I have a tattoo on my right thigh, a 6-inch rendition of Atlas, the Greek titan condemned to hold up the Earth on his shoulders. The Avon, Indiana tattoo artist I went to took the basic image I put together and fine-tuned it, defining his style through perfect lines and meticulous shading. My Atlas is a nondescript being, bald, sinewy, and strikingly human. Supported by his hands, the Earth rests on his shoulders in such a way that reveals an inexact picture of North and South America. It looks a lot of the image on the cover of Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged. So much, in fact, that many people have asked if that book had been my inspiration for the tattoo.
In a word, no. In two, hell no. I loathe Libertarianism. It’s far too selfish of an ideology for me to admire it. My tattoo reminds me that my personal troubles aren’t so bad compared to the greater struggles throughout the world. Although life can be tough for me, someone, somewhere, has it worse. So I look at Atlas carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders to find clarity and balance. That said, I’ve always thought my tattoo is defined by you, the viewer. An image of strength? If that’s what you think, sure, although I’d like to think I wouldn’t air my vanity like that. Did I get it because I thought it looked badass? Well, sort of, but not entirely. If you want to think just that, though, I wouldn’t mind. After all, a tattoo is art, a concept that derives meaning through outsider participation.
I do not look like a “tattoo guy.” Most people say this when they see my tattoo. But I am. I loved the entire process of getting tattooed, from the first design of the image to the finalizing sting of the needle. Four years later and after much thought, I’ve decided to get another tattoo. An artist, I am not, but I’ve begun to gather images from different sources that play on a theme, or rather a philosophy, that I believe in and want to express. The next step in the process is to draw the picture I have in my mind. Then I’ll bring that to a tattoo artist and set up a date to have it done. I’m excited, if not anxious. Putting something “permanent” [ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and nothing’s really permanent, but a tattoo’s damn close] on my body exhilarates me. I want that rush.
So… to anyone reading this: Do you have any suggestions for a good tattoo parlor in South Bend or the nearby area? Cost is not a concern of mine. I want this to be good. Also: Can you draw? If yes, do you want to help me draw my next tattoo? *friendly nudging*
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
Day after day
Ahh! I want to scream. Not just type-scream. Shyness and insecurity teamed up to hogtie and throw me into a closet with the lights turned off. I wrestled with myself all day, as always in such situations, futilely. [Somehow I worked productively, though!] I felt rusty and nervous, a terrible cocktail of emotions that makes me crumble into pieces, and although I overcame it [sort of], I can’t help but feel ashamed at my hesitance. I have nothing to lose. Jesus! I could write that on my face, see it in the mirror every twenty minutes, and disregard it as quickly.
Over a year has passed since I’ve faced these emotions. In a masochistic way, I’m relieved to still feel them. I’d thought they were more dead than dormant within me. I didn’t care. In hindsight, it’s disconcerting to be so conscious of an inner malaise and shrug it off nonetheless. Recapturing my vigor, yearning so bad for happiness and companionship, and savoring youth are all exciting to me again. So that’s good.
Ahh! I’m 24. I shouldn’t feel boatloads of shame like this. I’ve agonized over little nothings before, and yet I’ve not learned to relax and react.
Or maybe I have. Sometimes all it takes is a walk around the block to clear my mind. [By walk, I mean long ass run.] I’m giving this another go this week. Maybe tomorrow, maybe Wednesday, but this week. And soon. While I ran, I dug around a dusty locked trunk in my mind and found an old credo hiding behind old prom photos and love notes. I think it’s very fitting. I hope to never again forget it:
Don't sweat petty things, and don't pet sweaty things.
Over a year has passed since I’ve faced these emotions. In a masochistic way, I’m relieved to still feel them. I’d thought they were more dead than dormant within me. I didn’t care. In hindsight, it’s disconcerting to be so conscious of an inner malaise and shrug it off nonetheless. Recapturing my vigor, yearning so bad for happiness and companionship, and savoring youth are all exciting to me again. So that’s good.
