On the upswing. It amazes me how accomplishing the simplest tasks and encourage positive attitude. I guess it shouldn't because it's been a M.O. of mine for a very long time now.
The Battle With the Spiders
Ever see a funnel web spider? Straight out of a horror film, these things. Their legs are so long that they have to to fold them upward to stand or move slowly, but when they decide to take off, all those legs unfold into a hand sized scurrying demonic cluster.
Cassie and I decided to clean and "repair" the garage at the house we rent. It looked to be a pretty gargantuan task. The walls were unfinished at the garage door, leaving the inside space wide open. There was moderate organizing, but the major task was obviously going to be dealing with all of the spiders. It was infested. There were spider webs everywhere. Not the pretty Garden Spider spiderwebs, but the nasty "sleeping bag of death" kind. The web of Funnel Spiders. In no short time, the shop vac was busted out and the high whine of it's motor was a fine accompaniment to sucking the walls and crevices clean. We both felt bad about taking out these beneficial predators, but sometimes a person just has to reclaim space from nature. They can have it back after we move.
In general, it went very well. Cass and I are clear communicators and hard workers. We were able to affect a dramatic change in the garage. We vacuumed all the nooks and crannies (including the space between the front walls) and then I took visqueen and a staple gun and sealed everything in after spraying bug barrier around all potential entries. It looks very nice now and I look forward to having a dry, well lit place to work on vehicles.
At one point, I had asked Cassie to go to the store to get some packing tape (for seaming the walls) and was left alone in the middle of spider battling. This massive spider, easily as big as the tip of my index finger with legs to match, had somehow missed being sucked into the shopvac and was sitting on the floor near the wall. We had taken everything off the shelves and placed it in the center of the garage in order to better access the walls. As soon as I saw the outsized arachnid, it made a break for the pile in the middle. Folks, I'm here to tell ya, I panicked. I could just see this monster insinuating itself into our belongings and spawning more monster spiders to be dealt with later. In my panic, I froze. Yep, good ol' hardcore Jon Plueard, stuck in his tracks at the sight of a spider coming at him at full speed. Did I mention that I was between the pile and the spider? Well, I was.
The interesting thing was that while I was frozen, I was able to have a conversation with myself.
It went something like this:
"Aaaaaaa! It's coming towards me!"
"STOMP IT!"
"YOU'RE NOT STOMPING!"
"Aaaaaaaaaaaa! It's getting CLOSER!"
"YOU'RE GONNA BE TOO LATE!"
"AAAAAAAAAAA! FUCKING STOMP IT, NOW!"
*squish*
Yep, I was able to overcome my panic and stomp that massive fucker just before it went under the tool box and disappeared forever. I did not feel any satisfaction in this killing. It was a big mess. I don't know what that spider had eaten last, but it was all over the garage floor and the bottom of my shoe and it seemed that he had just left the spider version of an all you can eat joint. Maybe an Izzy's. I don't know.
So, upshot? Garage it clean, I feel better and there is one less nightmare inducing spider in the world.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
Writing is the best therapy...
In the end there is so much to be thankful for. This is something we all could bear to remember often. We are generally healthy. We have the money we need, or the opportunity to earn it. We are loved.
As you already know, I have been struggling with setbacks and bad luck recently. On one hand, it is something I know that I have no control over and it is reasonable to accept the fact that shit just happens. On the other hand, I have the feeling that my mindset determines my reaction, and that mindset is frankly, depressed.
So, where does the depression come from? Is it internalized anger? Hell, I've been angry since I remember. Why? When I think about it, I have the sensation that it all starts with the way I've been treated by society at large. Ever hear that old adage about how out of one hundred voices, ninety-nine can say that they love you, but it's the one voice that says that it hates you that you hear. Can you imagine what it's like to be unbearably sensitive? That watching someone pick on someone else can be something that hurts me? Things really get to me.
There is no denying that the world is apparently eroding. From the anti-Roma riots in the Czech Republic to the incredibly sadistic Tea Partiers that cheered when the suggestion to let a man with insurance die without medical assistance, I can see that Mean-ness is becoming more and more prevalent. Now, before those of you that are historians go down the road of "human experience is better than it's ever been, just look at the Dark Ages", remember this: Despotic behavior used to be the aspect of well, Despots. Not the general rank and file. The things I witness on a daily basis make me hopeless.
There are many ways to address this sensitivity "issue". I could turn to religion, as my Father and many of my family on his side do. I just don't feel it. If I were pressed, I would say that I feel that organized religion is really just organized fleecing and abuse. There is no real connection a higher power. I personally get no benefit from sitting and listening to a supposed expert on a etherial power explain the one true path to me. They all claim to be the "One True Path." Therefore, logically, none of them can be the one. Is it internal? Do we just have to strive to be at peace with ourselves? This is where I am envious of people who are simpler than I am. What it must be like to not be concerned with all the implications, consequences and considerations.
Here's another way. I could give in. I could start behaving in the ways that I see others behave. I could take without giving, I could be violent and awful. I could be ignorant and callous. I could assume the mantle of asshole American and live my life just consuming and spitting out children with some dimwitted, just as ignorant as me wife or worse, multiple women. Isn't that how it works? No? You could have fooled me. But, just like religion, I just don't feel it.
