Is exhaustion a mental condition? Is it the body telling the brain that the emergency stop brake needs to be pulled? What happens if the conductor overrides the complaints and doesn't pull the lever?
I've gone on a few bike rides were I should have pulled the lever and stopped, dropped and rolled to the ground for a rest. But I kept going. I've gotten massive sun burns and dehydrated to the point of passing out.
Sure, I've turned back once. And someone won't let me live that one down. It's different when the body isn't taking in oxygen.
I just finished reading an "epic" blog about 200+ miles on wet gravel in one day. Geesh, I'd think 20+ miles would be noteworthy. Now I got more wonders on my brain. Could I, at my age, do something like that? Do I even need to try? What would it prove to me? Do I have a suffering wish? Have I ever truly suffered? Can I suffer or am I too... jelly to get to a breaking point?
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Alone
Well, it looks as if I am the leper now.
I will assume my last post was too touchy for most.
This is what happens when a person grows up with themselves as their biggest consoler. I guess I grew up so many years as my own imaginary friend that I literally do talk to myself. If there is one thing I do that makes people really mad it's that I keep to my own. I don't fight, argue, bicker or any of the stuff most people seem to do with family and friends. I just try to be there to help out people but then I retreat into my own world. It's not that I don't like people or need contact, but there comes to a breaking point that if I don't have time to myself, I start to breakdown. It's like a lack of sleep, but it's more like a lack of selfishness. How crappy does that sound? I don't feel like I'm selfish enough... Should I even try to defend that statement?
Probably not.
I have very little stress in my life. Really, if I do have any stress, it's usually tacked on to someone else's stress. My ripples are insignificant in comparison to the waves some of my friends have to deal with. No, my life rests on a pretty calm body of water.
But when I do have problems, I try to keep them to myself, until they have been resolved. My biggest problem right now... sleeping. I took a simple single pill last night and I was dead. I was averaging about five hours of sleep, natural sleep. Last night I got over nine hours but the morning was awful. I almost thought of taking the day off. My eyes once again burned and my skin looks awful. Yup, it's true. I have a reaction to the over the counter meds that didn't exist a month ago. I've got an appointment with a dermatologist tomorrow. Perhaps I'll learn that all my problems will soon resolve themselves.
I will assume my last post was too touchy for most.
This is what happens when a person grows up with themselves as their biggest consoler. I guess I grew up so many years as my own imaginary friend that I literally do talk to myself. If there is one thing I do that makes people really mad it's that I keep to my own. I don't fight, argue, bicker or any of the stuff most people seem to do with family and friends. I just try to be there to help out people but then I retreat into my own world. It's not that I don't like people or need contact, but there comes to a breaking point that if I don't have time to myself, I start to breakdown. It's like a lack of sleep, but it's more like a lack of selfishness. How crappy does that sound? I don't feel like I'm selfish enough... Should I even try to defend that statement?
Probably not.
I have very little stress in my life. Really, if I do have any stress, it's usually tacked on to someone else's stress. My ripples are insignificant in comparison to the waves some of my friends have to deal with. No, my life rests on a pretty calm body of water.
But when I do have problems, I try to keep them to myself, until they have been resolved. My biggest problem right now... sleeping. I took a simple single pill last night and I was dead. I was averaging about five hours of sleep, natural sleep. Last night I got over nine hours but the morning was awful. I almost thought of taking the day off. My eyes once again burned and my skin looks awful. Yup, it's true. I have a reaction to the over the counter meds that didn't exist a month ago. I've got an appointment with a dermatologist tomorrow. Perhaps I'll learn that all my problems will soon resolve themselves.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Turning back the clock, or forward, whichever is closest
I quite feel like my initial attempt yesterday was off-line... so to speak. Not enough spin to keep it straight. I will consciously try to achieve a more succinct.
The highlights of my unmiraculous day include a morning visit with a grey spider. At first, I thought the odd shadow was a dust bunny, quietly sitting in the top corner of the shower. Until in unfurled it's front legs as if offering to give me a hug. Thanks Charolette, but no thanks. The shower spider was pretty sleepy yesterday, it just voyuered at me for the duration of my cleanliness routine.
