Winterize.

I read somewhere that Americans gain the most weight between Halloween and New Year’s.

That, and NYC being rated by Men’s Fitness earlier this year as the 5th fattest city, has lit a fire under me to get fit and stay active.

I’m excited because I completed the Begin to Swim class, and I now have got some swimming chops.  That was indeed a dream come true, and I put it to use whenever I get to the local gym with the pool.   Gotta vary up the cardio.  And I gotta wait to recharge my wallet before I take the Intermediate Swimming class.

Buuut, I’m realizing that the really big pain in the ass is that NYC isn’t really inherently a place where the general populace is active.  So, to try to find a place where they’re playing something besides just basketball, baseball or American football can be challenging.  (For more info): http://www.nycgovparks.org/befitnyc/

Meanwhile, in other cities, they’re active and engaged in so many other sports, it’s ridiculous.  Yeah, it’s serious.  Yeahthey’ve got more sporting good stores per capita than NYC, and more park space, and more green space.  But you know what?  We’re NYC.  We got it goin’ on.  And sure, NYC might not have tons of snow, most months out of the year.  So we might not be breaking out the ski gear… but, PA’s not too far away, and they’ve got fresh powder somewhere.  Upstate NY’s not too far away, and they’ve got great places to hike.

I’m gonna wait til after the new year to put my squash equipment to good use and start lessons.  But the good news is, I’ve got it.  Can’t wait to start lessons come the new year!

I’m presently saving up for this sweet country bicycle.  (So sweet!)  It’s probably gonna take me all of 2010 to save up, but I’m excited.  :)  And when I get it, I’ll be tearing up and down every road I can get on.  It’s gonna be epic.  I’m probably not going to be findable without a Lo Jack.  :)  When I’m done, that’ll free me up to save up for this tennis racquet I’ve been drooling over at Paragon Sports lately…!

Ditto for lacrosse equipment.  I’m looking forward to playing some outdoor lacrosse in the winter with some friends… provided I can find some frickin’ friends in NYC who play lacrosse (or want to learn).  :)  Man, that’ll be fun!

I want to learn to bowl!  That’s yet another activity I can do all year that’ll keep me active.  Some of those balls and bags are so colorful!  I’d love to have a bag that says “Dr. Killinger”, like Dr. Killinger’s Magic Murder bag in The Venture Bros. cartoon.  Whoa… that’d be awwwwe-some!  Port Authority, Bowlmor Lanes, Gun Hill Lanes… wherever the sweet breezes blow.  ;)  Gotta keep it fresh; gotta keep it fun.

Can’t wait to get my hands on some ice skates — maybe this winter!  I’ll inquire at Chelsea Piers, and take advantage of the ice while I can!!  That’d be so cool… and the sooner I learn to skate, the sooner I can learn to play ice hockey.  That’ll be sweet!

Gotta keep active.  Can’t go all sedentary, sleepy and sullen and pack on the pounds like everybody else… gotta keep moving.  Scheisse… I’m going to need some better cold-weather clothing and all-weather gear!  Deu-ces!!

Straighten Up and Fly Right

Just heard a story today about someone I once knew who recently got in trouble with the law.  We sorta grew up together, though I don’t know him all that well.  His kid and mine are both, well, small children.

What shocked the shit out of me is that he seems… well, destined for jail.  All because of weed, I think.  He’s not a stupid guy or anything… sigh.

But what f–ks me up is that he’s a young black guy, almost my age.  And we knew each other as kids.  And…

I’m so sad right now.

Because I don’t want be become another effing “underclass black guy” statistic.

I know it sounds so cliched, and I’m sure the world is really familiar with the whole “black men in jail in America” thing.  Now, I’m not at risk of going to jail at all — I definitely keep my nose clean.  But I don’t want to go through life a college drop-out.  I really don’t want to be defined as “another underemployed (or unemployed) black guy”.

What gets me really mad is when I meet people I used to go to high school with, years and years later, upperclassmen and underclassmen, all with such intelligence and potential, and so many black guys haven’t finished school.  Or went away to school, and are back home, working at the new local Dunkin Donuts.  And, they’re still living with their folks.

