Learning to walk.
Journal Entry: Mon Aug 27, 2007, 11:28 AM
- Mood:
Neutral - Listening to: EZ listening, office elevator music
- Reading: PENNDOT "Motorcycle Operator Manual"
- Watching: Heroes, soon enough
- Playing: Lord Of The Rings Online
- Eating: Grapes and Strawberries
- Drinking: Captain Morgan's Parrot Bay Waverunner
I don’t have a very good long-term memory when it comes to past events in my life. I tend to have rolled through them in a semi-clouded state at any given stage, and though I often sucked in details as needed to get through any particular part, they must have become unnecessary once I passed that stage. I tend to think in extremes when it comes to my past- remembering most the cream off of the top- but also the hottest coals from the bottom of the biggest fires. The latter happens only when a severe negative issue has taken place and I’ve successfully battled my way through it- sacrificing something serious along the way. I don’t know if this tendency is nature or nurture, but I sure as hell hope that some day I’ll figure it out.
In countless difficult times, I’ve called on my past memories of better times to keep me sane. Many of these memories represent only a very small length of time, but were very significant. Most were beautiful, peaceful, and satisfying beyond all measure, and I still pull them out when needed.
One memory is only thirty seconds of a 250 mile bicycle ride that spanned a week, took me through the Appalachian Mountains in Northern Pennsylvania, across the Delaware River, through Northern New Jersey, into New York City, and back again. The late August weather had been hot the first three days of the trip. This was particularly difficult because it isn’t until late in the second day that you really start hitting a stride and rhythm for the overall ride. The third morning was cooler, having suffered the onslaught of a nighttime thunder storm brought on by an apparent cool front. The sky was a medium overcast- just enough to keep the sun glaring from the dawn horizon, and steam from forming on the wet roads. A cool breeze blew at about five miles per hour at our heads, as we ascended a long Appalachian hill to an unseen summit.
I enjoyed riding tours because of the surprises you find while traveling. You are forced to face the good with the bad- the downhill and the uphill, the heat of the open road and the cool of a water-side forest road. The good was always better than the bad- and a few good moments were all that were needed for a fulfilling ride through hell.
I had been beating the pedals at a pretty good rate up a long hill, hoping for a nice steady downhill for over a half hour, when the terrain suddenly began to suggest an even longer and steeper uphill section than I had estimated. My mood sank as I started to modify my rhythm for even more endurance rather than pace, and began feeling my legs and arms burn from the extended push to the top. Only a few moments later- as though a bagpiper was calling me from a distance into battle at the top of some Scottish mountain- I pushed with a superhuman fervor of strength and determination that I didn’t know I contained. I flipped my self-recorded tape of 80’s hits in the Walkman, and began to prepare for victory over this asphalt bump with the likes of U2, Foreigner, and Van Halen. The gears were switched to a tighter count; I got back out of the seat, to the top of the handlebar drops, and started pumping the bike like I owned it again.
My riding partner and I seemed to have had the same transmutation at the same time, as he was once again starting to match pace, and we silently stalked the summit as attackers to their victim. Alan must have been in a funk because he could usually stomp me climbing hills, where I normally could exceed his flatlander skill by outpacing him in extended runs and sprints. The pain was getting unbearable as I continued, but the anger was stronger. I was pissed that I wasn’t as strong as I could have been. I was pissed that I underestimated my own rating of the hill. I was pissed that I was pissed, and even angrier that I was feeling the pain. This, I think, is what took me to the top faster than Alan- and faster than I would have imagined.
I’ve always viewed hills as a “mind over matter” challenge- trying hard not to give up in the face of such a strong physical challenge. This one was no different- I had to pit anger against pain, dig in, and attack like a survivor. Sooner or later I knew the hill would take its toll with an ambitious attack like I had going, and I knew the time was coming fast. I didn’t want this hill to be another that defeated me before my time, but as yards passed beneath I slowly started to expect it. Just when I thought I could push no more- having only enough energy and focus to manage coasting- the road swept left towards an apparent summit. At this very moment, some of the most precious minutes of my life memory began.
Alan was only inches from my rear tire- the two of us at the front of over a dozen other riders- when we saw it: a mile-long, gradual slope and the finish line of the summit itself. When I turned to find the rest of the riders, Alan told me they were no where in sight. This meant that we’d be stuck cycling in circles at the summit until the tour leaders and other riders made the top. This also meant a long break for us, as other riders’ lag would mean minutes of effortless waiting for us. There was no other choice, it was “go time,” where the best rider of the two of us would cross that line first, marking the beginning of a peaceful rest. I shifted down a gear or two further, and started my final ascent and attack to the summit, fully expecting Alan to overcome me as usual. This day, though, marked a new perspective in tolerance in pain for me, and I was determined to give every ounce of energy I had to see what I was made of.
