I haven't written for awhile, and I have some excuses.
One is that I got depressed. I interviewed for and subsequently failed to get a writing-related job-of-my-dreams. This failure, punctuated by two months of unemployment and living off savings, led to many days spent eating Top Ramen and contemplating my existence. My caloric consumption and mental gymnastics made writing much less appealing than sleep.
The other excuse is that my dog died. No, not Hondo, but Chopstick, my dear pug of 13 years. In what can now go on record as the Worst Day of my Life, Chopstick went from a happy-go-lucky, snorting mass of food-begging happiness to a stiff, seizure stricken old dog, and finally to a soft, lifeless lump of fur lying on a sad carpet in the vet's office.
I wasn't really prepared for how awful the death of a pet could be, nor was I ready to be faced with the notion that it was my fault--we had her put to sleep. Grief, accompanying guilt (for having killed my dog) and shame (for being so sad about a dog), caused me to once again refuse to write. In addition, I felt like I needed to write something epic commemorating the life of my dog. Of course, never having been much of a clutch player, I cracked under pressure and instead of writing, resumed my life of Ramen consumption, minus the contemplation plus reality t.v.
And now, a couple of months later, I find myself not only employed but also registered for grad school in the fall. The thought of Ramen makes me want to vomit and reality television has somehow lost it's appeal (who knew...?). I am also running again, which takes up a lot of my time. I think it's safe to say I am sane again, at least for the time being, which means it's only proper to resume the writing life (hopefully Hondo will be up for a blog or two now and then as well...did I say I was sane?).
So yay for me. I'm back.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Best of the Best
Best of the Best was a favorite movie when we were growing up, my brother, sister, and I carefully watching all the karate moves until we could mimic them perfectly.
The plot of the movie is pretty simple. Ponytailed Main Guy is a martial artist who doesn't want to fight anymore. That is, until his kid brother is brutally beaten and killed in a match with Guy with a Chip on His Shoulder. Main Guy plots revenge and joins the U.S. team in hopes of meeting Chipped Shoulder and settling the score once and for all. All the while, he and his teammates are journey to see who truly is Best of the Best, in the tournament and in real life.
The movie culminates in the last fight of the tournament, where Main Guy squares off against Chipped Shoulder. As Main Guy is busy pummeling Chipped Shoulder, he spots Chipped Shoulder's younger brother. Nothing more than a teenager, the boy looks on helplessly as Chipped Shoulder, obviously his hero, is walloped to near-death by a guy with a ponytail (Main Guy). As Main Guy readies himself to deal the final, deadly blow that will end it all and prove him the best fighter around, he hesitates. He can't do it! He can't take another guy's brother away. I mean, after all, he of all people knows what that's like. His integrity has saved Chipped Shoulder, but lost Team U.S.A. and himself the title.
After the match, Team Korea somberly accepts their medals while team U.S.A. stands proudly by. But wait! There is some movement in the lineup of Team Korea. Team U.S.A. looks up in surprise as Chipped Shoulder makes his way over to Main Guy. Chipped shoulder walks with a crutch, his eye purple and sealed shut, dried blood crusted in the corners of his face. When he reaches Main Guy, Chipped Shoulder, with great struggle, removes his own medal and places it ceremonially over Main Guy's head. You can see that Chipped Shoulder is getting emotional. He raises his hand and places it on Main Guy's shoulder saying in accented English, I am sorry for what I have done. Please accept me as your brother. Wowza! Right to the heart, Chipped Shoulder. Upon seeing this great gesture, the remaining members of Team Korea approach, placing their own medals on Team U.S.A.
Moral of the story: integrity and good character win out over evil. Thus, the title of the movie Best of the Best is really a double entendre, in which the "best of the best" could be the people who win the medals. Or, more poignantly, the "best of the best" are the people with the greatest character. I love martial arts movies from the 80's!
So in the end, what can we learn from this harrowing, albeit cheesy and formulaic, archetype of classic 80's martial arts cinematography?
Well, it got me thinking. In a way, my own personal Martial Arts Tournament of Life, [aka My Job Hunt aka Search for Life's Meaning] is a test similar to that of the ponytailed Main Guy. Much like Main Guy labored to perfect his skill as a fighter, over the last three years, I've put my heart into achieving my career goals But putting effort into anything begs the question why?
