lower frequencies

Note: I started this post about 8 weeks ago contemporaneous with the actual event. Vox ate my first attempt. I wept bitterly, and did a partial reconstruction. I then promptly forgot about it. But it's still a story I want to tell. And you'll be pleased (I hope) to know that I've continued to improve my fitness and that The Artist has also. She even inspired her teammates to get it in gear.

Baby girl

Yesterday after over a 2 month layoff, I went to see Killer, my friend the personal trainer. The assessment, it was not pretty. I am inconsistent. My body has become a stranger to me. No longer the smoother performing engine of exercise it was developing into at the end of last year. Not that I was anywhere near Michael Phelps/Terrel Owens levels of performance. But I was improving, making progress, changing the shape of my body and improving its efficiency.

But yesterday? I was a mess. My body seized up at nowhere the limits I'd reached before. To be fair there were extenuating circumstances. During the month of January my home was a petri dish of communicable diseases. Everybody was sick, for weeks. We all missed days from work and school. In February Hell - or rather Michigan - froze over. We had several days when our daily "high" didn't climb out of single digits. Couple that with recovering from The January Pox and the mental stress of our Economic Apocalypse and I hope you understand why exercising was not at the top of my agenda.

Killer was unmoved. I'd welched on our bargain and dropped off the face of the earth (see my previous comment about inconsistency). As I'd already surmised I'd missed the training window for this year's triathalons (see previous post.. somewhere).

Once we'd had a come to Jesus talk and I had renounced my evil ways, we got to work. Grueling does not begin to describe it. Like I said, I was completely out of sync with my body. Almost immediately I was in a world of pain, straining through movements that usually were much more accessible. Killer gave no quarter and I asked for none.

As luck would have it, my daughter was there to witness the whole unruly spectacle. She didn't seem to be particularly interested in the proceedings, but afterward she said to me "Daddy that looked hard." I replied through a near death haze, "Yeah it sure (as hell) was." "But you didn't give up," she offered. "Nope," I replied, "Now get daddy some oxygen."

Today my daughter's soccer team got slaughtered. No shame really. The other team was better. In every aspect of the game. They were faster, had better foot skills, and they had a game plan. And they worked the game plan, furiously, methodically, with precision and skill. The final score was a whole lot to nothing. Our girls never really had a chance. And to make matters worse, all of them were sucking wind at the end. Their opposition? They pranced around like they'd just had a refreshing walk in the park.

Now my daughter's coach had admonished our girls at the beginning of the season to to do their own conditioning offline. She explained that because this team was pretty heavily biased with first time players, that she was going to have to place a lot of emphasis on basic skills at the expense of conditioning. She even came up with a written plan of attack.

Nobody took her up on it.  Least of all my little soccer star. My wife and I encouraged and reminded, but we left it up to her. So to add insult to injury at the end of today's game, she and her teammates looked like a group of geriatric smokers in comparison to the team that had just humiliated them on the field.

When we got home from the game this evening the first thing out of The Artist's mouth was, "I wanna go for a run." And she did. She did about a mile with her mother trailing on her bike.

Color me impressed.

Color me shocked to hear her inspiration later over dinner. I just assumed it was the humiliation of the loss. And that she needed to do something to blunt the embarrassment. "No dad," she explained, "it was you. You didn't give up yesterday when it was obvious you wanted to.  If you won't quit, neither will I."

Guess who's going running tomorrow?

 1Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.

 2And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.

 3And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.

 4Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up,

 5Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil;

 6Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth;

 7Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.

 8Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away.

 9For we know in part, and we prophesy in part.

 10But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away.

 11When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.

 12For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.

 13And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.

You may well ask: "Why direct action? Why sit-ins, marches, and so forth? Isn't negotiation a better path?" You are quite right in calling for negotiation. Indeed, this is the very purpose of direct action. Nonviolent direct action seeks to create such a crisis and foster such a tension that a community which has constantly refused to negotiate is forced to confront the issue. It seeks so to dramatize the issue that it can no longer be ignored. My citing the creation of tension as part of the work of the nonviolent-resister may sound rather shocking. But I must confess that I am not afraid of the word "tension." I have earnestly opposed violent tension, but there is a type of constructive, nonviolent tension which is necessary for growth. Just as Socrates felt that it was necessary to create a tension in the mind so that individuals could rise from the bondage of myths and halftruths to the unfettered realm of creative analysis and objective appraisal, so must we see the need for nonviolent gadflies to create the kind of tension in society that will help men rise from the dark depths of prejudice and racism to the majestic heights of understanding and brotherhood.- MLK

FULL TEXT HERE: http://coursesa.matrix.msu.edu/~hst306/documents/letter.html

Originally published on my tumble blog

Caffeine Drink & Newspaper - Close Up

Walter’s friend Max announced over coffee one morning that he “wanted to have children as soon as possible.”

“Have you considered a hobby?”

