong and the weak. Depression.

I have thought of this many a night. Alone, in the dark, with nothing but the sounds of my own breathing to keep me company. How did it happen? When did I falter? Why did I slip? I can recall the first moments of the change. It was such a subtle shift in perspective, but looking back, it was so profound. Every day people greet one another in passing. They walk by each other on the street, in the office, at home or in the store. The passing is brief, and usually etiquette demands an exchange of, 'Hello, how are you?' The response is often the same, 'I am fine, and you?' I was no different. I greeted people, I asked the programmed question, and I listened to the token response. I think deep down we all feel that on some level people actually care what we say. I remember when I started to doubt. I remember saying, 'Fine, and you?' All the while thinking, 'This person doesn't really care what I say. I could respond, I feel terrible, and you? And they wouldn't miss a step in this pointless banter.' That was the beginning. The first tug on a shoestring pulling me towards a void I could not see.

Depression is such a subtle thing, and it comes at you from all directions at once. It attacks in tiny little bites. Optimism gives way to apathy. Confidence gives way to doubt. Activity yields to sloth, and with sloth you lose the ability to sleep. You are not active, so you have no need for food. You miss meals and your body weakens. The weaker your body, the less strength you have to return to activity, and so you continually cannot sleep. You lose focus with the lack of sleep. Your work suffers. Your friendships and relationships suffer. The world starts to turn. It's a slow rotation, but things are spinning. You just keep trying to maintain your balance, but you have no focus, no strength, no energy and most important of all, you have no time to look down at your feet. You don't see yourself sinking, drawn closer and closer to the abyss. You just keep trying to stand, but you can't make it past your knees.

There are always rays of light that shine through. A kind word, a loving hug, a child's laughter, puppies playing at the pet store...I recall being snapped into happiness for short periods of time. I would rush home to sleep, because my heart and mind were at peace. But depression is an ancient foe and it never rests. Sleep brought nightmares, and nightmares devoured the joy of the day in a sea of black. You are always helpless, hopeless and alone in these dark dreams, and when they have chewed you up, you wake weaker than ever.

People ask, 'When did you become depressed?' This is a very difficult question to answer. I think of depression as a black hole, and for those that know, time itself slows near the event horizon. When does one become depressed? It happens in a moment that can last forever. I remember seeing the light. I remember falling to my knees. I remember standing and looking to the light again. I don't remember the tug on the shoe string, I don't remember slowly sinking beneath the waves, I don't remember falling into that blackness. But I remember the day the lights went out...

Imagine standing alone in the darkest of rooms. All you can feel is rain and pressure. All you hear is a distant screaming. You want to help. You have to help that tortured person. By all that is good you must save them! You run and search in the dark trying to find help for that poor soul. Like a blood hound you dash to and fro, sniffing at the earth, seeking in the heavens. But you can't seem to find the source, and you can't escape the rain. You run until your legs can't carry you any further and then you stop. You listen...and you listen some more. Then you step outside yourself. You look down and the sudden horror closes in and crushes you. There is no rain, you are crying. No one can stop the rain...no one can stop your crying. The pressure is suffocating. The weight and burden of your life robbing you of air as wracking sobs tear through your body. And the wailing...the heart wrenching screams that your voice has become. You try to speak, but only whispers emerge, and they are drowned in a sea of tears, sobs and pain.

Time stops in this place. The world turns and time moves for everyone around you, but for those in the abyss there is no time. Everything is distorted. I remember seeing myself in a mirror. I had lost almost 20% of my body weight. I was unkempt and unshaven. I had not seen the light of day in a week. My eyes red from tears and lack of sleep. Claw marks raking my upper arms and cheeks from trying to claw my way out of my own skin. Looking in that mirror I did not see a man. I saw an abomination...a monster. It's a dreadful thing to lose your humanity. I tried to hold onto that pain, to recognize it, but it's impossible to pinpoint suffering when you are swimming in it. It simply is everything. Ask a man who swims in the middle of the ocean, 'Where is the ocean my friend?' The best he can do is to make a sweeping gesture with his hands and encompass all that is around him. So it is with pain in the depths of depression.