I rocked the bike like I was trying to break the quad-butted welds, down on the drops for more pull force from my upper body and less wind resistance. The new blacktop still smelled damp like a moss bog rather than a hot parking lot, the wind became unnoticeable in exchange for my forward speed, and the sun was slowly beginning to peek through the blanket of clouds enough to tell time again. A few cars whizzed by at that time, with large pauses between that underscored just how remote we were, and how early in the morning.
I continued to press on to the point where another shift was inevitable. As I contemplated the move, I noticed Alan’s heavy breaths coming from more of a side formation than an in-line rear one, and I knew he was on his way to beat me to the top. I pushed to the top of the gear, knocked it into the next one with my knee so my hands wouldn’t leave the bars, and pushed like never before.
It paid off. Alan finally had been beaten by the hill, dropping back a few dozen yards and into easier gears.
My thirty seconds were starting- knowing I had given my best in an extremely challenging physical onslaught, seeing the beauty of the sky, the comfort of the cool breeze, the smell from the forest, strong riders behind me, sweat dripping onto the top tube, a pit stop on its way, a view I’ve never seen from the summit ahead, Jesus on my side, and U2’s song, “Seconds,” playing on the Walkman.
I coasted over the highest rise in the road at the summit, riding with no hands and fully upright. To my left, a gas station with an Ice Cream and Soda shop filled with young girls my age. To the right, a scrub brush area with a view of a forest valley that seemed miles below. In the distance in front of me buildings and businesses of a medium-sized town were barely visible, but as always filled with a semi-nervous, strange romantic attraction, and excitement of the unknown.
Behind me were a dozen good riders, all of my water, and miles of hard, long, and slow hill. Behind me was also a piss-poor self-worth, and a seriously deficient self-confidence that I’d beaten myself with so many times before that it became a miserable habit. It was as though a layer of me peeled off and fell to the road, leaving a strong, self-reliant and fully capable young man. During these moments that young man was exposed in all of his glory, instead of scorned by him and others for some manufactured failure. I felt like an unbeatable machine.
Those skins threaten to return every day. Sometimes, they do, and they thicken. It can take years for them to build in one way or another, until they begin to choke the life out of me. I may become incredibly critical of myself. I may wish myself somewhere that I am not, and want it so badly that I view my present as failure. Age, health, and habit can enslave to the point where it seems there is no route but death.
It can take only the recollection of thirty seconds to pull these skins back off, giving strength and fortitude in thought alone. This strength and fortitude may come purely from anger and resentment that I’ve let things get so bad- but once it comes on, there is no going back. I am headed full-force to my summit, and I forbid anyone to get in my way.
My inspiration comes from these few seconds.
My mantra contains the words:
“It takes a second to say goodbye.
Say goodbye, oh, oh, oh.
Push the button and pull the plug-
say goodbye, oh, oh, oh…..
Say ‘bye-bye’
Where you going to now?”
Covered Bridge
Recycled Shutters
Peaceful New Day
Devious Comments
You've been shocked by GWEAR Productions
~ You can shock the hell out of the person who admired you
~ You can spam their comment box with shockers
~ You must do it, because offensive gestures get the girls
~ If jesus can do it....you can do it
~ You must do this, it is peer-pressure
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Unfortunately, my advisor has his heart set on a closed form. An algorithm is infinitely more versatile! I say, as long as it's polynomial time, it's fast enough except for exorbitant data sizes (e.g., data mining, or your face program), which shouldn't be an issue for this variety of problem. My algorithm fairly rapidly approaches high orders, depending on the number of rhombus-based "streaks", where the worst case runtime z O( n x^n) where n is the streak count. In fact, my algorithm is perfectly suited to grid computing.
However, he thinks that with a closed form, I could cross the threshhold from a "fast, practical method", to an "extremely ultra-excellent ultra-fast method"... so he has a point.
~Ben
Your dad told me the news about your algo.... reminds me about something you may want to know about my old company. (Programmers working 24/7 in teams of 7 to figure one out. Last I heard their ratio was something like 1:10M for ...um... "recognizing" the digital "fingerprint" of... um... a face? Catch my drift?
I got your e-mail, thanks for going through all of the trouble to fill me in on the family stuff. I made sure my dad saw it, and I only haven't responded because I feel like I should spend at least half of the effort that you spent writing it in a response!