And here I was, thinking that I was so special, just “doing me”, just taking time off to live and smell the roses before I check out.  Turns out that I’m turning into just another “copy of a copy of a copy”.  F–k.

So, here I am, completing the circuit, lapping my year at age 30, and less than a month from turning 31.  And am I freaked out? Yeah, but so’s everybody else about their lives.  You don’t need to be any particular gender, race, ethnicity, culture or religion to be really scared about the state of affairs these days.

I don’t know why it took hearing that someone close to me getting their door kicked in by the police (at their parents‘ house!!!) to really make me realize that I’m living so far under my potential that I’m lucky to have a pulse and not a toe tag.

Fuck it.  I’ll work on getting internships again; get my resume competitive again.  Start really networking and helping others, too.  I’m not letting this recession — or the “black male failure” statistic — get me without a bitter, bloody fight.  Intelligence and potential are worthless without a vision and a dogged work ethic.

Lucky for me, I’ve still got youth on my side, and I know how to work hard.

Deuces.

Notes on h–rtbr–k

Sunday evening.  Super-tired.

I was just thinking, it’s funny how after heartbreak, there’s less of yourself to give.

You’re not the person you used to be.

Not as warm,

not as magnanimous,

not as believing,

not as wide-eyed,

not as loving.

More brittle; more frail.

A husk of who you once were.

It’s late; I’m tired; I’m not thinking straight.

Life is so, so, so short.  So short.  And it’s just important to love, as fiercely as possible, because one day, we’ll all be gone.  One day, we’ll all be gone; we’ll be forgotten.  We’ll be a black-and-white, turn-of-the-century picture at a Pizzeria Unos.  No one will know who we are, or the reason behind the photograph.  We’ll be ordinary people from a forgotten time, from a forgotten place.  So love.  We can’t all be presidents and major world leaders and political figures.  But we can revel in our smallness, in our being the middle-children of history.  We can take advantage of this small slice of time, this little chunk of space we take up, this very finite whiff of time.  We can choose to love, and to be loved.  To not be brittle, bitter and angry.  To not get all f–ked-up on the inside, as hard as it feels.

Dear God, I ache.  But I’m trying so hard to recover.

Some days, every step I take is agony.  Some days, the best I can do is fake normalcy.

 

Square One

I have a copy of Bill Goldberg’s book “I’m Next”.

And seeing him there on the cover, poised and ready to take down an opponent by any means necessary, inspires me.  I’ve always been inspired by guys like Bill Goldberg, like Chris Benoit, like Triple H, with amazing physiques and almost superhuman powers.

The cover stole my attention, looking at me from my bookshelf as I got my laundry from the basement.  And I realized that it was finally time to pick it up.

I thought I wanted to just get fit and get lean at this stage in my life.  But then, like a bolt from the blue, I realized that my dream was to build a truly impressive physique, like Goldberg in the day.

Does that change everything?  Sort of.  I don’t really want to get big… but then again, I’m not getting any younger, if I was. Lots of guys like that start pumping while they’re in high school. I’m still convinced, however, that I have an amazing foundation to build upon.  So, I think I’ll build it.

I’m still feeling really horrible and stuff about you-know-who, about what went down and how, and the whole matter.  I’m just trying to pick up the pieces, believe it or not.  BR was a pretty major part of what kept me happy in life; I’m just trying to adjust.  Trying to not fall into this pit of feeling like I’m a horrible person.  It creeps up on me what feels like all the time.

All the time.  Condemnation, criticism, oppressive negative.  Loss.  I feel it all.

Swimming class is really helping me to clear my head.  I’m trying to (1) lose 65-95 lbs, and (2) pick up some new activities so that I can stay active in life while varying it up.  So far since end-of-August, I’ve lost 15 lbs.  Yay me!  I’m trying to keep it a secret.  I don’t want to brag about it, and I don’t “trying to lose weight” to be the catch phrase of my life.  I just want to lose the weight fuckin’ quietly.  Just go to the gym, spend a couple hours on the elliptical trainer, four or more days a week, and swim for an hour for four or more days a week.  Later on, I’ll take up spinning, get a bike, start getting ready to train for distances and racing.  I’m not doing it to please the world; I’m doing it to not to look like and have the fitness level of a sack of sh*t.

