Orpheus Wounded

So, longer than I would have liked, but another of from 750words project, and another creative entry.

Orpheus Wounded

He was sitting down, cradling his guitar. It was a beautiful instrument, the wood full of intricate swirls, and it sounded better than it looked. He had found it in a pawn shop years ago, shortly before his fifteenth birthday, and fell in love with it immediately. Working nights at a local convince store, he had saved up enough money to purchase it a few months later. When he first took it home, he set it down to admire it for a bit before sitting down and strumming a few chords. He wasn't the best guitarist, but he was dedicated, and the new guitar filled him with the intense to play. He spent a large part of his teenage life, sitting on the edge of his bed, playing along to the radio, or spending hours trying to figure out his favorite songs. But that seemed like an entirely different life now.

He moved the guitar to his side, contemplating the years. He remembered the tears in his mother's eyes as he told her he had enlisted. He remembered the (what seemed like gallons at the time) sweat dripping down his body during training exercises. He remembered the swirl of dust and sand kicked up by the rotors of the helicopter as his squad landed on the ground halfway across the earth from where he grew up. But try as he might, he couldn't remember the blast, or the screeching of bullets as his brothers pulled him to safety, or the flight to a military base in Germany. A defense mechanism he supposed.

He stood, holding the neck of the guitar in his right hand. He remember the days and months afterwards better: the doctor explaining where he was and what had happened. He remembered certain things from the conversation "limited functionality", "newer models in the future", "a balance of form and function". While the technology for prosthetic limbs had been rapidly evolving over the last few years, it hadn't quite reached the levels that medical journals and technology magazines were in a frenzy over - well at least not for the general public. Sure, there were some successful attempts at allowing someone to control the prosthesis with their mind, allowing the person to pick up something as delicate as a grape and eat it without crushing it. But even if he went through the procedures to allow him to use such a prosthesis, well, it was state of the art, but here the art was lacking for what he really desired.  The difference between picking up a grape and fretting a barre b minor chord is significant.  There were models with rudimentary touch sensors, sure, but haptic feedback wasn't close to actual muscle memory or the feeling of the string under your fingertips.  And while he used to be able to tell where his fretting had was based on his arm position, the feeling of his phantom arm complicated that significantly.

Reaching the other side of the room, he leaned his guitar against the wall, sliding open the bottom drawer of the dresser, and removed a shoebox. So much of his life was tied up in music, from the nights he would spend on his girlfriends porch, performing his own cheesy acoustic versions of love songs, to the band he had formed in his junior year.  The music was his soul escaping into the world, his connection to something deeper, something more meaningful, a language that spoke more accurately than any tongue ever spoken by men.

He opened the shoebox, the small metal object inside catching the light.  He was feeling hollow, he knew the words in his mind, but had forgotten how to speak.  He feared that the longer he would have to wait for a suitable prosthetic to play, he wouldn't remember the words.  That the poetry that he wanted to pour out through his music would be flat, a shadow of its former beauty.  That almost hurt more than knowing he would probably never play again, the what could, or should have been.

He raised the object in his hand, feeling the metal, cool against his skin.  He had gone through the counseling, and knew the statistics.  "Just stay positive, it may take some time, but patience will help in reaching 'peace'."  Sure, but he had never been a patient man, and was stubborn enough to find his own way through this.  If he would never play guitar again, then so be it, but he would never let his song be silenced.  In his hands he cradled a microphone.

Pheidippides Bound

I am impatient.  I have numerous projects left half finished, and have many dreams collecting dust.  My father once told me that things come too naturally to me, and the contrary principle is when I encounter something that challenges me, I simply quit.  It's part stubbornness, part arrogance, and partly a lack of pacing.  Case in point, in the spring of 2002, I was in eight grade.  It was my first year at the high school, and we had an interesting algebra teacher.  He was (is?) a member of the National Guard, working as a cook.  Late in the school year, we were discussing rate of change, and he used speed as an example.  As he had to stay in good shape, he bet our class that he could out run the whole class in either a mile or two, I can't remember which.  Considering it was a class of twenty 14 year olds against a man who has since retired from teaching, it seemed like an interesting proposal.