Why train for any sport? Or, in my case, why look for a job? What's its purpose? Well, certainly a job provides money. It provides a level of security. But other things do that, too. The lottery, for one. The Mafia. Even a good Sugar Daddy will do the trick. So why a job?
My theory is that we work because, among other things, it gives us purpose. And I think our purpose on earth is to become better people--stronger, more willing to forgive, more apt to help, more inclined to do the right thing even when it's difficult. And a job, any job really, helps us do just that. It is a thing that requires our time, concentration, and effort. And those things required by a job in and of themselves demand that we go beyond our natural inclinations, that we strengthen and stretch and challenge ourselves.
So I realize that I've been going about this all wrong. I've been looking for a job so that I can make money and not feel like such a loser. But if the purpose of a job is to build character, then what is stopping me from building my character right now, exactly where I'm at? To me, this is revolutionary.
And trust me, there is nothing more character building than rejection. Sure, it's easy to be a swell person when things are going your way. When you have a job, when people like you, when your brother was not killed by a man with a chip on his shoulder--it's easy to be friendly and kind and treat others with respect. But the truth is that most of the time, for most of us, things aren't going to go right. You won't get that job, someone somewhere will dislike you, and some metaphorical chipped shouldered person will always be out to get you. Bad things will happen, and that's just the way it is.
A person of character is someone who displays grace despite it all. Who is thankful when they have a lot and thankful when they have little. A person of character knows how to be content when things are good and when things aren't so good. And this is the kind of person I want to be, job or no job. And I am thankful for this time of testing and even thankful for all the rejection. The trials and struggles of life are ultimately what make us stronger and, in the long run, the challenges we face and overcome are what make life worth living. Like gold is refined in the fire, so our character is made better through adversity.
So at the end of the day, I don't want to be the kind of person who runs and hides from a little defeat. A wise man once said to me that nothing worthwhile is ever easy--and as the tag line from Best of the Best so eloquently states, There's a kind of inner strength you never know you have...until it's ALL you have.
Bring on the next round of unemployment! I'm ready for it.
The plot of the movie is pretty simple. Ponytailed Main Guy is a martial artist who doesn't want to fight anymore. That is, until his kid brother is brutally beaten and killed in a match with Guy with a Chip on His Shoulder. Main Guy plots revenge and joins the U.S. team in hopes of meeting Chipped Shoulder and settling the score once and for all. All the while, he and his teammates are journey to see who truly is Best of the Best, in the tournament and in real life.
The movie culminates in the last fight of the tournament, where Main Guy squares off against Chipped Shoulder. As Main Guy is busy pummeling Chipped Shoulder, he spots Chipped Shoulder's younger brother. Nothing more than a teenager, the boy looks on helplessly as Chipped Shoulder, obviously his hero, is walloped to near-death by a guy with a ponytail (Main Guy). As Main Guy readies himself to deal the final, deadly blow that will end it all and prove him the best fighter around, he hesitates. He can't do it! He can't take another guy's brother away. I mean, after all, he of all people knows what that's like. His integrity has saved Chipped Shoulder, but lost Team U.S.A. and himself the title.
After the match, Team Korea somberly accepts their medals while team U.S.A. stands proudly by. But wait! There is some movement in the lineup of Team Korea. Team U.S.A. looks up in surprise as Chipped Shoulder makes his way over to Main Guy. Chipped shoulder walks with a crutch, his eye purple and sealed shut, dried blood crusted in the corners of his face. When he reaches Main Guy, Chipped Shoulder, with great struggle, removes his own medal and places it ceremonially over Main Guy's head. You can see that Chipped Shoulder is getting emotional. He raises his hand and places it on Main Guy's shoulder saying in accented English, I am sorry for what I have done. Please accept me as your brother. Wowza! Right to the heart, Chipped Shoulder. Upon seeing this great gesture, the remaining members of Team Korea approach, placing their own medals on Team U.S.A.
