The Creator's Manifesto

After many nights with friends contemplating and recounting our lives, emptying the daily burdens from our heads while filling our stomachs with drink, you come to the conclusion that people are more alike than you think.  Or at least your friends are. While that probably goes without saying, but it still comes as a surprise when you see some deep part of yourself reflected in someone else.  I guess it's part of human nature to close off part of yourself, lest you let your soul get changed by the world.  But there has to be some escape, and I've come to the realization that *that* is the essence of art.  In a general sense, sure, art may be a pretty picture, catchy tune, or engaging story, but there frequently can be something deeper:  something imparted by its creator.  I used to wonder why we spent time in  English class analyzing stories, trying to determine what the author intended the hidden meaning to be.  After all, couldn't there just be writing for the joy of writing?  And I suppose there can be, but that's not really the point.  Sure, some may put words to a page for the sheer joy of creation and the motive force there, but without giving those words I don't see a point.  Maybe I like games too much, or seeing layered meanings in something, but I like to find life between the words, see some soul behind the paint, or hear some heart behind the chorus.

Which brings me to the artist, and why we create. (I think I'm an artist, ego alert)  Sometimes it's to convey something to society, sometimes its for oneself, and other times for the joy in creating something (preferably with meaning).  I've always been amazed at those who can do all of this at once, while weaving different threads for different people to latch onto in their work.  Personally, besides that looming self doubt that every artist (I'm sure/hope?) has, my greatest challenge has always been taking the step and putting yourself out there through what you create.  Talking with fellow artists recently, something one said to me has stuck out: you just have to put yourself out there, not for anyone else, but for yourself.  The desire to hide yourself is a strong one.  A kind of self preservation.  It's easy to shrug off rejection or hurt when people don't know the real you, but to stand emotionally bare in front of someone twists the context.  Call it an evaluation, or judging, or whatever, but that kind of exposure forces you to take a good look at yourself, maybe through someone else's eyes, but honestly nonetheless.  I think that's what true artists do.  I won't say truly good artists, because I don't really think you can bring in qualitative or aesthetic considerations into the discussion, that's the realm of critics.  You're either an artist creating something, or you're not.  Whether or not people enjoy or appreciate what you do is a matter of personal taste and opinion.  Regarding critics, it is simple.  Don't.  Perhaps critically (meta-much) take their analysis and criticism in order to grow, learn and improve (as an artist, not necessarily aesthetically), but don't let it take the joy or light out of your work.  Not to belittle anyone, but perhaps they're critics because they gave up on their own artistic passions.  A critic causing an artist to withhold their art from the world out of fear is a sad thing indeed.  

As to why we create?  As much power as science has, I think there's a small part of life it can't answer.  The deep nagging question we all have.  And while everyone seems to have a different way to phrase it, and a different means and way to answer it, it's still there.  I think on a subconscious level that's why we create.  Sure, I'm amazed at the fact that we as a species have discovered enough about this universe to build a telescope that can see light that has traveled a longer time than the country, the continent, the Earth, the solar system, or indeed, even our Milky Way galaxy has existed.  Much less the science behind simply creating its components, or putting the thing into orbit.  But that's discovery.  We didn't create the fundamental laws of the universe.  We may have create the formulas we express and calculate them with, but we merely found them.  Like a child pulling up rocks in a stream and finding all sorts or creates, albeit it in a (sometimes) more organized and formal way.  No, creating something is different.  It's a chance to leave a mark upon the world, even thought it may be small and subject to the decay of time; there's still a joy to be had.  That's why we create.  

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

Of Stones and Ponds

This begins the first post of my new discourse with you, reader, whomever you happen to be.  I have been an on and off blogger/journalist since 2004, and I intend to see how this work shall compare to my earlier material.  The major impetus for this renewal came less than a week ago, while sitting in the woods by myself communing with nature.  I would hesitate to liken myself to Thoreau, waxing eloquently about the importance and majesty of nature while sipping tea beside a lake in Massachusets, but that seems to be the partial inspiration. Another impetus is the cathartic nature of writing itself, coupled with the fact that at some point down the road, I use these memoirs as a touchstone to reorient myself to specific points in my life.  Which brings me to the topic of this post's ramblings:

One's past.

I find I frequently return to this topic in many of my musings and ramblings, perhaps obsessively, but for this reintroduction it shall provide a fair topic.  As beings infused with the ability to sense the three physical dimensions, the fourth dimension, or time, merely appears to pass before our consciousness (perhaps my next topic).  However, at any given state in your life, you are the product of the past.  Consider, without evaluating or judging, the choices you have made in your life.  These choices influenced the past for you in a certain way that brought about the person you are today.  As a result of this change our interaction with the world changed in some degree or another, and in some way we have interacted with our universe. Approximately five years ago I attended a concert less than miles from where I currently sit.  It took about an hour and a half to get to that concert.  Had you told me then that I'd be sitting at a desk reflecting upon that moment five years later, I'm not sure what I would think.  Additionally had you told me that information, the world we currently live in would be quite different.  Any number of factors responsible for bringing about the current state of the world would have been altered, and in some perceptible way things would most likely be different.  If you don't know what I mean, go watch Back to the Future, it's alright, I'll wait.
 . . . . .
You back?  Okay.  Where were we?  Oh yes, time.  The thing about time is the amazing things that can happen in such a short amount of it.  Consider a typical Sunday afternoon during fall.  Somewhere in the country is probably a football game, and occasionally the result of a game will come down to the leg of one man.  This man will be attempting to kick a ball perhaps 40 yards or so, in an effort to win the game for his team.  Maybe you have his number and decide to call him shortly before the game.  Perhaps you got in an argument.  Maybe that argument has him rattled.  Perhaps his nerves cause him to lose his concentration, and he ends up missing the posts, and his team suffers a defeat by the narrowest of victories.  As a result, bets placed on the game go one way or the other, and the world is impacted.  Now, not every choice or action we take can be isolated in such a way, or indeed viewed in such a direct light.  For instance, maybe the kicker had indigestion because he had a meal that was improperly prepared.  But none the less, it doesn't make them any less important.

Much like a stone tossed into a pond creates ripples that spread across the surface of the water our actions spread out across the world and change the face of the future.  To that end, we are reinforced by our past and continually reinventing the future in every moment.  Right down to the smallest division of time, if such division is in fact possible.  With so many stones being cast into the water, the placid surface of that pond is a constantly changing tumultuous pattern of interfering waves and roils.  To that end, everything appears chaotic, and one loses the trees because of the advancing forest.  Remember though that the trees do exist, and every moment a new one takes root in the soil.

I had hoped to keep this brief and concise and hopefully on point, but for the time being, I see this as an acceptable reintroduction.  Here's to the planting another another tree, the cast of a pebble into a pond, or the conscious choice to take one path as opposed to another.