“Walter I’m serious.” Max was always serious and Earnest, at least he had been since his divorce. Before his divorce Max had been a bit too cocky and even a little condescending, especially with strangers. Now he was finding meaning in everything and furthermore he was sharing all his new found insight, at the most inopportune times, like when Walter was trying to enjoy a nice cup of coffee while scanning the paper. Reading the paper had become all but worthless what with all the newsfeeds Walter collected on his phone and at work on his laptop. But he still felt that if he got to the paper first thing in the morning it superseded that river of information in his pocket, that the paper still mattered. Besides he liked reading the local obits. There were always good stories.

And now Max had screwed that up for the day.

Walter set down his paper and took a sip from his Tall Ethiopian (2 sugars). It was still bone melting-ly hot and made his tongue go numb. The coffee shop was still relatively empty at 7:15 a.m and Walter was still hoping to catch a glimpse of the new schoolteacher from down the block who always wore interesting footwear. But he had to shut Max up first so that he could concentrate.

“Tell me brother Max, what will you do with these “theoretical urchins” once your mighty seed has loosed them upon the world?”

“I will teach them about life. I will teach them all the things my father didn’t teach me.”

“Uh huh.” Max’s eyes were actually starting to mist which meant “another laborious soliloquy” was seconds from birth, in which Max would get extremely earnest and tortuously long-winded.. and Walter thought for sure that he’d caught a glimpse of the jaunty schoolmarm approaching from about a block away.

Time was of the essence.

“Okay Max, you are going to give life lessons.”

“Yes.”

“To your children.”

“Yes.”

“To balance the cosmic scales of the deficit your father left you.”

“Well, … yes.”

“Max, do you see the contradiction here? How do you teach something you haven’t learned?”

Walter’s morning was saved. Max was plunged into a dark reverie that would take him hours of silent contemplation to unravel. And Walter got to spend two and a half glorious minutes admiring the many facets of a pair of toe-less slingbacks with a severely precarious heel.

Another year gone. Not much time to reflect what with the holidays and the economy and the power being out... yes AGAIN.... But Fear Not. With the generator, we can run the kitchen and keep the house warm. 

In some aspects it's like Christmas. Phone calls. A certain lightness, giddiness if you like. I smile at people I meet. I get emotional when I think of the people who have gone on before. You wouldn't be able to tell my father a damn thing today.

Not a damn thing.

I miss him.

I keep hearing strains of George Clinton's Chocolate City (gotta find that damn CD):

"You don't need the bullet when you've got the ballot."

"You jive and game and you ain't been tamed. But you're my piece of the rock, and I dig you CC."

"God bless Chocolate City and it's Vanilla Suburbs."

I know it's presumptuous, but I imagine that the closest thing that approximates it is what my ancestors must have felt on Juneteenth. Please allow me a little hyperbole just for today.

Cliched as it sounds, I never thought I'd live to see this.

Eighteen years ago today I got married, providing the last laugh for a lot of people. I was the one who had forsworn marriage, at least until I was 50. I was so sure of it, I'd made several bets on it.

Never paid up, because I'm cheap like that.

I'm all Endicott now. Paying the bills, washing the plates, upstanding as hell.

I ain't complaining. I got a good deal.

It's already being suggested that John McCain lifted his "cross in the dirt" moment - recounted at Rick Warren's Mega Church the other day -  from Alexander Solzhenitsyn's "Gulag Archipelago".

It would be a shame if he did. But I'm willing to allow that the experience could have happened and move on. Or even that McCain conflated Solzhenitsyn's experience with his own after reading "Gulag Archipelago." I really don't care. And I don't want to see the partisan wrangling over whether he lied or just "misremembered."

I think we've got more pressing concerns at this point. Among many other things, I want to know how he or Obama are going to handle Iraq (notice I didn't say "get us out of..." 'cause that's a pipe dream). I want to know how they're going to try and stem the tied of our collapsing banking system. I want to know what emphasis they're going to place on the monstrous rise of HIV (especially in black and gay communities). I want to know how they'll handle Iran, Israel, and Syria (to name a few). I want to know about their long range plans for a sane energy policy.

By my reckoning about a dozen people were subjected to "involuntary separations" today; cost cutting, downsizing. Nothing personal.

Sure and it wasn't. Everybody has a job to do and mouths to feed, if none but his own. Including the guy from HR tasked with doing this unenviable job. The Angel of Death I dubbed him.

Pithy, I am.

It was almost comical... almost... The Death Angel would arrive appear and the victim's neighbors would scurry to a spot a few aisles over and herd. Wide eyed, heads jerking, peering over cube walls.

Actually herd, like a group of wildebeast. As if grouping like that would confuse a likely predator. I saw fear, raw, open fear today. Frustration, tears. And in at least a couple of instances a bit of nobility and grace under fire. I saw a man praying at his desk - boxes packed in anticipation - while directly over the low cube wall adjacent to him his co-worker packed his things while the Angel of Death stood vigilant, clipboard in hand, checking off whatever procedure we use at a time like this. The praying man was spared.

The last two (or was it three?) times we did this I was fortunate enough to be out of the office. I see now why so many of my co-workers were dreading the day. Most surreal day of my work life.

Our manager called the "all clear" at 1:30 and said we could all go home if we liked. I thought a beer and a plate of calamari were in order. But I'm still numb, or something... I'm certainly not relieved.