So, where do I land? I am loved. I have a great girlfriend who is surfing this dark wave with grace and patience. I am lucky to be the one she finds attractive. I am lucky to find her very attractive. I could write volumes about how truly perfect she is. Do I use this boiling fire of anger and depression to finally drive myself out of my hole and produce the things that I want to do? Do I stop relying on others to get to the place I want to be in Theater and Performance?
This is it. I want and need help to develop a one man show. I need collaborators and assistance. I want to present myself and this drive for communion with the world. I am literally sick to death of living this half-life. Half Lie. My integrity is not being respected by me and it is becoming more and more intense to not be doing what I feel I am born to do.
Carrie Emrich is has been cajoling me to write for nearly a decade now. Everyone that remembers me performing in Bend is surprised that I am not what I was there here in Portland. I have a responsibility there, I don't audition. I often feel that I don't have the time because I am busy earning my living. So, I am going to state my Goal.
I want to start and complete a one man show. I want to overcome the sensation that I am just a fake and have nothing of real consequence to offer the creative world.
There is a saying in Russian that I have always loved: The water destroys the rock not with force, but with constant drops.
Wish me luck.
P.S. After reading and editing this, I am hesitant to post it. However, I am not going fall prey to cowardice.
Thanks for reading, sorry I am so Angsty these days.
As you already know, I have been struggling with setbacks and bad luck recently. On one hand, it is something I know that I have no control over and it is reasonable to accept the fact that shit just happens. On the other hand, I have the feeling that my mindset determines my reaction, and that mindset is frankly, depressed.
So, where does the depression come from? Is it internalized anger? Hell, I've been angry since I remember. Why? When I think about it, I have the sensation that it all starts with the way I've been treated by society at large. Ever hear that old adage about how out of one hundred voices, ninety-nine can say that they love you, but it's the one voice that says that it hates you that you hear. Can you imagine what it's like to be unbearably sensitive? That watching someone pick on someone else can be something that hurts me? Things really get to me.
There is no denying that the world is apparently eroding. From the anti-Roma riots in the Czech Republic to the incredibly sadistic Tea Partiers that cheered when the suggestion to let a man with insurance die without medical assistance, I can see that Mean-ness is becoming more and more prevalent. Now, before those of you that are historians go down the road of "human experience is better than it's ever been, just look at the Dark Ages", remember this: Despotic behavior used to be the aspect of well, Despots. Not the general rank and file. The things I witness on a daily basis make me hopeless.
There are many ways to address this sensitivity "issue". I could turn to religion, as my Father and many of my family on his side do. I just don't feel it. If I were pressed, I would say that I feel that organized religion is really just organized fleecing and abuse. There is no real connection a higher power. I personally get no benefit from sitting and listening to a supposed expert on a etherial power explain the one true path to me. They all claim to be the "One True Path." Therefore, logically, none of them can be the one. Is it internal? Do we just have to strive to be at peace with ourselves? This is where I am envious of people who are simpler than I am. What it must be like to not be concerned with all the implications, consequences and considerations.
Here's another way. I could give in. I could start behaving in the ways that I see others behave. I could take without giving, I could be violent and awful. I could be ignorant and callous. I could assume the mantle of asshole American and live my life just consuming and spitting out children with some dimwitted, just as ignorant as me wife or worse, multiple women. Isn't that how it works? No? You could have fooled me. But, just like religion, I just don't feel it.
So, where do I land? I am loved. I have a great girlfriend who is surfing this dark wave with grace and patience. I am lucky to be the one she finds attractive. I am lucky to find her very attractive. I could write volumes about how truly perfect she is. Do I use this boiling fire of anger and depression to finally drive myself out of my hole and produce the things that I want to do? Do I stop relying on others to get to the place I want to be in Theater and Performance?
This is it. I want and need help to develop a one man show. I need collaborators and assistance. I want to present myself and this drive for communion with the world. I am literally sick to death of living this half-life. Half Lie. My integrity is not being respected by me and it is becoming more and more intense to not be doing what I feel I am born to do.
Carrie Emrich is has been cajoling me to write for nearly a decade now. Everyone that remembers me performing in Bend is surprised that I am not what I was there here in Portland. I have a responsibility there, I don't audition. I often feel that I don't have the time because I am busy earning my living. So, I am going to state my Goal.
I want to start and complete a one man show. I want to overcome the sensation that I am just a fake and have nothing of real consequence to offer the creative world.
There is a saying in Russian that I have always loved: The water destroys the rock not with force, but with constant drops.
Wish me luck.
P.S. After reading and editing this, I am hesitant to post it. However, I am not going fall prey to cowardice.
Thanks for reading, sorry I am so Angsty these days.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Swirling Thoughts
Up in the middle of the night and my mind will not stop. I am crazed with frustration. The crazy run of bad luck is translating into me becoming somewhat of a what? What? A boor? A whiner? A fucking Sad Sack? I simply cannot get over feeling like there is some cosmic plot against me feeling any sort of complacency or generalized comfort. This is a bawwww blog. Stop reading right now if you don't want to witness me working this out in public.