North Star helps a good bit to keep me feeling good about myself.  She’s cool and down to earth, just what I go for.  I can’t really compare her to BR, but she’s her own self, which is cool.  The distance sucks, though, and the truth is that she could never take BR’s place.  And I think that deep down, that’s what I’m trying to do — just fill that BR-shaped hole in my heart with someone who won’t fit.  And I guess that’s what’s hard to explain to well-meaning friends — BR wasn’t just some chick.  She was my very best friend.

Everything takes time.  Sculpting your body takes time.  Recreating yourself takes time.  And healing takes time.

I don’t have the baby tonight, though I had him this morning.  I’m tired from getting up at 4:30am and starting my day, but the good news is that everything went smoothly.  I’m keeping a food journal, which helps immensely to track the different emotion causes of why I eat shabby foods.  Anyway, so that helps.

I’m trying hard to get at least 45 minutes of cardio in every day — that’s the goal.  I’m working on it, but I like the results so far.  :)  I’m loaded on energy drinks right now, so I have enough clarity to continue with my evening, even though it’s so, so dark.

I feel like my heart is a smoking, bombed out village somewhere halfway around the world.  I’m just trying to rebuild.

I’m just trying to make the mirror a friendly place to look into.

I’m trying to forget the facts, my job circumstance, my financial situation, etc.  I’m just trying to get some peace.

Got some peace today, under the water.  Which is strange, because nowadays, I’m no longer just gliding under the water; I’m working.  Working on my kicks, working on my strokes, working on staying afloat, etc.  I still love it, mind you — I’m just trying to get really, really, really good.  So the water’s not a silent place, but even so, I found peace in the valley.

Haven’t blogged in awhile.  Just trying to create a life worth blogging about, I think…

Why “square one”?

I’m trying to start over.  We’re always starting over.  But now more than ever, I’m working hard toward a new beginning.

Atonement

A thought I’ve been wrestling with:

If atonement is impossible, then guilt is pointless, isn’t it?

Quiet. (written in late Sept)

Much has changed.

It’s already been a week since I’ve begun taking beginner swimming classes at the gym, and I’m astounded at how my body is responding to near-daily practice.  I’m developing a swimmer’s build, which is really a dream come true.

I love it under the water.

Can I really emphasize that enough?  No, I can’t.

I’ve been waiting for this time in my life for so long that I’m immersing myself completely in my love.  I’m in the pool for 1-2 hours, almost every day.  I guess that that’s because I have a lot of time of my hands, but to also make up for times when I can’t get in the pool, or get to the gym.  That’s my strategy — be in the gym as much as possible, to make up for times when I can’t make it, or when the gym is closed.  Or when I’m sick, like on Thursday/Friday.

I started lessons a week ago today.  I feel like such a fanatic, because I haven’t really learned all that much in the session to apply for so many hours in the following week.  But whatever I learned, I practiced constantly.

My friend tells me that what I love, I practice fiercely, but only in the beginning.

So, I decided that even if my passion is fierce but in the beginning, I will make a fine beginning of it.

Arms overhead, streamline position.  Breathe in.  Submerge.  Bring my legs up behind me.  Kick off.  And kick-kick-kick-kick.

I haven’t been practicing arm-strokes, because I’m just trying to get strength in my legs, before I start focusing on my arms and head.  And I’ve been doing a phenomenal job practicing my kicking.  I can swim over half the pool’s length before I burst above the water, gasping for breath a little.  I love it.

I’m already planning to sign up next month for Intermediate Swimming, which begins in November.  I want to keep going.  I want to learn more.  I want to practice daily.  I want to improve.  And I want the benefits that come with daily discipline.

I’m curving back into strength training.  I really want to sculpt a physique after Jason Statham in The Transporter, that lean, ripped look.  I looked up his workout in a fitness magazine I’d seen him in some time ago, and started modeling my workouts to eventually sync with his.  I’m talking with my trainer more, and getting more focused on what I want to accomplish… which is considerable, but achievable.