I still remember the morning.  That third period we walked up from the back of the school to the track that had been completed a few years prior.  It was a brisk morning in either late April or early May.  We lined up on the starting grid.  He set a stopwatch to the side, and gave us a count down.  Three. I can feel the anticipation racing down my spine.  Two. Here will be my chance to stun everyone. One.  It will be amazing.  Go.  I take off in front of everyone else.  I am in a full on sprint.  I make it less than halfway around the oval before it feels like my lungs are going to explode.  

I can't remember if I even walked a mile, my mind has sorta repressed the aftermath. I do however remember puking between classes, and feeling lightheaded for a while.  I had tried sprinting in a marathon, hoping some innate talent would save me.  My hopes ran thin.

Senior year, 2005.  It's November, and I've recently spent the last two weeks in a frenzy of activity.  Nights filled with play practice, weekends consisting of working on set pieces, time between classes spent learning a dance for senior night at the football game as well as learning a new song.  I decided that the added activity was great, and started going to the after school weight lifting sessions, mostly populated by football players and the track team preparing for the upcoming season.  I told myself, you'll join track.  Get the months of practice in now.  And for that winter, I did.

A few times a week, I'd head across the parking lot to the elementary school, with a change of clothes packed in my book bag.  My lifting partner was a female friend, it made things easy because we lifted roughly the same amount, however it does become slightly awkward.  We would do the lifting routine, and then do a few laps around the school in the halls.  Usually with wrestlers who were bundled up in multiple jackets, trying to sweat off some pounds before weight - in.  When there was no snow outside, we would head up to the track and jog there.  The wind was the worst.  A clearing on top a hill isn't exactly the best place for a track.  In fact, one night that December a friend and I decided we would go running.  It was probably 8, and the lights were on.  I hadn't taken gloves or a hat, but we ran.  When I got home, my grandmother was convinced I was going to catch pneumonia.  The rest of the night I coughed, wheezed, and generally looked like a zombie.

My dad saw an ad for a family membership at a gym in town.  He applied and I turned my attention in the nights towards that.  That spring rolled around, and I was chosen for a part in the musical.  There was a meeting for the track and field team, I skipped it.  The coach stopped me in the hallway and asked me why I hadn't attended.  "Oh, well, with the play and everything, I won't have much time, and so I thought I'd save you the trouble."  He looked slightly confused, but accepted this and walked away.  The time commitment wouldn't have been that big of a deal though, I think it was an excuse to give myself an easy way out.  I continued working out at the gym until summer rolled around and I simply stopped.

It is now the first year of college.  A friend and I have convinced ourselves that we will restart the routine of weightlifting from high school.  We made our way across campus to the sports center.  We went in, and decided it was going to be leg day.  I went to the leg press machine.  That was always my favorite.  When you start lifting weights, and are doing bench press with only the bar, being able to load upwards of 300 lbs on the leg press machine and actually do it,  makes you feel like you can accomplish something.  We loaded it up.  I was going to go first.  I delocked the safety, lowered the weight and . . .  got stuck.  I couldn't muster the energy to get one single rep.  He grabbed the weight, and helped me push it up, I locked it into place.  And we laughed it off.  Well, I guess that's what happens when you don't like for almost an entire year.  We went to the treadmills for a bit and finished the session.  I never went back to that gym.

Summer of 2008.  This is the year I tell myself.  You have an awesome phone that you use to track your progress and do double duty as a music player.  I spend the initial part of the summer building on what I learned a few years ago.  My two best friends and I decide we will jog nightly.  We go one night.  It is a beautiful night.  The stars are putting on a grand display, and from the lofty Portage track we can see all the twinkling lights on the surrounding hills, as if some of the stars decided to take a terrestrial vacation.  We finish the first lap, I can feel it building.  The second lap, I really want to stop.  The third lap: "Guys, I can't make it, Keep going, I'm just going to walk."  I start jogging by myself a bit in the mornings, trying to catch up to what they can do.  As it gets close to school, the high school football team starts their morning practices on the field.  It becomes odd jogging by them, I quit.  