Next, on the remarkability touch-points... I made up that phrase, touch-points, I'm so corporate meetingish it hurts my sensibilities like a cranial down-sizing paradign of antimotivational schpeel. Next, yoga. Yes, I yoga'ed yesterday. Not the spiritual, candle and flame as one, sutra for the soul, chickensoup for the tummy, kind of yoga. More like the ladies sitting on the chairs on tv kind of yoga. I was apprehensive whether I should even attend, but my feet moved me there and so I sat, and yoga'edly yoga'ed.
Quickly scanning the "class," I can tell the odds are in my favor. Five gentlemen, including myself, and about forty-five ladies. The downside, and there's always a downside to contemplate, I was maybe the tallest, but also the youngest and lightest in the room. Oh well, I wasn't there to oogle, because oogle is not an indian word. They'd probably say I was there to align my chakra, which is probably true. There's nothing better for a guy than to get his chakra aligned.
So, the most important part of yoga is not your attire... tell that to some of the class. It's not you attitude, as I know plenty of ladies getting way to spiritual in their attitudes. It's not your flexibility... I will admit, her, our instructor was stretchier than the newest bowflex commercial. It's your control of breathing. But I will admit, my respiration turned to chuckles when she kept saying "belly buh-en". Also, her tantric use of the word "ligaments" was oddly not very soothing.
The only other chapter of the day worth noting would be the ride after work. A few brave and mentally short fellows met up, with myself included. A storm was possible during our fantastical bicycle journey, but for whatever reason, there we were, ready to pedal our little tootsies away. Seriously, we were not the royal marines of the cycling community. We were more likely the grunts who hit the beaches first to get rid of those pesky landmines. Anyways, during our magical traversation, I'm encouraged to share all my stories of hookers and strippers and anything else that involves the seedier side of sexual exploitation, as opposed to the other side of sexual exploitation that probably involves the "kiss me you fool" and the "take me" side which I personally find baffling.
Well, I cannot find myself to bring those stories to this table. However, I will say I was thinking of the sex last night while I waited for slumber, sans my little friends, the pills of sleepitude. I was thinking that in my former clutches of lust, or coitus, as creepy professors would say, the female half of the equation always seemed docile. Sure, fingernail scrapings and bruises were inflicted to my flesh, but really, the expected never materializes where one would... expect expected things to happen. Maybe I'll edit this later.
Women, fairly known for being girly, or womanly, or fair, are known for their empathic ways. Their soft and gentle caresses. But in hindsight, it's the male that does all the stimulating touching... well, outside the erogenous areas. Women will sometimes initiate contact and then it's like once they awaken the beast, they just lay back and play their beauty role. However, the congnizant beast will notice his job is just starting. And now I'll drop this subject because I'm not in the mood. (I have a headache, but not really.)
What I really wanted to write about is that I'm getting the sneaky suspicion I being set up the bomb. All my base wants to be belonged by them. What does this mean? It means I think the lesbians have designs again and they're going to try to align my chakra. :(
(Yes, I realize this post was not in the same flavor as the last and that I mentioned Charolette by name... but I was referring to the spider with a fictitious spider's name, so the actual spider's name is still held in confidentiality.)
The highlights of my unmiraculous day include a morning visit with a grey spider. At first, I thought the odd shadow was a dust bunny, quietly sitting in the top corner of the shower. Until in unfurled it's front legs as if offering to give me a hug. Thanks Charolette, but no thanks. The shower spider was pretty sleepy yesterday, it just voyuered at me for the duration of my cleanliness routine.
Next, on the remarkability touch-points... I made up that phrase, touch-points, I'm so corporate meetingish it hurts my sensibilities like a cranial down-sizing paradign of antimotivational schpeel. Next, yoga. Yes, I yoga'ed yesterday. Not the spiritual, candle and flame as one, sutra for the soul, chickensoup for the tummy, kind of yoga. More like the ladies sitting on the chairs on tv kind of yoga. I was apprehensive whether I should even attend, but my feet moved me there and so I sat, and yoga'edly yoga'ed.
Quickly scanning the "class," I can tell the odds are in my favor. Five gentlemen, including myself, and about forty-five ladies. The downside, and there's always a downside to contemplate, I was maybe the tallest, but also the youngest and lightest in the room. Oh well, I wasn't there to oogle, because oogle is not an indian word. They'd probably say I was there to align my chakra, which is probably true. There's nothing better for a guy than to get his chakra aligned.