I cannot believe that I have spent more than $12,000 on vehicles in the last year and I have nothing but problems to show for it. I purchased a used motorcycle from a local dealership for $9,000. It's FUCKED. I purchased a used pick-up from a local for $1200, it's FUCKED. I purchased a new engine for my old scooter for $1800, I have ridden it for 5 total days, it's FUCKED. It seems that all of my bad luck is coming from machinery right now. I am so fucking frustrated. I made the decisions to go ahead with these purchases, only to find that my hard earned cash is hemorrhaging out my bank account like blood out of a hemophiliac Russian Prince.
I would love to be able to take the Love path. You know, meditate and open my mind to releasing the petty concerns of the smaller man. I would love to have a positive mind towards accepting that things do, in fact, sometimes just happen. I would love to focus on my new girlfriend and forget about all of the stupid ass baggage that the Bad Luck has brought to my heart and soul. I WOULD LOVE TO STOP WORRYING ABOUT THIS DUBIOUS SHIT.
Is it because of bad choices? Is there such thing as Karma? Did I do something that is warranting all of the rage and heartache I feel towards my vehicles as they suck me dry of positivity and money?
I want mention this: What is it with motorcycles? If I spent $9,000 dollars on a new car, I feel that I could reasonably expect many miles of use. Think about it. A used car that costs that much is categorically expected to live up to standards. As a consumer, you would probably agree. Shit, for $2, 000 more, I could buy a brand new car. I have. My ex has it, it's called a Ford Focus. It's a great car. But, when it comes to motorcycles, it seems to be accepted as just being the initial cost of owning a bike. After that, apparently, mature motorcyclists understand that bikes just cost more money to maintain. And don't fucking start with me about all of the differences between cars and bikes. It has wheels. It has an engine. It has been engineered. It should FUCKING work. End of story.
I know that this rage doesn't help anything. But it's true, right now I am enraged. My shit is in shambles, I'm tired of telling myself, "It's gonna work out. This is just a speed bump." What has that gotten me? Expensive. Broken. Shit.
Watch out for me today. I am not in a joking mood, nor will I suffer fools gladly. I am tired because when I woke up at 2 am, I couldn't go back to sleep. I just keep thinking about all the smiling faces that have rooked me. And I hate being rooked.
I cannot believe that I have spent more than $12,000 on vehicles in the last year and I have nothing but problems to show for it. I purchased a used motorcycle from a local dealership for $9,000. It's FUCKED. I purchased a used pick-up from a local for $1200, it's FUCKED. I purchased a new engine for my old scooter for $1800, I have ridden it for 5 total days, it's FUCKED. It seems that all of my bad luck is coming from machinery right now. I am so fucking frustrated. I made the decisions to go ahead with these purchases, only to find that my hard earned cash is hemorrhaging out my bank account like blood out of a hemophiliac Russian Prince.
I would love to be able to take the Love path. You know, meditate and open my mind to releasing the petty concerns of the smaller man. I would love to have a positive mind towards accepting that things do, in fact, sometimes just happen. I would love to focus on my new girlfriend and forget about all of the stupid ass baggage that the Bad Luck has brought to my heart and soul. I WOULD LOVE TO STOP WORRYING ABOUT THIS DUBIOUS SHIT.
Is it because of bad choices? Is there such thing as Karma? Did I do something that is warranting all of the rage and heartache I feel towards my vehicles as they suck me dry of positivity and money?
I want mention this: What is it with motorcycles? If I spent $9,000 dollars on a new car, I feel that I could reasonably expect many miles of use. Think about it. A used car that costs that much is categorically expected to live up to standards. As a consumer, you would probably agree. Shit, for $2, 000 more, I could buy a brand new car. I have. My ex has it, it's called a Ford Focus. It's a great car. But, when it comes to motorcycles, it seems to be accepted as just being the initial cost of owning a bike. After that, apparently, mature motorcyclists understand that bikes just cost more money to maintain. And don't fucking start with me about all of the differences between cars and bikes. It has wheels. It has an engine. It has been engineered. It should FUCKING work. End of story.
I know that this rage doesn't help anything. But it's true, right now I am enraged. My shit is in shambles, I'm tired of telling myself, "It's gonna work out. This is just a speed bump." What has that gotten me? Expensive. Broken. Shit.
Watch out for me today. I am not in a joking mood, nor will I suffer fools gladly. I am tired because when I woke up at 2 am, I couldn't go back to sleep. I just keep thinking about all the smiling faces that have rooked me. And I hate being rooked.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
If it weren't for bad luck I'd have no luck at all...
Here's an interesting tally:
Feb. 2011
Separate from wife.
Crush back teeth by grinding. Broken back right molar, shattered left cap.
Sudden onset tmj. Ear infection.
Fall in tub, plate sized bruise on right thigh.
Mar. 2011
Computer crashes, lose all pictures from the last 5 years. Not recovered until June.
Throw belt on Ulysses, wait in rainstorm for 3 hours. Bike falls over in trailer, breaks off right side mirror.
Rear bearings fail.
April. 2011
Clutch fails on Uly, rear brake pads disappear, scoring the rotor.