Ahh! I’m 24. I shouldn’t feel boatloads of shame like this. I’ve agonized over little nothings before, and yet I’ve not learned to relax and react.
Or maybe I have. Sometimes all it takes is a walk around the block to clear my mind. [By walk, I mean long ass run.] I’m giving this another go this week. Maybe tomorrow, maybe Wednesday, but this week. And soon. While I ran, I dug around a dusty locked trunk in my mind and found an old credo hiding behind old prom photos and love notes. I think it’s very fitting. I hope to never again forget it:
Don't sweat petty things, and don't pet sweaty things.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Afoot
My drive to get to France cannot be questioned. I’ve grown more serious about it with each cloistered hour spent parked in my office. How I plan to get there, though, is a question that I admit I cannot directly answer. Out of pocket? Sure, but that wouldn’t be prudent. After all, I once turned down law school to save money, and staring in the eye of a Masters program, I need to put something in the bank in case I don’t receive a stipend. Friendly donations? Let me answer that question with a question: Are you going to give me money to cycle around France? Some people might offer a little assistance, but raising funds for this takes more time than I can give at the moment. In a perfect world, I would rely on my budding skills in writing and research to piece together an unparalleled social critique to pay the bills. [I think I hear a little scoffing among the chirping crickets.] Hey now, I’m getting there, word by strategically typed word. Each of these presents an option worth pursuing, despite the seeming unlikelihood of any of them coming to fruition. In my mind, the gears never stop spinning. In some circles, I could be considered a touch anxious, if not obsessed, while in others, I’d be an outside-of-the-box thinker. I prefer the latter.
I mentioned my promotion. This was a mutually beneficial move by my superiors: I’m a familiar face in a familiar role that didn’t need much training, and I got a raise. I moved up the ladder because my friend and coworker, one step above me in the office, was moving to Jerusalem to study for a year. He earned a Fulbright grant to study political philosophy. One afternoon while ignoring stacks of paperwork, we started to talk about our academic interests. I studied liberal arts, and I’m still a sucker for sociological theory. He studied philosophy [You don’t say!], and still reeks of a thinking man. Eventually, the topic came around to his research grant, how he earned it, and what it meant to be a Fulbright scholar. My gears still grinding, a light bulb popped above my head right as he told him to apply for a Fulbright to study the social, political, and economic effects of the Tour. I could visit each town at which a Tour stage starts and ends before and after the race. At the time, I thought this was a flawless plan, so much that I contacted Fulbright advisors from DePauw, my alma mater. Conveniently, one of these Fulbright advisors had been my first year advisor and she remembered me. She loved my idea and desire to go after it. However, she found one small problem in my proposal: I don’t speak French. None. Nada. Solamente hablo ingles y español. ¡Hijo de puta, mae!
This brings me to today. I’ve been in constant contact with my advisor. She’s not a cycling fan by any definition, but, damn, she’s smart, and thinks outside of the box, too! She suggested something to me this afternoon that, thinking of it now, I’m embarrassed to say never crossed my mind. Logically, it breaks down like this:
I speak Spanish and I like cycling. In Spain, there are cycling tours. Therefore, I should propose a similar project for Spain.
Duh! ¡La Vuelta a España! Held annually in September since 1955, it is one of the Grand Tours of cycling, along with le Tour de France and il Giro d’Italia. I’d study the same effects of the race on Spain [i.e. how the fanaticism and flood of tourism affect the native culture and economy] that I would have studied for France.
I know what you’re thinking.
Flipflopper. It’s not the Tour. You lied, liar!
Oh, did I? Did I mention that Fulbright grants last one academic year? Relying on my savings, I’d be able to study in Spain, and then travel to France to ride the Tour, and perhaps watch it! Ah, sweet proximity! This is coming together quickly, and I do feel rushed. However, I’m energized and hungry. I’m attacking this head on and with my greatest effort.