So, the most important part of yoga is not your attire... tell that to some of the class. It's not you attitude, as I know plenty of ladies getting way to spiritual in their attitudes. It's not your flexibility... I will admit, her, our instructor was stretchier than the newest bowflex commercial. It's your control of breathing. But I will admit, my respiration turned to chuckles when she kept saying "belly buh-en". Also, her tantric use of the word "ligaments" was oddly not very soothing.
The only other chapter of the day worth noting would be the ride after work. A few brave and mentally short fellows met up, with myself included. A storm was possible during our fantastical bicycle journey, but for whatever reason, there we were, ready to pedal our little tootsies away. Seriously, we were not the royal marines of the cycling community. We were more likely the grunts who hit the beaches first to get rid of those pesky landmines. Anyways, during our magical traversation, I'm encouraged to share all my stories of hookers and strippers and anything else that involves the seedier side of sexual exploitation, as opposed to the other side of sexual exploitation that probably involves the "kiss me you fool" and the "take me" side which I personally find baffling.
Well, I cannot find myself to bring those stories to this table. However, I will say I was thinking of the sex last night while I waited for slumber, sans my little friends, the pills of sleepitude. I was thinking that in my former clutches of lust, or coitus, as creepy professors would say, the female half of the equation always seemed docile. Sure, fingernail scrapings and bruises were inflicted to my flesh, but really, the expected never materializes where one would... expect expected things to happen. Maybe I'll edit this later.
Women, fairly known for being girly, or womanly, or fair, are known for their empathic ways. Their soft and gentle caresses. But in hindsight, it's the male that does all the stimulating touching... well, outside the erogenous areas. Women will sometimes initiate contact and then it's like once they awaken the beast, they just lay back and play their beauty role. However, the congnizant beast will notice his job is just starting. And now I'll drop this subject because I'm not in the mood. (I have a headache, but not really.)
What I really wanted to write about is that I'm getting the sneaky suspicion I being set up the bomb. All my base wants to be belonged by them. What does this mean? It means I think the lesbians have designs again and they're going to try to align my chakra. :(
(Yes, I realize this post was not in the same flavor as the last and that I mentioned Charolette by name... but I was referring to the spider with a fictitious spider's name, so the actual spider's name is still held in confidentiality.)
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Them Changes
I will begin anew. I will be the only guilty innocent and all others shall be refered to as him/her/he/she to protect them and possibly to keep me on my toes.
Yesterday, I found myself at that Church again. The Latvian one that I grew up around. My eyes were burning, as if acid rain replaced my tears. Was I crying? No. Was I sad? Maybe. Not for me but for her. She was never close to her mom in a mother/daughter sense. She was too close as a co-owner in the family business... and business included money and gossip.
She, the she in the urn, was not the most amicable of souls. She would yell, smile, yell some more. You couldn't tell if she was happy about being angry, but she enjoyed sharing her thoughts, in that not quite English language of her's.
While I was listening to the Pastor, I started thinking about all the funerals I've attending sitting on those soft wood benches. One, no, two, no three prior to the current one. It seems like Latvians are more prone to dying than normal humans, or I just am closer to them, closer in the funeral aspect of life. My mind wandered, seeping in and out of memories from those other ceremonies. Eventhough my eyes burned, I didn't want to shed a tear. I thought about baseball, car racing, soccer... all the stuff guy's have learned to meditate about to keep their feelings from over taking them when they are expected to maintain themselves.
...And then it's over. Ashes to ashes and all the rest in peace. Fifty-eight people, including myself, exit the great hall. Fifty-eight more than I presume will attend my last mentioning on earth before I'm put to my ending place. I take a moment to contemplate the future of not having a future. Of no more days.
I make my remarks and then pass on the post-sermon luncheon. I watch some afternoon Champions League... to bored or tense or thoughtful to pay attention. I head downtown assuming he'll be there. The one face other than her's in the hall that I recognize. Sure enough, he makes his daily stop at Club Dufois. He's still dressed in his finest threads complete with shiney Italian shoes. Me, I've long since discarded my Sunday slave-wear.