Buy used truck.
May. 2011
Replace front springs over night, massive struggle to correct. 11 hours.
Receive Ulysses after 6 weeks, fan installed wrong. Lose bike again.
June. 2011
More bad mojo in relationships.
Start a new style of counseling. It goes awfully. Worse than before I started.
Right knee starts hurting terribly.
Replace front ball joints after struggling with the wrong part for 3 hours in the hot sun.
Starter dies in truck. New battery.
August. 2011
Mother has emergency heart surgery.
Sister falls off wagon, says terrible shit, makes awful accusations.
Revive scooter with new engine. Mount for CDI breaks, lose bike for 2 weeks.
September. 2011
Get bike back for one day, mount breaks again. Adjustment barrel at gearbox breaks, fuck up cable after replacing barrel. Now I need to replace the outboard gear cable.
WHAT THE FUCK? This has been the worst run of bad luck that I have had to endure, EVER. Seriously, what the fuck is going on? I wish there was some reason that I am having to go through this. If I knew what it was I needed to do to make it stop, I would do it. FUCK THIS. At this point I've spent thousands of dollars I don't have and I am at wits end.
And no, I don't just focus on the negative. My mother is well, and I met a very lovely woman, whom I can say is like no one I have ever met. So, there are good things to mention, I love my stagehand job, but Parks and Recreation is starting to get on my nerve. Not my clients, I love them, but the organization.
Ever had an extended run of bad luck? How did it turn out? What did you learn?
Jeez.
Feb. 2011
Separate from wife.
Crush back teeth by grinding. Broken back right molar, shattered left cap.
Sudden onset tmj. Ear infection.
Fall in tub, plate sized bruise on right thigh.
Mar. 2011
Computer crashes, lose all pictures from the last 5 years. Not recovered until June.
Throw belt on Ulysses, wait in rainstorm for 3 hours. Bike falls over in trailer, breaks off right side mirror.
Rear bearings fail.
April. 2011
Clutch fails on Uly, rear brake pads disappear, scoring the rotor.
Buy used truck.
May. 2011
Replace front springs over night, massive struggle to correct. 11 hours.
Receive Ulysses after 6 weeks, fan installed wrong. Lose bike again.
June. 2011
More bad mojo in relationships.
Start a new style of counseling. It goes awfully. Worse than before I started.
Right knee starts hurting terribly.
Replace front ball joints after struggling with the wrong part for 3 hours in the hot sun.
Starter dies in truck. New battery.
August. 2011
Mother has emergency heart surgery.
Sister falls off wagon, says terrible shit, makes awful accusations.
Revive scooter with new engine. Mount for CDI breaks, lose bike for 2 weeks.
September. 2011
Get bike back for one day, mount breaks again. Adjustment barrel at gearbox breaks, fuck up cable after replacing barrel. Now I need to replace the outboard gear cable.
WHAT THE FUCK? This has been the worst run of bad luck that I have had to endure, EVER. Seriously, what the fuck is going on? I wish there was some reason that I am having to go through this. If I knew what it was I needed to do to make it stop, I would do it. FUCK THIS. At this point I've spent thousands of dollars I don't have and I am at wits end.
And no, I don't just focus on the negative. My mother is well, and I met a very lovely woman, whom I can say is like no one I have ever met. So, there are good things to mention, I love my stagehand job, but Parks and Recreation is starting to get on my nerve. Not my clients, I love them, but the organization.
Ever had an extended run of bad luck? How did it turn out? What did you learn?
Jeez.
Bicyclists.
Back in the early nineties, my friends and I were Gonzo Mountain Bikers here in Portland. We regularly received criticism from our family and friends for being reckless and rude. We were. Blistering down the middle of Hawthorne, heading downtown to drink and carouse. Blowing off stop signs without missing a pedal stroke, all senses singing to avoid the potential oncoming car. We were tuned and crazy and we knew it. Keep in mind that this was before the huge bike culture explosion in Portland and it was generally risky to ride anywhere but the lower traffic roads. Granted, there were a lot of people who were commuting, but it was nothing like what one can witness on Mississippi Avenue with it's bike "highway" on any given weekday afternoon.
We may have been crazy, but we were wearing helmets, gloves and athletic shoes. We may have been crazy, but we had lights and reflectors and bikes that were up to the task. We may have been crazy, but we wanted to live and while we were risking skin, we knew better than to assume that cars would stop for us or even care that we were there. It was thrilling.
Upon my return to Portland in 2007, I noticed a huge difference between the "old" bike culture and the "new" bike culture. I thought perhaps that it was just a few folks that I was seeing, but over time I noticed that it was a general approach to cycling in the city. Entitlement. Plain and simple. People on bicycles disregarding the rules of the road not in a "Gonzo" way, but in a mundane "I belong here" way.
Whereas my friends and I would blow off stop signs while standing on the pedals and scanning left and right, it is not remarkable to witness a 30 something young professional on a hip city bike roll a stop sign with nary a glance left or right. Listen, I have no investment in what you do with your time here on Earth. I could not care less. But when your choices turn into very real threats to my well being, well...