Moral of the story: integrity and good character win out over evil. Thus, the title of the movie Best of the Best is really a double entendre, in which the "best of the best" could be the people who win the medals. Or, more poignantly, the "best of the best" are the people with the greatest character. I love martial arts movies from the 80's!
So in the end, what can we learn from this harrowing, albeit cheesy and formulaic, archetype of classic 80's martial arts cinematography?
Well, it got me thinking. In a way, my own personal Martial Arts Tournament of Life, [aka My Job Hunt aka Search for Life's Meaning] is a test similar to that of the ponytailed Main Guy. Much like Main Guy labored to perfect his skill as a fighter, over the last three years, I've put my heart into achieving my career goals But putting effort into anything begs the question why?
Why train for any sport? Or, in my case, why look for a job? What's its purpose? Well, certainly a job provides money. It provides a level of security. But other things do that, too. The lottery, for one. The Mafia. Even a good Sugar Daddy will do the trick. So why a job?
My theory is that we work because, among other things, it gives us purpose. And I think our purpose on earth is to become better people--stronger, more willing to forgive, more apt to help, more inclined to do the right thing even when it's difficult. And a job, any job really, helps us do just that. It is a thing that requires our time, concentration, and effort. And those things required by a job in and of themselves demand that we go beyond our natural inclinations, that we strengthen and stretch and challenge ourselves.
So I realize that I've been going about this all wrong. I've been looking for a job so that I can make money and not feel like such a loser. But if the purpose of a job is to build character, then what is stopping me from building my character right now, exactly where I'm at? To me, this is revolutionary.
And trust me, there is nothing more character building than rejection. Sure, it's easy to be a swell person when things are going your way. When you have a job, when people like you, when your brother was not killed by a man with a chip on his shoulder--it's easy to be friendly and kind and treat others with respect. But the truth is that most of the time, for most of us, things aren't going to go right. You won't get that job, someone somewhere will dislike you, and some metaphorical chipped shouldered person will always be out to get you. Bad things will happen, and that's just the way it is.
A person of character is someone who displays grace despite it all. Who is thankful when they have a lot and thankful when they have little. A person of character knows how to be content when things are good and when things aren't so good. And this is the kind of person I want to be, job or no job. And I am thankful for this time of testing and even thankful for all the rejection. The trials and struggles of life are ultimately what make us stronger and, in the long run, the challenges we face and overcome are what make life worth living. Like gold is refined in the fire, so our character is made better through adversity.
So at the end of the day, I don't want to be the kind of person who runs and hides from a little defeat. A wise man once said to me that nothing worthwhile is ever easy--and as the tag line from Best of the Best so eloquently states, There's a kind of inner strength you never know you have...until it's ALL you have.
Bring on the next round of unemployment! I'm ready for it.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Gym-Bob
As a 100-somethingish pound girl in her 20's, it's always a little intimidating walking into a gym full of thick-necked beefmonkeys doing squats and assaulting poor tires with sledgehammers in homage to the Cross Fit gods. But, in the name of fitness and the dream of rock-hard abs (HA!), I (bench)press on. Pun intended.
My usual strategy of wearing what I call a "man deflector"--a thin metal band, purchased in bulk from Walmart and vaguely resembling a wedding ring, has been hit and miss to say the least. So to the deflection package, I have added the ensemble cast of headphones, baggy clothes, and stern expression.
However, over the weekend I worked out with my friend, so instead of headphones, we chatted and laughed, as one would expect to do when working out with your best friend of over 15 years. Unfortunately, our lack of headphones and other man-deflecting accessories made us prime targets for the hungry monkeys to come impose their beefiest of wisdom upon us. "Uh, you know ladies," says the pencil-legged, potbellied gent with the bandanna, "the moves you are doing...are those from Cross Fit? Because I...[hee haw, hee haw, insert some sort of monkey verbiage...]" For gods sake, beefmonkeys--leave us be! But of course, being the nice ladies that we are, we smiled and nodded, until he finally left us to our business of performing squats with the 25lb bar.