Okay, they're in school now, you'll have the track to yourself.  You got your dream schedule, you don't start until 10 any day, you can wake up early do you routine, and then get ready for class.  I start researching exercise plans and decide to start HIIT.  This seems like it will be an efficient way to get in shape quickly. The first week goes as expected.  The second week, this is becoming tedious.  I don't think I finished the third week.  Around this same time, I start using various dumbbells in the garage.  I make a makeshift bench by using some garden kneelers on a patio bench.  My father takes note of this and decides he also will start lifting, he sees a bowflex-type machine at a local pawn shop, and purchases it, placing it in our grandmothers basement.

While I stopped the HIIT, I start lifting.  For Christmas I get a proper dumbell set, and I manage to stay on plan for almost half a year.  I have a dedicated schedule.  Five nights a week.  At 8 or 9, I walk across the street, descend the  stairs to the basement, and do the day's activities.  During this time, I'm cast in a show where I end up only wearing a hospital gown over a pair of underwear on stage.  Thankfully for all involved I have been working out.  I feel much better about my body than I have in a long time.  Then summer arrives, and the structure falls apart.

January 2010.  I'm cast in Jesus Christ Superstar.  I find out the costuming direction: more motivation.  I begin my plan again.  I've tweaked it with new knowledge.  Things are going good.  I start out at 20 minute jogs, two months later, I've doubled that to 40 minutes.  Summer arrives, I manage to stay on schedule.  I go on vacation, and come back to a new job and more intense play rehearsals.  Priorities change.  Law school is approaching.  I'll put it off until then.

It is 7:00A.M. November 15, 2010.  The alarm goes off.  Snooze.  The alarm goes off. Snooze.  The alarm goes off. Snooze.  It is now 9 in the morning.  Not only do you not have the time to do your morning routine, but you'll have to go into rush mode to get to class on time.  You remember an article you have recently reread.  Humans being are outclassed physically in every regard by other animals besides one: distance running.  The human body doesn't cool itself through panting, but rather through sweating.  The largest muscle in the human body, the gluteus maximus, is primarily only used in running.  Narrow hips, strong knees, big Achilles tendons, all point to the same conclusion.  Our body is designed for distance.

There is a principle in architecture: form follows functions.  So all that's missing is a way to implement that function.  Balance the key needs of meeting goals but not over exertion.  Pacing.  Could I hunt down a antelope on the hot African savannah?  No, but I can go for more than a sixteenth of a mile without the need to vomit.  In the focus on the big picture, I frequently miss the little goals that I've crossed and get frustrated.  I come to a wall and quit, without realizing I've blasted through multiple ones already.  Look back to 2002 and see where you come.  Look forward to 2018 and imagine where you can be.  Don't focus on the goal and lose sight of the journey, because you'll miss the sights, and more importantly the mile markers.  It may not be an innate talent, but it's a latent skill.  When it comes to matters of the mind and body, man is both the sculptor and the clay, and the sculpting process is not easy nor painless.  However it is not without merit.  The journey of a thousand miles, begins with a single step, and while every step seems small the all contribute to the goal.  The key is patience and persistence, as Pheidippides knew well.

- - - - - - - - 

Further reading: (for those interested)

Born To Run  -  The main article 

Marathon Injuries  - refers to the main article, in application to modern Marathon runners

Running and Toe Size - supplemental information about the main article

Humans designed as slow movers - A Rebuttal argument to the "Born to Run" article

A Charge to Keep

If you were to check my wallet, you'd find the typical fare.  Some wrinkled ones, a crisp twenty, a guitar pick, some change, various plastic cards, and identification.  You will also find a picture and a small slip of paper.  The picture is not tonight's topic, but rather that rather plain piece of paper.  This is one of the heaviest things I carry. It reminds me of days unlived and in some ways sums up a great mystery of life.  For all the importance I assign to it, it is fairly innocuous.  It is approximately five and a half centimeters wide, by a centimeter and a half tall, with a thickness of approximately .01 centimeters (according to google).  Have you guess where I obtained this slip of paper?  If not, let me provide you with more information.  On the back there are three lines, the bottom line supposedly lists my "Lucky Numbers".  Did that tip you off?  How about the first line that reads: "Learn Chinese - Strawberry" with the appropriate characters under it.  This slip of paper came from a fortune cookie.
It is very heavy.