A week ago Friday a young man on a vintage white fixie blew a stop sign while wearing ear buds with no light. Unfortunately for him, I was crossing the intersection on a wonderful 1978 Honda 350. Fortunately for us both, I am a Gonzo rider who can deal with the little surprises that traffic throws at me. You should have seen his face. His mouth and eyes were equally sized "O's". As I fishtailed to a stop, he quickly disappeared into the night, surely fleeing a tongue lashing. I was pissed. But, c'est la vie, life is
too short to hold on to trivial anger. It was then that I started thinking about the differences in the bike culture that I was noticing.
So, here it is. If you are on a bicycle on an inappropriate street, say Hawthorne, east of 12th, you are an idiot and you deserve injury or death. If you are on a bicycle and you choose to run a stop sign and you get smacked by a car because you weren't paying attention, you deserve injury or death. If you are on a bicycle and you have no helmet, gloves or shoes that are durable and you are injured to a further extent because of your bad choices, well...
What's more, if you decide to do any of these things while I am on two wheels (I won't do it in a car) and in your presence, you will become aware of me in short order. No more social niceties when you cut me off, block my path of travel or are generally douche-like. It may not be my job to correct your behavior, but you will know that you are disagreed with. And maybe you'll adjust your behavior. Like. "Wow, that scooterist just came within half a foot of me, perhaps I should stop riding in the middle of a four lane, thirty-five mile an hour speed limit road like it was a sidewalk!" But, that's probably just wishful thinking.
We may have been crazy, but we were wearing helmets, gloves and athletic shoes. We may have been crazy, but we had lights and reflectors and bikes that were up to the task. We may have been crazy, but we wanted to live and while we were risking skin, we knew better than to assume that cars would stop for us or even care that we were there. It was thrilling.
Upon my return to Portland in 2007, I noticed a huge difference between the "old" bike culture and the "new" bike culture. I thought perhaps that it was just a few folks that I was seeing, but over time I noticed that it was a general approach to cycling in the city. Entitlement. Plain and simple. People on bicycles disregarding the rules of the road not in a "Gonzo" way, but in a mundane "I belong here" way.
Whereas my friends and I would blow off stop signs while standing on the pedals and scanning left and right, it is not remarkable to witness a 30 something young professional on a hip city bike roll a stop sign with nary a glance left or right. Listen, I have no investment in what you do with your time here on Earth. I could not care less. But when your choices turn into very real threats to my well being, well...
A week ago Friday a young man on a vintage white fixie blew a stop sign while wearing ear buds with no light. Unfortunately for him, I was crossing the intersection on a wonderful 1978 Honda 350. Fortunately for us both, I am a Gonzo rider who can deal with the little surprises that traffic throws at me. You should have seen his face. His mouth and eyes were equally sized "O's". As I fishtailed to a stop, he quickly disappeared into the night, surely fleeing a tongue lashing. I was pissed. But, c'est la vie, life is
too short to hold on to trivial anger. It was then that I started thinking about the differences in the bike culture that I was noticing.
So, here it is. If you are on a bicycle on an inappropriate street, say Hawthorne, east of 12th, you are an idiot and you deserve injury or death. If you are on a bicycle and you choose to run a stop sign and you get smacked by a car because you weren't paying attention, you deserve injury or death. If you are on a bicycle and you have no helmet, gloves or shoes that are durable and you are injured to a further extent because of your bad choices, well...
What's more, if you decide to do any of these things while I am on two wheels (I won't do it in a car) and in your presence, you will become aware of me in short order. No more social niceties when you cut me off, block my path of travel or are generally douche-like. It may not be my job to correct your behavior, but you will know that you are disagreed with. And maybe you'll adjust your behavior. Like. "Wow, that scooterist just came within half a foot of me, perhaps I should stop riding in the middle of a four lane, thirty-five mile an hour speed limit road like it was a sidewalk!" But, that's probably just wishful thinking.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Cruel to be Kind
I once was and Instructor in a military modeled high school. At the time, I spent a lot of time feeling bad about having to be so intense to the young men and women that attended this at-risk academy. I guess the reason was that I am very sensitive to the feelings of others. I'm not talking about how you feel about me, but how you are feeling. I do not particularly relish being cruel or mean. My youth was spent at the hands of cruel and mean young men. I have a distaste for that human capability. Cruelty, in my mind, has no real place in generally acceptable society.
Or does it? What if you were to use moderated cold-heartedness to get people through self-imposed barriers? What if intense emotion is what people need to seed new change, to motivate themselves to take more control of their own lives?
I have been blessed with a particularly loud voice. Blessed. Hmmmmmm... Perhaps "saddled" would be a more appropriate verb. My own mother describes it as "cutting through walls". Modulating my volume is a consistent presence in my mind. I try to be conscious of my effect on other people's ears. Before you bridle at me using the term saddle, remember that it is the saddle that allows the rider to sit comfortably upon the steed. I understand the power of my voice and I am thankful for the training I have sought out and received if only to use it when I actually fuck my voice up. I really need to be more careful... Anyhow, this is a story of how my voice earns me money and changes lives.