You become very much like an animal at that point. Either you lie down to die, or you bolt and fight to survive. Even in the abyss I retained that visceral need for survival. My stubborn defiance set me off at a sprint into the night. No path, no direction, I just started running. I would run, stumble, fall and cry. Then I would crawl. The crawl became a walk, and before long I was running again. This was a dangerous time for anyone near to me. As I said, the abyss distorts your senses. Friends look monstrous, the helping hand appears as a striking viper, and anyone that steps out to help guide your path you perceive as barring your escape and you lash out in blind aggression. I stumbled many times during my flight, but each time I would pull myself up with handfuls of dirt and suffering. Just as a literary hobbit found a ring to aid his escape from the darkness of a cavern, so did I find a tool that kept me moving forward in this mindless insanity, anger. As the ring was to gollum, so was anger to me. It held me in thrall and it consumed me. It was the most poignant thing I could find in a heart long vacant. I used to be a gentle soul. Kind, loving, carefree. Had I run before the midnight air took me, I would have thought, 'I need to keep moving. I must get away from here!' But with anger in hand, those thoughts changed. They became vicious and brutal, sundry and dark. 'I WILL BE FREE!!! NO MATTER THE COST!!!' No matter the cost....how many did I hurt during this time? What terrible things did I say? Whom did I neglect? I destroyed bridges to deter pursuit. I lashed out to prevent any from slowing my pace.

The abyss is not the universe. It is not endless. You do reach the edge of the darkness and think yourself free and therein is the true genius and evil of depression. You run, arms outstretched to the heavens and roar with triumph and delight. You are safe, you are free. Then the light hits you for the first time in what feels an eternity. It does not warm your face. It does not mend your soul. It burns. You have dwelled too long in the darkness, and your soul bears the marks of many sins committed during your escape. Standing at the steps of salvation in the glow of that very light you sought with such fervor the last vestige of hope leaves you. The light burns and sears you. You smolder and waste away and feel more alone now than you ever did in the caverns of despair.

This almost killed me. I almost killed me. I had no more tears. I had no more screams. I had no more anger to push me on. I was hollow and empty. A husk of a man. The walking dead. I don't know why I am here to be honest. But like fallow earth, I began to drink the tears of others. I soaked in their compassion, their caring, and the light of the day. Standing again is just as subtle as the initial steps into depression. I can recall time moving again. I can recall watching the passing of day into night, night into day, and marveling at its beauty. I can still see the faces of friends, standing across rivers and valleys. The bridges between us destroyed by my own hands, but they were there. They were waiting. I remember when words felt true again. I remember feeling warmth in a hug. I saw flowers, caught the scent of fresh cut grass and heard the laughter of children. I began to sleep. Nightmares faded and strength returned.

I will never know how, nor why I was given a second chance. But I sit here now, tears streaming unbidden down my cheeks, because I remember....I remember that last tug, that last gasp of air before the water closed over my head. I weep because I should. If ever you walk the path that I have walked, I will weep with you when you come forth once again into the light. I will cry with you because I know I will see that moment in your eyes. I will see that day that only the truly tortured and suffering have seen. I will see, and I will remember....the day the lights went out...

Alloy

Why do people go to the gym? I am not asking about exercise in general. People run, bike, hike, take long walks, toss a frisbee around, or just remain active in an effort to avoid the gradual atrophy brought on by a sedentary lifestyle. But what of the gym? You get people from all walks of life, young and old, men and women, straight, gay, happy, sad...and they all go to this external location to pursue something.

There are myriad options at a standard gym for a person to torture themselves. There are weights. Some are as basic as raw pieces of steel and iron, while others are complex feats of Newtonian mechanics employing more pulleys and cables than one should bother counting. There is the cardio section, which is in many ways a practice in absurdity. You have legions of people exerting, sweating, and working very hard...at not moving. Whether they are on a stationary bike, a stairmaster, elliptical machine or treadmill, they are all doing the same thing, moving while standing still. Then there are the classes. These are unique. While the legions found wandering among the walls of iron or the constant whirring of human hamster wheels do so of their own accord, those that attend a class are given a General. Usually an enthusiastic and motivational athlete that ranges anywhere from an iron-fisted drill sergeant to a chihuahua on speed.

But what draws people to the weights or the treadmills or the classes? Is it fitness? Is it competition? Is it a vain attempt to fight back the passing of the years or maybe to ensure that they will have more years to enjoy? Is it completely separate from the physical? Do people go for the social element? To find a friend or a mate perhaps? In my many years of attending a variety of gyms I think it is all and none of the above.

After you spend enough time in the gym you start to develop a set of personal rules and codes. There are the people you like, there are the people you tolerate, and there are those that you utterly cannot stand. There are exercises you prefer and those that you hate (even if you know they are good for you). But you also develop mental techniques to cope with the truth of what you are doing. You are either sitting in place moving some oddly shaped metal object, or moving without moving and suffering while doing it, or you have Pepmaster-5000 screaming instructions at you while you bound around floor mats, steps or giant inflatable balls. All of these are absurd when you see them for what they are, but you do them for whatever reason brought you to the gym in the first place, and you need to distract yourself.