Working out helps counteract the depression.  And endorphins are awesome.  :)

I started buying squash equipment.  It looks like it could be a lot of fun — and I read somewhere that it’s a great calorie-burner.  So recently, I got a ball.  And yesterday, I bought protective racquetball eyewear.  Now all I need is a squash racquet — the one I’m looking at is $60 at City Sports — and lessons.

Sometimes you’ve just got to take a leap of faith and see what happens.  :)

It’s a quiet Saturday evening.  After a busy, headachey Saturday, this is just the kind of relax session I need.  I came down with something on Thursday nite, which precluded my leaving for a business conference out of town on Friday morning.  Eh, these things happen. I guess my body needed to get sick to get me some rest.

I love quiet Saturday evenings.  No demands, no being pulled and tugged asunder.  Just peace.

A Quick Reflection

“Before that strip turned blue, I was a woman. I was your woman. I was a killer who killed for you. Before that strip turned blue, I would have jumped a motorcycle onto a speeding train… for you. But once that strip turned blue, I could no longer do any of those things. Not anymore. Because I was going to be a mother. Can you understand that?”  - The Bride, from the film Kill Bill

It’s not a blog post.  It’s just a quote that rolled into my head a moment ago out of nowhere that explains a *lot*.

Everything changes when that strip turns blue.  And you can’t ask her for accountability, because all the rules change.

It’s not much of a blog post — it’s just a flash that came to me.  How everything in life changes when that strip turns blue.  It’s a multi-car pile-up, relationships, identity, sanity, self-image, your finances, your sense of purpose, to name a few.

I’m not getting all negative… but sometimes, I can identify with Bill’s bewilderment.

Guess ya had to see the movie.  Never mind.  :)

Piano Drill

Here I am on a day off.

I’m sitting down, sweating over a piano, putting in my chops.  And I realize, it’s been near forever since I’ve sat down to a piano and really put in time.  Not just put in time until I feel my fingers cramp up, but put in the time until the work sounded good.

Am I a musician?  I didn’t believe I was, but I’m putting in the work to become a credible professional, a real one.

Let me back up.

I’m the new pianist for the children’s choir at church.  The old pianist took a walk, and the director of  the choir is my mom, so Mom put in a word for me.  After all, why not employ a parishioner as pianist instead of auditioning people and going through an attrition rate when you’ve got someone in-house?

Sounds good.  Aside from the headaches of working with family, it’s actually kind of fun working on music again.  It’s been a long, long time since I’ve been to piano class.  I play by ear most often, and I can read well, but my sight reading (being able to look at/read and play music without trying, like you’re reading this blog) is horrible.  So, that means I have to practice at home, a lot.

My sister came back to town twice in the last 30 days.  I sort of think of her as Calamity Jane, because when she blows into town, she’s a bit of a tornado of chatter and energy and disruption of normal flow and dynamics.  She’s sweet, but she can be a bit of a terror at times.  We’re 20 years apart, so we didn’t exactly grow up together, although we’re raised as the sibings we are.  When she was beginning college, I was born.

So, my accomplished musician sister came to town.  And with her she brought he musician friends — they came from far and near to visit her.  And because of that, I was able to link in and engage them as peers.  And with that came insight.  I learned that having a day job doesn’t mess with your ability to put in the hours of studio practice to be a professional musician.  I learned a lot from them, but the association with them for that short period of time made me realize that I have talent, but I just need to put in the requisite amount of work.

“You’ve got talent, baby brother.  You’ve got bankable talent.  You just need to put it to use.”

Humbling words to a guy who never considered himself a credible musician because he never went to school for music or had musician friends.  Music was just a hobby skill, something that I was always, always naturally good at, but was unimportant outside of helping the organist play the worship service on Sundays in church.

So I’m sitting at the piano, realizing that the lighting the living room on the piano side of the room sucks.  (So that just means I’m going to need to take a trip to Ikea.  Yay!)  I’m sitting at the piano, working and reading and making blunder after blunder on the piano, and working through it, and working through it, adding Tuesday practice to Sunday practice to Saturday’s practice to the preceding day’s practice.  And I realize something.

I’m putting in the work.

I’m doing what everyone else who was every good at this had to do to be good at it.