As the Careers Instructor at the Oregon Youth Challenge Program, it was expressly forbidden for me to enact any sort of corporal punishment on the Cadets. Being me, I quickly developed ways around this rule. One of the more entertaining ways was to put a Cadet in the front leaning rest position and forbid him or her from doing one, not even one push-up. I made it clear to them that I was not allowed to "PT" them and that if they did a push-up, it would be against the rules. Cruel, yes. But with a purpose. Wanna start working on your will-power? Lie on the ground on your stomach, use your hands to push your torso off the ground until your arms are straight and your toes are the only points of contact. Now, stay there until you fail. Be careful of your mug, you don't want to break your nose! I would routinely put Cadets in this position and walk out of the room.
Another way for me to maintain strict discipline in my classroom was to elevate the volume of my voice until it was unbearable. I would yell. Now, if you have never experienced a full power shout from me at a close range, you can't imagine what it's like. It is painful. I can make you wince. It is not a pleasant experience. When faced with teenager behavior that was unacceptable, I would warn, "I will ruin your day from three feet away." Then hold up my arm and ask them to stand at the ends of my fingers. It would only take once or twice with one Cadet before all of the Cadets realized that it was much more preferable to deal with the Drill Sergeants with their push-ups and sit-ups than to have your head split open by Mr. Plueard. This is one of the things that I used to do that makes me feel like a real tool. Tool.
However, whenever I meet any the the young adults that weathered their difficult teen years with me for six months as a Youth Challenge Cadet, they immediately deny my apology for being a Dyed in the Wool Dick. One hundred percent of the kids that I used to teach tell me that being in my class was exactly what they needed. That my teaching method and punitive style prepared them for success directly after high school. To be clear, I was just a part of a large cohort of people who had it a job description to fuck with out of control teenagers. There were multiple people committed to convincing these youngsters that they could, in fact, achieve. The whole scene was a difficult place to be if you didn't get yourself real. Imagine basic training for six months. It was very intense for the first two months and then it mellowed. These kids endured. Well, most of them. Out of one hundred and forty-one initial participants, we would graduate between eighty-five and one hundred and seven at the end of each six month cycle. So, when a kid tells me that I was responsible for them making the transition in to young adulthood, I take it with a grain of salt. There has to be a willingness to change in the first place and that has nothing to do with me. I was merely there to help the process along.
These days, I am a fitness instructor. I teach deep water fitness to some of the finest people in the cit of Portland. In all economic stratae, in nearly every sector of the city. From Southeast to Northeast to Southwest, I get to witness some of the most physically adept and committed exercise participants a person could hope to see in a group class. I enjoy a more than moderate success. It has gotten to the point that my pools are past capacity at an ever increasing frequency. I have new clients every day.
Here's the deal. I am cruel to them. I am unrelenting, demanding and generally domineering in my classes. I push them ahead of the second hand on the clock like a mass of dread warriors. They burn in my eyes. Daily. Three hours a day. I blister the pools with demands of forty-five second's worth of vertical running, ninety seconds of bent leg cross-country skiing or two and a half minute endurance tests of resistant application of your whole body. It is difficult. I often see flushed faces and shoulder tops. Please keep in mind that I am a certified instructor and an employee of a professional organization, with oversight and training. I give everyone appropriate cool downs and encourage safety at every turn. But, I am cold hearted. I bear no whinging and I get results. By yelling. There are moments when the acoustics of the pool building and the "bounce" off the water collate into my voice being akin to a sonic boom. When I stand on the deck and amplify my tone to full height and yell the word, "MOVE!", everyone in the building hears it and the people in the pool react accordingly, rising up on their pad of water and moving water like a bulldozer. It is amazing to witness. It is very aesthetically pleasing. I invite you to come and witness it.
So, what does it all mean? Here's what I've come up with. People need to be challenged. I once read a quote that went something like this:
"I am thankful for my enemy. For it is he that keeps my knives sharp."
I have always more or less subscribed to the attitude that suffering is path to enlightenment. It started when I was young and I read in National Geographic that there were Tibetan monks that could chop holes in the ice, soak cotton fabric in the water and then lay the fabric across their bare backs and dry them by will-power alone. This fascinated me. The concept that the mind could control the body past what "reality" had to suggest really, really became attractive to me. This is where I started my suffering journey. By the way, I have been entertaining the next phase past suffering. A willful, radical acceptance of Joy as my evolution. But, more on that later.
The upshot is this: We humans grow through challenge. Hard life either breaks you or improves you. Yes, improves. Once you've suffered through something that you thought you could not do, say perhaps, graduate from a military modeled high school that put you in the room with an insanely loud instructor who got in your face when you made the slightest mistake or this: show up at six am to be subjected to an hour of cajoling, prodding and demanding by a slightly cracked and loudly yelling fitness instructor.
My name is Jon. I am unrelenting because I believe that you are unrelenting. You may have an idea that your are capable of the type of mental toughness that it takes to not only endure, I just try to encourage that idea to become your reality. Defined. And I have to be cruel to do it. Really though? There are plenty of people who endure my "cruelty" and perceive it as something completely different.
Love.
Or does it? What if you were to use moderated cold-heartedness to get people through self-imposed barriers? What if intense emotion is what people need to seed new change, to motivate themselves to take more control of their own lives?