A few sets later, and a Graying Soul Patch Monkey approaches us. "Yo", he rubs his nose with his thumb and glances around conspiratorially. "Yo ladies, what did that guy say to you?" Referring of course to Senor Bandanna. "I only ask because he is always giving advice, but he doesn't know what he's talking about. Now, I don't want to bug you, but when you are doing squats [hee haw...I was studying sports medicine in '82...hee hawwwwww....]" Again, we smile and nod, until we make our escape to a small stretching room adjacent to the weight room. Surely we are safe here!!
Not so the wicked. "Hey, hey ladies?" Soul Patch. "I don't mean to bug you, but...[rah rah, sis-boom-monkey-speak for 5 minutes]..."
And sure enough, two minutes later. "Excuse me, can I...[woooooooonkaaaaaaaaaaahh...]" Soul Patch. Again!
GOOD GOD.
Needless to say, we left the gym that day with a wealth of knowledge on some sort of ancient monkey ritual. But more importantly, we left with a keen desire to hone our skills of man deflection. I am thinking of adding some sort of nun habit to my deflecting arsenal. Or perhaps purchasing some sort of...man suit. At any rate, let this be a lesson to all you beefcakes out there: if I don't ask for help, I don't want it. And if you ask me if I want help? Yes definitely means no.
Peace out (B-town)
My usual strategy of wearing what I call a "man deflector"--a thin metal band, purchased in bulk from Walmart and vaguely resembling a wedding ring, has been hit and miss to say the least. So to the deflection package, I have added the ensemble cast of headphones, baggy clothes, and stern expression.
However, over the weekend I worked out with my friend, so instead of headphones, we chatted and laughed, as one would expect to do when working out with your best friend of over 15 years. Unfortunately, our lack of headphones and other man-deflecting accessories made us prime targets for the hungry monkeys to come impose their beefiest of wisdom upon us. "Uh, you know ladies," says the pencil-legged, potbellied gent with the bandanna, "the moves you are doing...are those from Cross Fit? Because I...[hee haw, hee haw, insert some sort of monkey verbiage...]" For gods sake, beefmonkeys--leave us be! But of course, being the nice ladies that we are, we smiled and nodded, until he finally left us to our business of performing squats with the 25lb bar.
A few sets later, and a Graying Soul Patch Monkey approaches us. "Yo", he rubs his nose with his thumb and glances around conspiratorially. "Yo ladies, what did that guy say to you?" Referring of course to Senor Bandanna. "I only ask because he is always giving advice, but he doesn't know what he's talking about. Now, I don't want to bug you, but when you are doing squats [hee haw...I was studying sports medicine in '82...hee hawwwwww....]" Again, we smile and nod, until we make our escape to a small stretching room adjacent to the weight room. Surely we are safe here!!
Not so the wicked. "Hey, hey ladies?" Soul Patch. "I don't mean to bug you, but...[rah rah, sis-boom-monkey-speak for 5 minutes]..."
And sure enough, two minutes later. "Excuse me, can I...[woooooooonkaaaaaaaaaaahh...]" Soul Patch. Again!
GOOD GOD.
Needless to say, we left the gym that day with a wealth of knowledge on some sort of ancient monkey ritual. But more importantly, we left with a keen desire to hone our skills of man deflection. I am thinking of adding some sort of nun habit to my deflecting arsenal. Or perhaps purchasing some sort of...man suit. At any rate, let this be a lesson to all you beefcakes out there: if I don't ask for help, I don't want it. And if you ask me if I want help? Yes definitely means no.
Peace out (B-town)
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Golden Oldies.
Ay Dios Mio
Sheesh. This is certainly an odd week.
It sounds cold hearted to say, so please don't misread me...its not as though I am immune to death. I am sad, listless and almost without hope, but still...odd.
Death is odd.
When thinking about the short span of human life, the all-important blip appearing somewhere within the vast expanse of time, all I can really come up with is...odd. Odd that I am a thinking, feeling human being with all my loves and trials and jokes and tragedies, the things that encompass my days, the moods that wax and wane, the people which whom I share all of these changes...it seems odd that one thing--namely, something as insignificant as DEATH, which is, really, little more than the stopping of breath, the lurched reaction of tissue and muscle and bone to some change within the harmony of normal bodily functioning--has the power to end it all . This one thing, this one change, signals the end of all the things I have ever known and ushers in beyond my will the beginning of all things unknown. If that even makes sense at all.