We talk and I hear his stories of her time, escaping from the Nazis. Joining the resistance force and eventually ending up in a refugee camp in England for a few years after the war. I only knew her as my landlord, who would yell at me for having long hair and for corrupting her daughter... who was a few years beyond my age. She would scream and her face would turn blood red... probably due to all the blood in her face. Then at other times, she would throw a beer in my hand, force a tort down my throat and then drag me onto a dance floor... but only at religious events. She never called me by name, but always called me, "Mister Ambassador," because one time I said I was thinking of going into political science. Strange how strange names stick.
Eventually the topics change and I envy his life a little less. I hear how he grew up needing body guards, about all the deals that weren't dealt as planned and how his family is a little more complex because of marital disbliss.
Then he walks into the bar. He brings his aura of chaos and anger with him. He makes all his remarks, seeing which one's wound any listeners. He throws in maddening scowls at us followed by the joy in the face of a little boy. If someone ever needed a permanent flashlight shining up from his chin, it's this guy. He throws his remaining change on the floor, puffs on his cigarette whilst a friend lies to his boss on the phone and threatens another with a knife... albeit, all two inches of it.
I eventually leave knowing I said stupid remarks about an engagement ring, how I'm somehow more liked for having offspring and generally happy with my lot in life.
Then I get home. I'm not home first. That wasn't part of the plan.
Yesterday, I found myself at that Church again. The Latvian one that I grew up around. My eyes were burning, as if acid rain replaced my tears. Was I crying? No. Was I sad? Maybe. Not for me but for her. She was never close to her mom in a mother/daughter sense. She was too close as a co-owner in the family business... and business included money and gossip.
She, the she in the urn, was not the most amicable of souls. She would yell, smile, yell some more. You couldn't tell if she was happy about being angry, but she enjoyed sharing her thoughts, in that not quite English language of her's.
While I was listening to the Pastor, I started thinking about all the funerals I've attending sitting on those soft wood benches. One, no, two, no three prior to the current one. It seems like Latvians are more prone to dying than normal humans, or I just am closer to them, closer in the funeral aspect of life. My mind wandered, seeping in and out of memories from those other ceremonies. Eventhough my eyes burned, I didn't want to shed a tear. I thought about baseball, car racing, soccer... all the stuff guy's have learned to meditate about to keep their feelings from over taking them when they are expected to maintain themselves.
...And then it's over. Ashes to ashes and all the rest in peace. Fifty-eight people, including myself, exit the great hall. Fifty-eight more than I presume will attend my last mentioning on earth before I'm put to my ending place. I take a moment to contemplate the future of not having a future. Of no more days.
I make my remarks and then pass on the post-sermon luncheon. I watch some afternoon Champions League... to bored or tense or thoughtful to pay attention. I head downtown assuming he'll be there. The one face other than her's in the hall that I recognize. Sure enough, he makes his daily stop at Club Dufois. He's still dressed in his finest threads complete with shiney Italian shoes. Me, I've long since discarded my Sunday slave-wear.
We talk and I hear his stories of her time, escaping from the Nazis. Joining the resistance force and eventually ending up in a refugee camp in England for a few years after the war. I only knew her as my landlord, who would yell at me for having long hair and for corrupting her daughter... who was a few years beyond my age. She would scream and her face would turn blood red... probably due to all the blood in her face. Then at other times, she would throw a beer in my hand, force a tort down my throat and then drag me onto a dance floor... but only at religious events. She never called me by name, but always called me, "Mister Ambassador," because one time I said I was thinking of going into political science. Strange how strange names stick.
Eventually the topics change and I envy his life a little less. I hear how he grew up needing body guards, about all the deals that weren't dealt as planned and how his family is a little more complex because of marital disbliss.
Then he walks into the bar. He brings his aura of chaos and anger with him. He makes all his remarks, seeing which one's wound any listeners. He throws in maddening scowls at us followed by the joy in the face of a little boy. If someone ever needed a permanent flashlight shining up from his chin, it's this guy. He throws his remaining change on the floor, puffs on his cigarette whilst a friend lies to his boss on the phone and threatens another with a knife... albeit, all two inches of it.
I eventually leave knowing I said stupid remarks about an engagement ring, how I'm somehow more liked for having offspring and generally happy with my lot in life.
Then I get home. I'm not home first. That wasn't part of the plan.
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