I have been blessed with a particularly loud voice. Blessed. Hmmmmmm... Perhaps "saddled" would be a more appropriate verb. My own mother describes it as "cutting through walls". Modulating my volume is a consistent presence in my mind. I try to be conscious of my effect on other people's ears. Before you bridle at me using the term saddle, remember that it is the saddle that allows the rider to sit comfortably upon the steed. I understand the power of my voice and I am thankful for the training I have sought out and received if only to use it when I actually fuck my voice up. I really need to be more careful... Anyhow, this is a story of how my voice earns me money and changes lives.
As the Careers Instructor at the Oregon Youth Challenge Program, it was expressly forbidden for me to enact any sort of corporal punishment on the Cadets. Being me, I quickly developed ways around this rule. One of the more entertaining ways was to put a Cadet in the front leaning rest position and forbid him or her from doing one, not even one push-up. I made it clear to them that I was not allowed to "PT" them and that if they did a push-up, it would be against the rules. Cruel, yes. But with a purpose. Wanna start working on your will-power? Lie on the ground on your stomach, use your hands to push your torso off the ground until your arms are straight and your toes are the only points of contact. Now, stay there until you fail. Be careful of your mug, you don't want to break your nose! I would routinely put Cadets in this position and walk out of the room.
Another way for me to maintain strict discipline in my classroom was to elevate the volume of my voice until it was unbearable. I would yell. Now, if you have never experienced a full power shout from me at a close range, you can't imagine what it's like. It is painful. I can make you wince. It is not a pleasant experience. When faced with teenager behavior that was unacceptable, I would warn, "I will ruin your day from three feet away." Then hold up my arm and ask them to stand at the ends of my fingers. It would only take once or twice with one Cadet before all of the Cadets realized that it was much more preferable to deal with the Drill Sergeants with their push-ups and sit-ups than to have your head split open by Mr. Plueard. This is one of the things that I used to do that makes me feel like a real tool. Tool.
However, whenever I meet any the the young adults that weathered their difficult teen years with me for six months as a Youth Challenge Cadet, they immediately deny my apology for being a Dyed in the Wool Dick. One hundred percent of the kids that I used to teach tell me that being in my class was exactly what they needed. That my teaching method and punitive style prepared them for success directly after high school. To be clear, I was just a part of a large cohort of people who had it a job description to fuck with out of control teenagers. There were multiple people committed to convincing these youngsters that they could, in fact, achieve. The whole scene was a difficult place to be if you didn't get yourself real. Imagine basic training for six months. It was very intense for the first two months and then it mellowed. These kids endured. Well, most of them. Out of one hundred and forty-one initial participants, we would graduate between eighty-five and one hundred and seven at the end of each six month cycle. So, when a kid tells me that I was responsible for them making the transition in to young adulthood, I take it with a grain of salt. There has to be a willingness to change in the first place and that has nothing to do with me. I was merely there to help the process along.
These days, I am a fitness instructor. I teach deep water fitness to some of the finest people in the cit of Portland. In all economic stratae, in nearly every sector of the city. From Southeast to Northeast to Southwest, I get to witness some of the most physically adept and committed exercise participants a person could hope to see in a group class. I enjoy a more than moderate success. It has gotten to the point that my pools are past capacity at an ever increasing frequency. I have new clients every day.
Here's the deal. I am cruel to them. I am unrelenting, demanding and generally domineering in my classes. I push them ahead of the second hand on the clock like a mass of dread warriors. They burn in my eyes. Daily. Three hours a day. I blister the pools with demands of forty-five second's worth of vertical running, ninety seconds of bent leg cross-country skiing or two and a half minute endurance tests of resistant application of your whole body. It is difficult. I often see flushed faces and shoulder tops. Please keep in mind that I am a certified instructor and an employee of a professional organization, with oversight and training. I give everyone appropriate cool downs and encourage safety at every turn. But, I am cold hearted. I bear no whinging and I get results. By yelling. There are moments when the acoustics of the pool building and the "bounce" off the water collate into my voice being akin to a sonic boom. When I stand on the deck and amplify my tone to full height and yell the word, "MOVE!", everyone in the building hears it and the people in the pool react accordingly, rising up on their pad of water and moving water like a bulldozer. It is amazing to witness. It is very aesthetically pleasing. I invite you to come and witness it.
So, what does it all mean? Here's what I've come up with. People need to be challenged. I once read a quote that went something like this:
"I am thankful for my enemy. For it is he that keeps my knives sharp."
I have always more or less subscribed to the attitude that suffering is path to enlightenment. It started when I was young and I read in National Geographic that there were Tibetan monks that could chop holes in the ice, soak cotton fabric in the water and then lay the fabric across their bare backs and dry them by will-power alone. This fascinated me. The concept that the mind could control the body past what "reality" had to suggest really, really became attractive to me. This is where I started my suffering journey. By the way, I have been entertaining the next phase past suffering. A willful, radical acceptance of Joy as my evolution. But, more on that later.