Since Mike died it feels as though my once sunny days (read: ignorant days) are now obstructed by the presence of something dark and ominous lurking just beyond the periphery. Like in a horror film where the children are playing and laughing or the adults are cooking dinner or making love only the be interrupted by a presence, a sudden shift in atmosphere or music or lighting that signals to the audience that something terrible is about to occur.
And now this?
But I was never all that happy anyways. It's just that now that I have discovered death, not as something distant and able to be ignored, but as something always and irrepressibly with me, I have validation for my constant worry, for the fluttering in my stomach when I think of a future beyond career, marriage, retirement.
I don't want it to end there for him. I want to be there in that moment to be an intervening force, to stop time and rush back to that elusive place "before it was too late". I would put out my hand and save. SAVE. I would stop it before it happened. Before the tears. Before the grief, the suspicion. Before the inevitable regret. Or if I couldn't stop it, maybe I could postpone it, get some explanation, some words that might comfort. And I would carry them off to his mother and father and place the comfort in their laps and say See? See here? There is hope. It is not over, it is not sad...
The worst thing is knowing beyond a doubt that what's done is done.
Or, if you believe John Donne..."death be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful, for though art not so...death, thou hast died."
The death of death. Resurrection? In order to end "death", there must be a death? In order for others to live, some must die? In order for one son to live, another must die?
How must Mary have felt, to know that the death of her son would be life to many? It seems...odd.
Again, it has been an odd week.
Peace of Christ be with you.
Sheesh. This is certainly an odd week.
It sounds cold hearted to say, so please don't misread me...its not as though I am immune to death. I am sad, listless and almost without hope, but still...odd.
Death is odd.
When thinking about the short span of human life, the all-important blip appearing somewhere within the vast expanse of time, all I can really come up with is...odd. Odd that I am a thinking, feeling human being with all my loves and trials and jokes and tragedies, the things that encompass my days, the moods that wax and wane, the people which whom I share all of these changes...it seems odd that one thing--namely, something as insignificant as DEATH, which is, really, little more than the stopping of breath, the lurched reaction of tissue and muscle and bone to some change within the harmony of normal bodily functioning--has the power to end it all . This one thing, this one change, signals the end of all the things I have ever known and ushers in beyond my will the beginning of all things unknown. If that even makes sense at all.
Since Mike died it feels as though my once sunny days (read: ignorant days) are now obstructed by the presence of something dark and ominous lurking just beyond the periphery. Like in a horror film where the children are playing and laughing or the adults are cooking dinner or making love only the be interrupted by a presence, a sudden shift in atmosphere or music or lighting that signals to the audience that something terrible is about to occur.
And now this?
But I was never all that happy anyways. It's just that now that I have discovered death, not as something distant and able to be ignored, but as something always and irrepressibly with me, I have validation for my constant worry, for the fluttering in my stomach when I think of a future beyond career, marriage, retirement.
I don't want it to end there for him. I want to be there in that moment to be an intervening force, to stop time and rush back to that elusive place "before it was too late". I would put out my hand and save. SAVE. I would stop it before it happened. Before the tears. Before the grief, the suspicion. Before the inevitable regret. Or if I couldn't stop it, maybe I could postpone it, get some explanation, some words that might comfort. And I would carry them off to his mother and father and place the comfort in their laps and say See? See here? There is hope. It is not over, it is not sad...
The worst thing is knowing beyond a doubt that what's done is done.
Or, if you believe John Donne..."death be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful, for though art not so...death, thou hast died."
The death of death. Resurrection? In order to end "death", there must be a death? In order for others to live, some must die? In order for one son to live, another must die?
How must Mary have felt, to know that the death of her son would be life to many? It seems...odd.
Again, it has been an odd week.
Peace of Christ be with you.
Love and Some Verses
I am making another pact with myself to write regularly. I have done this way too many times over the years...but I guess I'll stop when I'm dead. Or when I actually start writing regularly (my bets are on death).
I've been thinking a lot about love lately. Concerning love, people seem to have a lot to talk about, but little to say. Love and some verses. Love's labors lost. Love won't pay the rent. And no one's gonna buy the cow if they're getting the milk for free (thanks, Mom).