It’s not magic.

It’s not natural gift.

It’s work, toil, and the drudgery of the drills.  The aching fingers, the working until the poorly responsive pinky fingers pick up acuity, and then adding more work to it.

I haven’t put that much effort into a piece of sheet music since Duck Tales and Darkwing Duck were on the air.  And I know, because they were the shows I was missing during piano practice, at 4pm and 4:30pm.  So that means the mid-90s.

But you know what?  It’s just like riding a bicycle.  You’ve got to put in the hours.

Swimming lessons begin on Saturday.  And it’s the same thing.  Once the lesson ends, the roadwork begins.

And I’m reminded of a quote that’s dear to me:

“Successful people do the work that unsuccessful people don’t want to do.”

Anyway, that was just a flash of inspiration.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work.  As well, it turns out someone else at a different church heard that I play piano — and if things pan out right, I might have a student to start teaching in the next week or two, and consequently, an extra source of income.  :)

My sister predicted this exactly.  ;)

The children’s choir has their first performance next month, and I want to sound note-for-note solid this year, not like the spring when I was called in to sub for the pianist and began with a false start.  I have everything it takes to win, including a piano at home.  And it’s not hard music — so I’ve got my work cut out for me.

The runway lights are starting to come on in my life again.  I think that soon, I might be able to bring this big bird in for a happy landing.  :)

Starch

(written the night before; sorta incomplete — )

In the basement, ironing clothes for the week.  Listening to UNKLE’s “Lonely Soul”.

Jeez, I must listen to that song a million times in loop.  But, it’s comforting.

I don’t know if you’ve ever ironed a load of permanent press clothes in the summer, but my advice is, if you don’t have to, don’t.  :)

But, I have to.  I wear dress-up clothes to work, and permanent press sport-shirts at leisure, so that means I’m at the helm of this steam-kickin’ machine for maybe 90 minutes at a time if I’ve got a good load of shirts to press.

And I couldn’t help but think of the obvious.

My mind wanders.

Somehow, when I was much younger, I always thought that recovery after heartbreak would be a way speedier matter.  You get older, you get… better, I guess.  But that’s.. not the case.  You become way, way more tender, because… maturity smacks you in the face.  You’re not immortal, you’re not a juggernaut, and life isn’t like it is in the movies.

I remember telling Mom that just yesterday.

In the movies, in the action movies, the guy gets the bad guy, saves the world, gets the girl.  …never mind — I lost my thought.

Yesterday was one of the best days of my life.

Yesterday I went with my best friend in life to Coney Island, for the first time.  We walked, we drank, we talked, we gazed out of the pier at the rolling sea, and then back again at the people around us tending to their lines and fishing, and occasionally, someone would catch a fish.  It was magical.

We walked down to the seashore, at the beach, and barefoot and with out bags on our backs, we walked and stopped and let the waves lap at our feet.  And I felt closer to being whole than I had been in a long time.

The smell of sea air always does something to me, makes me feel calm, refreshes me, makes me feel alive.

I tend to use a lot of starch in my shirts — call it a throwback to my days at the local all-boys Catholic high school.  The shirts look almost military good.  The only drawback is that I can kill a bottle of spray starch pretty doggone easily, and the stuff ain’t exactly cheap.  :)

I used to love ironing shirts.  But somewhere around the dozenth shirt, the iron itself gets too hot to handle, in the same spot on the handle, probably a weak spot, and the heat threatens to burn your pinky, but slow, like a sausage with greens in slow cooker.  You’re not burned so much as slow-roasted.

Bath Time

Sometimes I think he and I are growing to be more like brothers.

I just had the coolest time taking the little one in the bath with me, and now, here we sit, in my Mom’s bed.  He in his diaper, me in my tighty whities, just sprawled out and tumbling over each other.

It was a moment, y’know?

He’s turning two next month.  And I know what people say about the “terrible twos”.  Personally, I’m looking forward to it — because he’s been going on his little “exerting his will” trips since he was 1 1/2.  Which means he’ll be growing out of that stage.  :)  But right now, there’s something magical going on.