I often occupy myself with simple questions. I am inquisitive by nature and often question my surroundings. After seeing The Matrix I began to wonder just how many calories are burned at a gym in a twenty four hour period of time. Did the machines in The Matrix have it all wrong? They tried to tap sleeping humans for energy...maybe they would have been better served if they had fed them something more than soylent green and put them all on treadmills. I wonder if anyone has ever tried to calculate the calories burned. I wonder if some of the weight machines are the byproduct of ectomorph sadistic physics majors looking to punish the proverbial 'jock.' I ask these questions, but they quickly fade, and I am left with a single question, 'Why am I here? Why am I running in place? Swimming laps? Moving this piece of steel?' Then even the questions fade, and I am simply doing. Not only am I doing, but I am feeling and thinking and being, all three done in unison. I don't know why others go to the gym, but I know now why I go.

I have spent the majority of my life believing myself to be a cerebral creature. A man that thinks first, acts second. I managed to fool myself into believing that this was true for a very long time. But that strange animal called emotion slumbered below the decks of the freighter 'Brandon,' and everytime it stirred, the whole ship rocked. A beast of vast proportions and great strength. I know what eventually woke him...pain. Not the type of pain you can bandage and easily mend. Neosporin was a woefully inadequate remedy for this type of hurt, for the hull of the ship was breached and what good is a disinfectant on a rusty hull and a sinking vessel?

What does this have to do with the gym? When that beast awoke, it had no direction, no sight, no control. It was blind and raging. But for all its size and strength, it could not get out of harmful waters. It could not steer the ship. Herein is my conundrum. I find that I lead best from the heart. I live off of drive, impulse, raw intensity and passion, but those qualities will not steer me to calm seas and a rising sun. They may provide the energy and vitality, but not the will nor the path. I try to help my heart and mind speak to one another, but I might as well ask a wolf to speak with an owl. They are not the same creature and they do not speak the same language. The Visceral does not cooperate with The Wise. But I know a time when they had to work together to steer my ship to safety. I know what triggered that cooperation...pain.

Why do I go the gym? To induce pain and to hope that as I break down the walls between heart and mind I can come to a more complete center. The pain is different than before. This one is controlled. It is physical, not mental or emotional. It is a pain of the body. A bone-tired exhaustion, a burning off muscles, a straining of joints. Through the anvil and forge of the body I beat the heart and mind into a malleable alloy and work to make a finer steel. I find it ironic that in moving and striving against the alloy of plate steel I seek to become a molten composite myself. What will this material become once it is properly worked? I have no idea. What will be, will be. All I know for certain is that the edict, 'nosce te ipsum' has never been more profound to me than it is now, and I feel blessed for having found a means to open a door to mind, body, heart and soul...the door is just very very heavy, and I need to move it from one place to another in smooth, controlled repetitions.

In the path of the tornado...

People come and go in our lives on a daily basis. Most of the time they are like falling stars. You catch a brief glimpse of who they are, and then they are gone just as fast. They leave no lasting impact, but you saw them and they effected your world, if only for a moment. People you pass on the street, that guy tailgating you on the freeway, the lady at the checkout isle...all brief shooting stars. I suppose one might not enjoy giving the jerk riding their bumper a glorified title like 'shooting star,' but even that jerk has his own light and whether you like it or not, he has colored your world for a short time.

What I find amazing is that these shooting stars sometimes land on our front steps, or in our homes, or even in our laps. They land and they stay. Sometimes they burn crazy hot and bright. The heat might be so intense as to raze our homes or ourselves to ash. Sometimes they shine bright at first, but tarnish over time until they eventually fade and just become another rock in the yard. Some simply endure...they land, they shine and they never leave. Somedays they shine brighter than others, but their light never goes out until death speeds them from this mortal coil, and even then the memory of their light often remains.

How can we tell when one of these falling stars will burn us? How can we tell when they will remain and light our way? Are their signs? Can we catch stars before they land? Can we alter their course? I don't believe we can control the crossing of paths, but I do believe people "fall" into our lives for a reason. I think the most important question is which will burn us and which will stay as friends and loved ones.

I look at the people in my life now and wonder who will remain. These people land in my life, they stand up, and then I notice them. Some stand closer to me than others, and some remain just out of sight, but I saw their star land, so I know they are there. They stand as witness to my life, and depending on how close they stand, they might feel what I feel. I think this is what sets people apart...most people will stand close to you when the sun is shining bright on your little patch of earth. They will stand beside you, hold your hand, laugh with you and break bread. But life is tempestuous at best. The weather can change rapidly, without warning, and that sun quickly turns to hail, wind and ruin.