I mentioned my promotion. This was a mutually beneficial move by my superiors: I’m a familiar face in a familiar role that didn’t need much training, and I got a raise. I moved up the ladder because my friend and coworker, one step above me in the office, was moving to Jerusalem to study for a year. He earned a Fulbright grant to study political philosophy. One afternoon while ignoring stacks of paperwork, we started to talk about our academic interests. I studied liberal arts, and I’m still a sucker for sociological theory. He studied philosophy [You don’t say!], and still reeks of a thinking man. Eventually, the topic came around to his research grant, how he earned it, and what it meant to be a Fulbright scholar. My gears still grinding, a light bulb popped above my head right as he told him to apply for a Fulbright to study the social, political, and economic effects of the Tour. I could visit each town at which a Tour stage starts and ends before and after the race. At the time, I thought this was a flawless plan, so much that I contacted Fulbright advisors from DePauw, my alma mater. Conveniently, one of these Fulbright advisors had been my first year advisor and she remembered me. She loved my idea and desire to go after it. However, she found one small problem in my proposal: I don’t speak French. None. Nada. Solamente hablo ingles y español. ¡Hijo de puta, mae!
This brings me to today. I’ve been in constant contact with my advisor. She’s not a cycling fan by any definition, but, damn, she’s smart, and thinks outside of the box, too! She suggested something to me this afternoon that, thinking of it now, I’m embarrassed to say never crossed my mind. Logically, it breaks down like this:
I speak Spanish and I like cycling. In Spain, there are cycling tours. Therefore, I should propose a similar project for Spain.
Duh! ¡La Vuelta a España! Held annually in September since 1955, it is one of the Grand Tours of cycling, along with le Tour de France and il Giro d’Italia. I’d study the same effects of the race on Spain [i.e. how the fanaticism and flood of tourism affect the native culture and economy] that I would have studied for France.
I know what you’re thinking.
Flipflopper. It’s not the Tour. You lied, liar!
Oh, did I? Did I mention that Fulbright grants last one academic year? Relying on my savings, I’d be able to study in Spain, and then travel to France to ride the Tour, and perhaps watch it! Ah, sweet proximity! This is coming together quickly, and I do feel rushed. However, I’m energized and hungry. I’m attacking this head on and with my greatest effort.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
The pep in my step
Some days, I feel like a balloon on a broken string. Walking through the grocery store, I hear another guy talking and think, “Awww… Dammit. I’d say that. He sounds just like me.” On top of that, while debating the nutritional value of one brand of cottage cheese over another, I look up and see somebody else wearing a t-shirt I own, and may or may not have on right then. “Sonofabitch,” I grumble as I toss the carton of Daisy brand back in its place. [Sure, it’s nutritionally superior, but Martin’s brand costs 2 dollars less. Sorry, belly, but wallet wins this time.] To realize that I am, in so many ways, just one of the masses is depressing and oppressive. I’ve long known that I am an average white male [AWM]: sharp and skilled, but not da Vinci; athletic, but not Olympic; crafty, but not Bob Villa. Although I’ve accepted this brick thrown through my picture window, I won’t let its mess sit around in my mind for long. I pick up the pieces before I step on them and feel worse.
So I’m going to share with you how I inflate my attitude to match my shiny exterior. This is also known as “me at my most uncool.” When I feel empty, I channel my middle-school self and think back to those self-esteem exercises from Health class. I make a list of my quirks; the little things that separate me from Joe in the Dairy Aisle. I think I can hear you snickering… Whatever! Try it! You might discover things about yourself that you’d never before thought were special or attractive, but they define you. As you add them up, you may realize that these nuances draw others close to you.
…
I eat at least one bowl of cereal a day. Mostly Cinnamon Life.
I was born on the Winter solstice, so my parents thought about naming me Saul. I often wish they had.
I worked in a bagel shop after college because I didn’t know what I wanted to do for a living and, well, Bloomington Bagel Company hired me. To my surprise and my family’s chagrin, I loved it. Since then, I’ve taken up bread making as a hobby and I’ve gotten pretty good at it. I try to make a loaf of bread each week. I think my parents now like this because they get an occasional loaf of cinnamon raisin bread.
