"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.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
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...
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...
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
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.
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.
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