What is love? An emotion? A feeling? If that's the case, I've been in love a thousand times over. Members of boy bands. Christian Bale in Newsies. The handsome boy studying for finals at Starbucks. I've loved professors, mothers, fireman, freshmen. I've loved a multitude of folks whom I've admired and imagined and known and not known. But what are those loves? What are they made of? Of what substance are they? They fade, faded, and will fade. They will shift and lope (but never E-lope). They will rise and dive. They will cloud and reappear in the form of something else.
If love is emotion, we are all grasping at banners.
Or is love a choice? Is it an action? Is it a calculated decision, a maneuver to capture a fleeting emotion and give it permanence? If this is the case, then what about all those nice boys in my life--you know the ones. The ones whose moms taught them right, whose parents stayed together through thick and thin, who knew how to buy flowers and cook dinners for no reason. How to pack my lunch with a note in it and to pick me up from work and tell me I look pretty and make me chocolates from scratch (yes this really happened). The boys who wined and dined and covered me with love and so spoke so comfortably and sweetly about our future together. What about them? Why didn't I love them? Why couldn't I love them? If love is a choice, why can't I choose it wisely?
Instead, I choose the boys who are smart and artsy and individuals. The boys with futures that stretch a million miles in countless directions with futures that move every-which-way--except for the way that includes me. The minimal effort boys. The ones who are nice at first and then forget. The ones who are so limitless in every way except for one. And that is in loving me. Their hearts are big, but not big enough. No ring or planning or shared dreams. No willingness to change. No hope for commitment. No dinners for no reason.
No chocolates.
I always love the wrong boys. I love 'em bad and I love 'em noncommittal.
I have got to stop, and I think I will. Because maybe love is a choice. And having fun together and sharing hobbies will not make a lifelong partnership work. Shared commitment, shared goals, shared work ethic. Shared choice. Both partners need to choose to love, and I am tired of flying solo. No more bad boys for me (sorry, Fonz)
I've been thinking a lot about love lately. Concerning love, people seem to have a lot to talk about, but little to say. Love and some verses. Love's labors lost. Love won't pay the rent. And no one's gonna buy the cow if they're getting the milk for free (thanks, Mom).
What is love? An emotion? A feeling? If that's the case, I've been in love a thousand times over. Members of boy bands. Christian Bale in Newsies. The handsome boy studying for finals at Starbucks. I've loved professors, mothers, fireman, freshmen. I've loved a multitude of folks whom I've admired and imagined and known and not known. But what are those loves? What are they made of? Of what substance are they? They fade, faded, and will fade. They will shift and lope (but never E-lope). They will rise and dive. They will cloud and reappear in the form of something else.
If love is emotion, we are all grasping at banners.
Or is love a choice? Is it an action? Is it a calculated decision, a maneuver to capture a fleeting emotion and give it permanence? If this is the case, then what about all those nice boys in my life--you know the ones. The ones whose moms taught them right, whose parents stayed together through thick and thin, who knew how to buy flowers and cook dinners for no reason. How to pack my lunch with a note in it and to pick me up from work and tell me I look pretty and make me chocolates from scratch (yes this really happened). The boys who wined and dined and covered me with love and so spoke so comfortably and sweetly about our future together. What about them? Why didn't I love them? Why couldn't I love them? If love is a choice, why can't I choose it wisely?
Instead, I choose the boys who are smart and artsy and individuals. The boys with futures that stretch a million miles in countless directions with futures that move every-which-way--except for the way that includes me. The minimal effort boys. The ones who are nice at first and then forget. The ones who are so limitless in every way except for one. And that is in loving me. Their hearts are big, but not big enough. No ring or planning or shared dreams. No willingness to change. No hope for commitment. No dinners for no reason.
No chocolates.
I always love the wrong boys. I love 'em bad and I love 'em noncommittal.
I have got to stop, and I think I will. Because maybe love is a choice. And having fun together and sharing hobbies will not make a lifelong partnership work. Shared commitment, shared goals, shared work ethic. Shared choice. Both partners need to choose to love, and I am tired of flying solo. No more bad boys for me (sorry, Fonz)
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