As a child, I rarely read books. Now, I always have a book that I’m working on, and I usually finish a book every week or two.
On some weekend nights, I’d rather laze in my apartment and watch Japanese animation [*blushing* anime] on my computer than go out to the bars.
I haven’t seriously dated a girl in years. I’ve begun to think this is an effect of what I’ve written above.
I still buy CDs.
Green is by far my favorite color, but I don’t own a lot of green clothing.
The house that I grew up in is near the intersection of Fail Rd. and 800 N. Ironically, I ran the 800m in college, often unsuccessfully. Fate?
I suffered an injury every track season in college and never ran much more than 50 miles in a week, most often running about 30 miles. Since I graduated college and exhausted my collegiate eligibility, I’ve not been injured and haven’t stopped running. Two weeks ago, I ran 92 miles in a week.
I love changing seasons.
I’ve been told that I’m mature for my age. I’m not sure that I agree, but I appreciate the compliment.
I learn languages quickly. I’m beginning to learn French, the language of love. That should get me a date.
For a few weeks last year, I needed to see The Fast and the Furious. Conveniently, the movie was on sale at Best Buy for 5 dollars, so I bought it, watched it once, and never looked back. It was worth every penny.
Art-house movies are my favorite, but I find novelty in shitty ones, too. I can’t stand average movies.
I’m a beer snob, but not pretentious about it.
A day without laughter is a dark day, indeed. With this [incomplete] list, a glimpse of me, I hope I made you laugh.
…
Make your own list. It’s a cathartic exercise worth 15 minutes of your day. Like me, you’ll undoubtedly leave much out of it. But you can do it again, whenever you feel like that empty balloon.
So I’m going to share with you how I inflate my attitude to match my shiny exterior. This is also known as “me at my most uncool.” When I feel empty, I channel my middle-school self and think back to those self-esteem exercises from Health class. I make a list of my quirks; the little things that separate me from Joe in the Dairy Aisle. I think I can hear you snickering… Whatever! Try it! You might discover things about yourself that you’d never before thought were special or attractive, but they define you. As you add them up, you may realize that these nuances draw others close to you.
…
I eat at least one bowl of cereal a day. Mostly Cinnamon Life.
I was born on the Winter solstice, so my parents thought about naming me Saul. I often wish they had.
I worked in a bagel shop after college because I didn’t know what I wanted to do for a living and, well, Bloomington Bagel Company hired me. To my surprise and my family’s chagrin, I loved it. Since then, I’ve taken up bread making as a hobby and I’ve gotten pretty good at it. I try to make a loaf of bread each week. I think my parents now like this because they get an occasional loaf of cinnamon raisin bread.
As a child, I rarely read books. Now, I always have a book that I’m working on, and I usually finish a book every week or two.
On some weekend nights, I’d rather laze in my apartment and watch Japanese animation [*blushing* anime] on my computer than go out to the bars.
I haven’t seriously dated a girl in years. I’ve begun to think this is an effect of what I’ve written above.
I still buy CDs.
Green is by far my favorite color, but I don’t own a lot of green clothing.
The house that I grew up in is near the intersection of Fail Rd. and 800 N. Ironically, I ran the 800m in college, often unsuccessfully. Fate?
I suffered an injury every track season in college and never ran much more than 50 miles in a week, most often running about 30 miles. Since I graduated college and exhausted my collegiate eligibility, I’ve not been injured and haven’t stopped running. Two weeks ago, I ran 92 miles in a week.
I love changing seasons.
I’ve been told that I’m mature for my age. I’m not sure that I agree, but I appreciate the compliment.
I learn languages quickly. I’m beginning to learn French, the language of love. That should get me a date.
For a few weeks last year, I needed to see The Fast and the Furious. Conveniently, the movie was on sale at Best Buy for 5 dollars, so I bought it, watched it once, and never looked back. It was worth every penny.