He used to be really weirded out when I’d bathe him, now that he’s old enough for me to bathe him standing up.  Now, he’s starting to calm down.  Recently, I was in a situation that required I save time — so I decided to take him in the bath with me, bathe him in my arms.  And y’know what?  It wasn’t that bad.  He didn’t cry like he did when I tried to bathe him standing up by himself.  He was cool.  And eventually, he grew to really like bathtime.

And so now, today,

I can’t say I feel especially “fatherly” just yet.  I’m still living at home with my parents, taking care of the baby along with them, and I still feel as bewildered and clueless at times as when I first started.

But today I had one of those moments where the universe said,

Y’know what?  It’s gonna be alright.

This little smiling brown baby bear of yours is gonna be alright.  The planet hasn’t collapsed yet.  You’re still here.  He’s still here.  You’re both still alive, and he loves you.  You’re having a high spirited, happy moment.  And from the look on his face, there’s plenty more to come.

Just he and me in my mom’s bed.  In the background, Pres. Obama was doing his thing on CNN, giving a congressional address or something or other, looking articulate and important (in comparison to our last president).  And the baby’s wearing nothing but a diaper, and I’m in my briefs, and I’m lying on my back, and he’s sitting on my chest, looking me in the face.  And he crouches down, and gently kisses me on the nose.

And in that moment, we’re best friends.

I never grew up with a brother.  (Or more precisely, I never grew up with my brother.  He grew up far, far away, and he’s almost old enough to be my dad.)  And being the very last of my parents’ scattered children is, well, very weird.  So it’s really… cleansing to be in this bed with this little one, romping and tickling and playing like two little kids.

It’s weird.

Cleansing because it’s like a new beginning.  I don’t mean that in some cliched, “having a baby means I can start my life over” sort of way.  But, yeah.  Things change when you have a baby, and for the longest I thought that meant life was over.

But here he is, a 35-lb giggle factory, with long limbs, and as strong as strong can be.  Legs that kick as violently as when I remember him kicking so hard in his mother’s womb, he nearly gave me a heart attack.  I thought his mum accidentally swallowed a washing machine.  :)

I like to throw him in the air like a chef does a pizza sometimes.  :)

He and I don’t get many of these tender moments.  It’s a strange new world.  We’re often busy, he and I, busy getting me ready for work, busy getting him ready to go to his grandfather for the day, busy getting him home, busy getting him fed, busy getting him geared up to go with me to the supermarket or mall…

You get the idea.

I’m just so proud of him, of his gentle, quiet demeanor.  (Some babies are a real terror.  Not mine!)  The way he loves to sing, constantly. He gets his musical instinct from my side of the family, no question.  My sister’s a musician, high school music teacher, etc., my mom’s musically inclined, and I… am too.  Very much.

Like I was saying, sometimes I think he and I are growing to be more like brothers, rather than father and son.

But maybe, just maybe, for now, it’s alright.  Maybe it’ll all work out, if I just do the best I can, and just work on being the best me that I can be, for the both of us.

If I can stop beating myself up over the fact that it’s not perfect, and the fact that I feel like a horrible person for not being ready for him… everything will work out in the end.

…We had a pillow fight on my mom’s bed.  He always lets me win — he loves getting socked with pillows.  ;)  He likes when I throw them in the air and let them land around and on him.

I didn’t go to the gym today — there was too much going on.  Eh, it worked out.  I got to bathe my little one, and he got to spend some time with his papa.

Strange little thing — when he says “mama”, he says it nonstop.  Like when he wants something, anything.  He’ll say it just to call someone, to get their attention to let them know he wants to eat, he dropped his pacifier, his cookie, his sip cup, anything.  He’ll scream “Mamamma!!!” when he wants to throw a tantrum, when he wants his way but can’t have it.

But when he says “Daddy”, he whispers it.  Sweetly.  I guess that’s because I whisper it sweetly to him, in his ear, and he repeats it.  :)

So when he sees me, he looks me in the eye and squeals, and then beams and whispers, “(Daddy!)”

I promise myself I’m not going to spoil him.  After all, I’m not the spoiling type — and that’s his grandparents’ job.  :)  But man, in our most tender moments…

he’s my rock.