Some of the falling stars will bend with that wind. They might get pushed away from you as you suffer the storm, and they may or may not return with the sun. Some see the rain coming and run for shelter. Those are not the people I want in my life. Then there are those that stand right beside you. The wind hits, you thrash about and sway with the storm, they endure pain and abuse just by standing so near to you, but they hold your hand, grit their teeth and help keep you steady. They stand with you, like a rock, and when that storm passes, they remain. They are battered, both by you and by their own storms, but they are still with you. These are the 'stars' that endure. If you ever wonder, 'Who is my friend? Who can I count on?' just wait for a storm to hit. Those who will stand with you, directly in the path of the tornado, those who will grip you like a chain and not let the winds take you, those that pick you up after the cacophony fades, those are your friends. Those are the people who will never bend or break.

I value everyone that enters my life. Coworkers, the baristas that serve me my coffee every morning, the guy that swipes my card at the gym, my friends from years past. Most of these people are unaware, but my own star has landed near to them. As I look at people in my life, I wonder if they look and see me. I wonder if they know that when the sleet and hail starts to tear at their faces that Brandon, a stranger to some, will stand with them and endure. Storm after storm will pass, and I will remain because that is what I do.

I write this for myself and for my friends. For myself to remind me that I am not alone. For my friends to thank them for who they are to me, and to remind them, I am Brandon, I am here, and so long as I draw breath, I will never leave you to face the wrath of life's storms on your own.

The derivation of 'B'

It has occurred to me that my name has become an interpretative device for my life to date. I was born 'Brandon.' I came kicking and screaming into this world and spent the first several years of life as a hyperactive little child. There was little to no substance to this kid, but he had a label, i.e. Brandon. This label was akin to labels you might find in a grocery or hardware store as it described a relatively static object...me. I suppose the label probably had more cautionary statements than the myriad pharmaceuticals we have pitched at us each day in magazines or television. My label probably read something like, 'CAUTION: Requires constant supervision, will find a way into places he should not go....even if it's locked (he can pick locks), requires constant feeding, will outgrow clothing at an abnormal rate, is needlessly defiant....etc. etc. etc.' But through it all, the big bold letters on the merchandise read 'Brandon.'



Then things begin to change...basically life's marketing and sales team get a hold of this burgeoning product and start to change it. As it changes, so does the name. High school saw the disappearance of my first name altogether. I simply became 'Beyer.' This lasted until the four years of the high school add campaign expired and I was shipped abroad to college for a market test. 'Beyer' just was not selling to the natives, so they went back to the tried and true 'Brandon,' at least for a time. But the college consumer is vibrant and dynamic, and the need for speed and brevity became paramount. 'Brandon' became 'Brando.' 'Brando' became 'B-Man.' Until finally, they tossed the name altogether and 'B-man' simply became 'B.' There were always stragglers of course. Just like fans of an old sports team that has moved. There are people who refuse to acknowledge the Dallas Stars and insist they will always be the Northstars. There are those who think of the Indianopolis Colts as the Baltimore Colts....and the same was true for 'Brandon.' I will admit I liked the label 'B.' It was representative of exactly what happens to us in college. The environment strips you down, takes you apart piece-by-piece until you are left with a raw maleable object. Just as I was broken down, so was my name.



College ends...the sales team fires out it's newest product into the world and hopes you will pay homage to father-dollar and mother-capitalism. Sadly, I got sidetracked in regulatory red tape and spent several years in the graduate environment. The regulatory team really did a number on me as a product. I went from 'B' back to 'Brandon' faster than should have been possible, and with no time for product evolution, I was left reeling. It was forced conversion from the free-spirited label, which was both processed and produced by the collegiate market, into something I was not yet ready to become. And the product...my product...almost failed. It probably should have died, and attempts were made to kill it off and wipe the label from memory. But then something happened. This "product" had been around so long it had a life of its own. It did not need a marketing or sales team. It did not need an army of cube dwellers to give it value, it was self-sustaining and progressive. 'Brandon' deconstructed itself as a product yet again, and started to rebuild from its happiest, most successful point, 'B.' This is a work still in progress, and it is seeing many iterations. There is 'B-Tastic,' 'B-Licious,' and 'B-Funk.' All viable options, but by no means the end point of this reconstruction process. I really do not know where it will end. I am working with a one-man marketing and sales team, and we are new at this game.