Sometimes we as people become so involved in the world, we forget who we are; how we came to be; why we are.  This small paper serves as a reminder to what I could be, and is a constant reminder to strive for what I may become.  The text on the front isn't particularly poetic, I could for instance imagine it in the form of a haiku, or a poem, but I feel it none the less as a brand across my spirit.  It has become the fuel for my inner fire, burning with the intensity that lit up Nero's face as played his fiddle among his burning kingdom.  It has become the wind that fills my sails, taking me to exotic locales.  It has become the waves that crash upon the shores of my mind, both calming and frightening.

Hard work without talent is a shame, but talent without hard work is a tragedy.

Can you sum up a person in fourteen words?  No.  Can you capture in essence of their being in as many words? I doubt it.  Can you find a phrase that reveals so much with so little?  I believe so, or at least find a way to develop a greater understanding of that individual; and those words cut to the core of my being.  I admit that things come to easy to me, I usually laugh and make a joke of it, but this undermines the importance of my thought.  I was probably the guy in high school that you cheated off of, but I didn't care, because I wasn't having a hard time, and as long as you didn't drag me into it, I was perfectly fine with it.  Or maybe I was the one that you slipped a few dollars to, and in return I'd let you look at my math project so you could see all the shortcuts in the assignment.  Or maybe you borrowed my notes, copied them and realized that you could skip class and keep asking for my notes.  Before you think anything else, know that I am sorry for what I allowed to happen.  Maybe you squeezed out an "A" on that English exam, maybe you saved a few hours calculating the volume of various shapes, maybe you could sleep in because you didn't have to go to your 9 AM; but at what price?  I cheated you out of the chance to find your potential as much as I haven't explored mine.  I've had very few people call me out on this, but I thank you for when you do.  You remind me to take up the challenges, and view them not as something to merely pull myself over, but to bound over, seeing how far my legs will take me.  Living to my potential instead of potentially living.  Remember that there are no short cuts in life, and the miracle medicine is most likely snake oil.

Why do we fear challenges?  Perhaps it's the effort involved, maybe we're content to hide under the covers when the opportunity for greatness presents itself.  Or maybe it's something deeper.  It may be easy to live within our limits, staying away from the edges, lest we find out the size of the box within which we live.  The fear of failure.  Reaching a boundary that represents the edge of our potential is terrifying.  This confrontation serves to mark off who we are and our dreams, from what we desire and who we can be.  But even these limitations are really just travesties, marking off boundaries in our spirit.  If we took the effort to reach these walls, we'd find we have the strength to scale them.  Where would be if no intrepid individual decided to see what he was truly capable of?  I shudder to imagine the scene.

What is true greatness?  The strength to scale the wall? No, the fortitude to try and find that wall.  We may recall the epics, myths, tall-tales, urban legends, plays, songs, and stories of greatness.  We come to believe that it's a quality possesed by the few.  Heroes that shaped the modern age through their efforts.  Whether leading an ragtag army against inconceivable odds, discovering some scientific principal, or crafting a beautiful work of art, we see these people as fundamentally different from us.  Perhaps they were to some degree lucky, or were shining paradigms of humanity that we could all emulate, but the fact remains that they had to take the first step towards their walls to test their ability to climb, run, and light the torch of human achievement.  We shouldn't be intimidated by their achievements, but rather inspired.  Rather than remain safe in the comfort of obscurity, we should find solace in the fact that their achievements can be replicated.

We all have our limitations, but the worse kind are artificially imposed.  True greatness is the wholeness of being we can experience if we find our true limits and expand our spirit to fill every niche.  If we learn to bridge ourselves, than we can learn to cross the supposed divide that exists between individual people.  I won't pretend that this will be easy, but that's what's exciting about it.  We can construct a future for ourselves that we can be proud of, not because it's perfect, but because we had the strength to take part in it.