Art-house movies are my favorite, but I find novelty in shitty ones, too. I can’t stand average movies.
I’m a beer snob, but not pretentious about it.
A day without laughter is a dark day, indeed. With this [incomplete] list, a glimpse of me, I hope I made you laugh.
…
Make your own list. It’s a cathartic exercise worth 15 minutes of your day. Like me, you’ll undoubtedly leave much out of it. But you can do it again, whenever you feel like that empty balloon.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Reinvigorate: the fourth "R"
Lately, I’ve been an irritable, stony zombie, sleepwalking through each day. My fatigue is explained by a noticeable uptick in the amount of miles I run each week. Two weeks ago, I ran a personal high of ninety-two miles in one week. Yikes! When I get home, I feel so drained that even cooking dinner becomes a struggle. As a result, I haven’t read or written very much, and I feel I’ve begun to neglect posting. This is a pretty normal feeling that accompanies a bump in miles, but fades away as the body acclimates itself to greater exertion. In a week’s time, my body will recover and my energy level will increase.
Why I’ve had an abrasive attitude is harder to understand because I’ve lugged it around for weeks, if not longer. Although I was recently promoted [Boosh!], my mood didn’t improve with the good news. I’m worn out and I need a vacation before I go over the edge and irrevocably damage relationships, persons, or office equipment.
In a shining example of controlled serendipity, I checked my email this morning and found that my friend had linked me to an article in the New York Times that has reinvigorated me, and more importantly, given an idea for a fall vacation with future interests in mind. [Lucky bastard] Christopher Solomon, a freelance journalist, spent 5 days cycling through sprawling Southwestern landscapes too spectacular for even postcards to fairly portray. Riding more than one hundred miles on some days, Solomon climbed auburn mesas and knifed through green-speckled canyons from Colorado through Utah, to Arizona and back to Colorado. The article is as well-written as any in the NYT. Solomon’s lingo is a little too colorful for my tastes [note: this is me projecting my own inadequacies onto another writer], but his task is daunting, and overall he succeeds in describing the grandeur of his journey. He obviously struggles with something that I hope to I would face in France. How can one describe scenery so beautiful and vast that has been so hidden in plain sight?
At the end of the article, Solomon links to a few cycling tours from the American West to Eastern Europe. Oh yes, I now know how I want to spend my vacation time. I’m going to start saving to travel to the West this October to spend 5 days brutalizing my body while soaking up some natural tranquility. And soaking up some local wine.
Why I’ve had an abrasive attitude is harder to understand because I’ve lugged it around for weeks, if not longer. Although I was recently promoted [Boosh!], my mood didn’t improve with the good news. I’m worn out and I need a vacation before I go over the edge and irrevocably damage relationships, persons, or office equipment.
In a shining example of controlled serendipity, I checked my email this morning and found that my friend had linked me to an article in the New York Times that has reinvigorated me, and more importantly, given an idea for a fall vacation with future interests in mind. [Lucky bastard] Christopher Solomon, a freelance journalist, spent 5 days cycling through sprawling Southwestern landscapes too spectacular for even postcards to fairly portray. Riding more than one hundred miles on some days, Solomon climbed auburn mesas and knifed through green-speckled canyons from Colorado through Utah, to Arizona and back to Colorado. The article is as well-written as any in the NYT. Solomon’s lingo is a little too colorful for my tastes [note: this is me projecting my own inadequacies onto another writer], but his task is daunting, and overall he succeeds in describing the grandeur of his journey. He obviously struggles with something that I hope to I would face in France. How can one describe scenery so beautiful and vast that has been so hidden in plain sight?
At the end of the article, Solomon links to a few cycling tours from the American West to Eastern Europe. Oh yes, I now know how I want to spend my vacation time. I’m going to start saving to travel to the West this October to spend 5 days brutalizing my body while soaking up some natural tranquility. And soaking up some local wine.
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