The upshot is this: We humans grow through challenge. Hard life either breaks you or improves you. Yes, improves. Once you've suffered through something that you thought you could not do, say perhaps, graduate from a military modeled high school that put you in the room with an insanely loud instructor who got in your face when you made the slightest mistake or this: show up at six am to be subjected to an hour of cajoling, prodding and demanding by a slightly cracked and loudly yelling fitness instructor.
My name is Jon. I am unrelenting because I believe that you are unrelenting. You may have an idea that your are capable of the type of mental toughness that it takes to not only endure, I just try to encourage that idea to become your reality. Defined. And I have to be cruel to do it. Really though? There are plenty of people who endure my "cruelty" and perceive it as something completely different.
Love.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Freedom
Basic Training is much like prison. When you arrive, they take all of your personal effects and place them in a manila envelope along with your civilian clothes. My personal effects were a Sony Walkman and two cassette tapes. To Live and Die in L.A. by Wang Chung and Crush by Orchestral Manoeuvres in The Dark. It was the mid eighties and both of theses bands were very popular and I loved these tapes enough to pack them with me to Missouri and subsequently to California.
After I finished Basic, I arrived in Monterey, California to begin my language training for my eventual job in the Army, Russian Linguist Intercept/Analyst. Up to this point I had not had very exposure to the outside world. I had never lived on my own, I had never been out Oregon.
The first night at my new duty station was like being in a college dormitory. We were young, excited and potentially the smartest people in the Army. There were seagulls and mist filled winds from the ocean. We could hear the sea lions at the wharf in Monterey all the way up the hill. As I was sitting in my room trying to decompress after the harrowing experience of Basic Training, I put my orange eared Walkman headphones on and started the cassette of OMD. Soon, I was dancing around my room and nervous that my room-mate would return. To alleviate my nerves, I decided to walk.
The walk started as any walk generally does, slow, measured steps down the hill into town, no real goal or direction. I remember thinking that I had no idea where I was going and that it would be a good idea to stay on the road that I had started on. It was early evening in the middle of February in Monterey, California. The weather was mild and even warm. To have come from the bitterly cold fens of Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri and end up in this seeming college dormitory paradise was a real shock to my system. Soon I was trotting and listening to "...Rain, rain. Go away. I can't stand this one more day." Then it hit me. I was no longer the terrified subject of maniacal Drill Sergeants and a bully cohort. Once the realization set in, the warmth of the night air and the driving beat of 88 Seconds in Greensboro lit my feet up in a dead run. The air rushed past my face so hard it brought tears to my eyes. Running faster and faster, I effortlessly covered the ground between the Presidio and the beach. I ran all the way to the water. I felt light and free. The music and the night and the smell of the ocean were the greatest things I had ever seen, heard and felt. If there were some sort of soul meter that could observe and record the strength of our souls, I am sure it would shown mine exploding upward into the universe with Joy. Pure, unadulterated Joy. Every stride seemed to lift me 3 feet into the air as I got closer and closer to the Bay. All the while the album advanced, "...The Native Daughters of the Golden West!" Undeniable syncopated drum punches and desperate vocals lifted me like wings. I was eighteen and I was free for a moment. But only for a moment because the Army would own me for the next 4 years.
After I finished Basic, I arrived in Monterey, California to begin my language training for my eventual job in the Army, Russian Linguist Intercept/Analyst. Up to this point I had not had very exposure to the outside world. I had never lived on my own, I had never been out Oregon.
The first night at my new duty station was like being in a college dormitory. We were young, excited and potentially the smartest people in the Army. There were seagulls and mist filled winds from the ocean. We could hear the sea lions at the wharf in Monterey all the way up the hill. As I was sitting in my room trying to decompress after the harrowing experience of Basic Training, I put my orange eared Walkman headphones on and started the cassette of OMD. Soon, I was dancing around my room and nervous that my room-mate would return. To alleviate my nerves, I decided to walk.
The walk started as any walk generally does, slow, measured steps down the hill into town, no real goal or direction. I remember thinking that I had no idea where I was going and that it would be a good idea to stay on the road that I had started on. It was early evening in the middle of February in Monterey, California. The weather was mild and even warm. To have come from the bitterly cold fens of Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri and end up in this seeming college dormitory paradise was a real shock to my system. Soon I was trotting and listening to "...Rain, rain. Go away. I can't stand this one more day." Then it hit me. I was no longer the terrified subject of maniacal Drill Sergeants and a bully cohort. Once the realization set in, the warmth of the night air and the driving beat of 88 Seconds in Greensboro lit my feet up in a dead run. The air rushed past my face so hard it brought tears to my eyes. Running faster and faster, I effortlessly covered the ground between the Presidio and the beach. I ran all the way to the water. I felt light and free. The music and the night and the smell of the ocean were the greatest things I had ever seen, heard and felt. If there were some sort of soul meter that could observe and record the strength of our souls, I am sure it would shown mine exploding upward into the universe with Joy. Pure, unadulterated Joy. Every stride seemed to lift me 3 feet into the air as I got closer and closer to the Bay. All the while the album advanced, "...The Native Daughters of the Golden West!" Undeniable syncopated drum punches and desperate vocals lifted me like wings. I was eighteen and I was free for a moment. But only for a moment because the Army would own me for the next 4 years.
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