I wonder if the police archives here in Pittsburgh would still have some of Mr. Johnstone's sketches that I could get a copy of. Anyway, if you feel like coming up here for a weekend, I have a futon and the bus to Oakland stops right out front. I'm talking college bars as far as the eye can see!
~Ben
Exactly how many times have you heard that line before? Too many to count. And, yet, I chose to start this entry off with that same statement because what I found out was really very obvious…like that line.
For years, I would look forward to Christmas sometime before Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving was a biggie- my entire Mothers’ side of the family would go to our Aunt’s house for Thanksgiving dinner. I loved going there for this meal, and for Easter, and I really miss the way things were back then. This holiday, though, kicked off the entire season for me. I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but it was at this meal that all the children would receive our homemade ornament from Aunt Betty. This meal was a feast in the true sense of the word. Turkey, ham, roast beef, mashed potatoes, three kinds of stuffing, every vegetable ever put into a can. Then there was Aunt Jan’s salad- the one with the eggs in it. I loved the stuff, and so did my Father, but our stomachs turned with the thought of the eggs. So we got the infamous seafoam green plastic bowl- just enough salad for two people, which had been saved from the eventual addition of those nasty hard boiled eggs. I’d laugh to see this thing wrapped up in Christmas paper some year- and that would be just like my family- and in true fashion, I’d guard it with my life forever and ever…amen.
Aunt Jan had every old-school snack known to man. Mixed nuts. (Does anyone do this anymore?) The adults would hover over the bowl and the curious nutcracker and picks which filled the wooden bowl. There were Hershey’s Kisses, and Hershey’s Miniatures. Dinner mints. Star candies. Candy canes. Peanuts and cashews, though, had their own bowls. My Uncle always had a well-stocked supply of A-TREAT sodas, and I think back then it was my goal to have at least one of each. Cream Soda, Sarsaparilla, Root Beer, Birch Beer, Lemon-Lime, Black Cherry…God I wonder what I’m missing.
There were tables everywhere. One in the dining room, which adjoined the one entering the living room. At times, there were FIVE tables in the basement. I loved the basement. The ceiling was simply exposed floor joists- the old-school kind, where the cross members were made out of wood, cut to a 45-degree angle, making their usual ‘x’ pattern under the floor. Not the cheapo, quickie metal strap kind- which are sharp as hell, unappealing, and make flush-mounting drywall a true pain in the ass. The walls were exposed cinder block, and the concrete floor was covered with area rugs. There were three or four couches down there, and at least two recliners. I didn’t realize it until I was in my own home, but the basement was really an unfinished one. It never felt that way to me.
You could exit the basement by going up into the kitchen, or through a screen door and up the outside steps into the car port. The youngest kids would run around in circles: up one set of stairs, and down the other; and all day long, one of the most prominent sounds was that of doors opening and closing. I remember Uncle Denny and a host of others snoring after the meal, having fallen asleep watching a game or parade. After dinner, the adults would play Rummy or another card game, and us kids would make the trek up to the cemetery, located on a hill in back of their house.
All of the food, the hour long drive, and the length of time we stayed made for a very full day. Not long after we got into the car to leave, my Sister and I would fall asleep arguing over who was going to lean on who.
After Thanksgiving, I’d watch as my parents tried to keep from putting their decorations up too soon for the rest of the neighborhood, and eventually we’d go spelunking into the attic to get it all out. There was the cardboard candycane my Dad bought off of the beer distributor. The hula-hoop-gone-wreath, and a lot of multicolored lights. Though I remember the days when the tree was real, my Dad eventually tired of the hassle involved in getting real ones, and we started using an old artificial tree his parents gave him. Decorating was always fun, and there was never really a recurring order for things, which made it exciting as we wondered what Dad had in mind for the year.
When I was still in High School, the time leading up to Christmas was great. All except for the last few days of it. I would begin feeling something, and I haven’t been able to put my finger on it until about two weeks ago. I would become very introverted and quiet, pensive and thoughtful. I would lay under the Christmas tree for hours, staring up at the lights. Many times, I’d stare into the sky, watching the stars, and wondering if that first Christmas star still existed. I wondered whether or not it was a star, or if it was a planet or comet. I’d look out my window, across the valley to the hill beyond, speckled with lights, and wonder what was going on under each of them. Though this was a fairly regular routine for me, during the last week before Christmas I did it every night. Eventually, I was old enough to have my own decorations in my room, and I would often sleep with a set of white lights on. I still enjoy the comfort of the low-intensity light that these give off.
After High School, these feelings began to work their way backwards. Now, I start feeling this way on Black Friday. I feel like I’m not worthy of anything. That I’ve wasted another year doing stupid things. I think of all the ways I’ve let people down. I think of all the people who are not having such a great time during the Holidays. This year, it finally hit me. I still can’t explain it very well, but I’m trying… so bear with it.
I have to tell a short story so that I can explain just who I am at heart, despite all of the nastiness, anger, and rage I feel most all of the time. Actually, this very event epitomizes the greater portion of why I feel how I do at Christmas, and why I am so full of rage.
My Grandparents bought me a radio for my fifth Christmas. You’d have thought they bought me a gun; my parents didn’t approve of it, and they were very uptight about me using it. Despite this, I did take care of it, and I used to quietly turn it on when I went to bed at night, listening to whatever I could tune in. Often, I would listen to AM radio. One station in particular had me puzzled. It would play a series of tones, over and over, until sometime after I fell asleep. It was comforting and very soothing, which was one of the reasons I sought that frequency out over and over. (Years later, I found out that it was Radio Havana, Cuba. They played these tones to keep radio pirates from using the frequency when they were off the air!)
One night, I listened to a show which I now know was a sponsored program. The man on the radio was talking about children who didn’t have anything, (you know the shows,) no clothing, no food, no toys. This saddened me so deeply that I started to cry. I felt, in those times, like I was a “bad kid,” always getting yelled at or sent to my room. And yet, around me, was stuffed animals, toys, a piggy bank with money inside, and a warm bed. I had parents and a Sister to call my family. It was devastating for me to think that I didn’t at all deserve what I had, and these poor kids- who were hurting no one- had none of it.
I grabbed the bunny my Mom had sewn for me, some other things including- I think- the piggy bank, and went into their room crying hysterically. (They had to ask repeatedly what the problem was, until they could finally understand.) I remember telling them, “…please give these to those kids, I don’t want them….” I remember that they were annoyed, though I’m still not sure if it was that I was upset because of that damned radio, or because I simply woke them up. Those days were turbulent anyhow, to put things VERY lightly. My Mom got angry that I was willing to give away the gift she had made for me, and they demanded I went back to bed. I of course listened to them, but I was awake for a long time crying. I remember talking to the bunny- perhaps telling him I was sorry- but I still cry thinking about this night.
In the present day, this is exactly what I’ve come to realize is going on in my head. I feel so completely unworthy of all the things I normally take for granted, and become enraged when I find I haven’t changed my ways enough to make this better. I think of all the violence, the war, and murder; all the people who are in a seriously bad way. I look at my Son, and wonder just how bad I’m fucking him up. I think of all the people who don’t get along because they are so narrow minded, set in their way, full of pride, or self-centered…and I want to scream. Some may call this kind of thought an “episode,” and it probably qualifies in some way for such a term. But, damn it, what the hell is going on, on this rock?
Why can we not choose to understand that people are simply different? Different IS good. Without it, there is little reason to live; and without people accepting these things, I might as well be dead. Who in their right mind wants to visit Japan, taking the time off of work, spending the fortune to get there, all to see the damned “Golden Arches” of McDonald’s staring back at them? I WANT to learn new things, not wander into a new situation to find it is exactly the same as I came from. Why does a Muslim hate me? I’d love to taste their food, hear their stories, and listen to their beliefs. I’d love to think they wouldn’t kill me for refusing to believe in their version of God. But right now- in the soon-to-be-free Iraq, Christians are celebrating Christmas in secret. They do this for fear of their own lives.
I can’t find a job where there doesn’t exist some do-nothing, look-big asshole; who isn’t in a position above me. There is always someone trying to keep you down, or drag you down to their level. It gets so bad at times it’s paralyzing. I don’t feel like doing a damned thing. I get to a point where I realize that the company doesn’t appreciate how I operate, and right now I feel like I’m the only one in the world who feels these things.
I have a gift for instantly knowing a person, and often knowing exactly what their short-term needs are. I see a lot of agendas around me, so many that a normal person would call me, simply, paranoid. I know the truth when I feel it, because I TRUST that feeling. It is a gift of protection, which I had to learn the hard way. Now this gift is a curse, as I am a fundamentally driven person, and when I know I can’t affect fundamental changes in a situation, I give it up completely.
Have you ever felt that, no matter what you try, there is always some kind of roadblock? Is it I, or is someone above trying to tell me something?
I’ve strayed from the topic, and I feel like I could go on forever…so I know I better quit now.
Merry Christmas
Happy New Year
(Up yours if you think I’ll not say “Christmas” because it bothers you.)
Hope you'll enjoy
--
I love my cousin
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