OH, last night was it - the live showing of "The Sound of Music" starring Carrie Underwood and a few other famous names, almost all of which I've never heard of. But, as many of my well-informed friends have heard of them, I'm going to call them famous. It should be noted that this was a live airing of the BROADWAY version, not the HOLLYWOOD version. What?? You didn't know that it was a stage play before the film version starring Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer???? If you didn't and you are over the age of 17, you have failed/been failed by your education.
Now, there are several camps that people have been ideologically divided into on this:
Camp 1: The HOW DARE YOU EVER DO ANYTHING AGAINST JULIE ANDREWS Camp. Now, I'm not going to dis the GREAT (and she IS great) Ms. Andrews. I think she's awesome, personally, and her performance in the film was just marvy. But let's be a little real: there are high schools that do this production every year, and they are not doing anything "against" Ms. Andrews. They are aspiring to something greater than what they were....that's all.
Camp 2: BUT IT SUCKS BECAUSE IT WASN'T THE FILM AND WASN'T AS BELIEVABLE. You - shut up. Now. It's called "willful suspension of disbelief." We KNOW the entire country of Austria isn't on stage. The Alps are still where they were, in Europe. If you can't have a little imagination, you should really never be allowed to look at a television or movie screen again.
Camp 3: IT WAS THE MOST AWESOME THING EVER!!!! Thank you for letting us understand your complete lack of experience.
Camp 4: EVERYTHING NOT THE BROADWAY PRODUCTION SUCKS!!! You are an elitist snob. Your attitude wouldn't bother me if Rogers and Hammerstein didn't re-write the show for the movies, but they did, and THEY liked it better. You didn't write either rendition, so you don't get a vote. You can have your preferences, but please, don't trod on anyone else's.
Camp 5: YOU CAN'T RE-MAKE A CLASSIC!!! You....actually have a point, but there are limits. You can re-make a classic, and while it will never be the same performance, it can have equally good things in it. You don't have to like it. For example, there have been at least three renditions of "Miracle on 34th Street" done - and I'm sure there are others that I just don't care to research. I'm partial to the original, and prefer it in black and white - but that doesn't make the colorized version, or the last version that was in theatres, bad. It just makes them a little different. Please, pick your fave and enjoy it.
BUT, you camp 5-ers - you have a point on re-making that which was close to perfection in the first place. Why do over what was done so well?? So, I have created the Fat Kid Laws of Entertainment!!!!
FAT KID LAWS OF ENTERTAINMENT:
1) Other people's pain is hilarious. Why? Because it's not you, but you will gladly watch someone else get knocked in the groin, the head, etc. Humans are kinda sick that way. But, it sells, and we're always happy to watch that slow-motion sequence at the end of Die Hard where Hans (Alan Rickman) falls to his death.
2) Video Games should remain where they are. I know - this one's going to tick a lot of people off, but at this point, video games have progressed to the point where they are really more like films themselves - it's no longer a viable thing to make a game into a movie. That ship has sailed. Time to stop that.
3) Films should be made to tell stories, not fill timeslots. If you can't fill 120 minutes (that's two hours) of FILM time (not including previews, etc) then it doesn't belong in a theatre. 90 minutes = a two hour time slot on TV with commercials. Exceptions exist here for kids' movies and documentaries, but in general, if it's not 120 minutes (and even here, there's some leeway for "close enough") it shouldn't be made into a feature movie. You simply can't tell a good story in less time. And seriously - we pay enough for tickets, popcorn, etc - we should get 2 hours of film time, minimum. Oh, and if you CAN'T fill up a 2-hour timeframe...then it's probably not a good story for film, anyway.
4) The re-make. No film shall be re-made until everyone who had a lead role in the previous version is dead. Yeah, I'm looking at you, makers of the latest "Footloose." Not cool. I believe that when you constantly re-make stuff like this, we lose more than we create. Yes, the original "Footloose" was a veritable treasure-trove of 80s awesomeness. Now - OK - there's some of that stuff we SHOULD be forgetting on purpose, but there are also a lot of things that we should remember, too. Film is a part of our historical social record. They can't learn about the 80s, it's good parts and its bad parts, if they don't encounter the 80s. Now, go ahead and steal the plots (James Cameron stole "Dances With Wolves" for "Avatar" and it mostly worked) but NO REMAKING UNTIL THE LEADS HAVE PERISHED.
5) Superhero movies. I like these, I really do, and there are some really kick-ass stories that go along with these characters. There are also a LOT of challenges. Superhero films almost always fall victim to the time-allotment rule already addressed. More minutes of film to truly get into the psyche of the hero will solve a good portion of the problems most off these movies encounter. And, let's face it - a lot of the villains are rather cardboard - they always were. The biggest thing about superhero movies: don't skip the story. Take your time to tell it properly. Spend the money. You might not get it all back immediately, but you will produce better film, not just some pocket-lining film.
6) Books into movies. There's a general rule to follow here. I think it's something like 150 pages = 1 hour of film time - or something like that. It might even be steeper than that, like 200 pages or something. whatever it is....STICK to it. It might take 5 pages to describe a thing on paper and an instant in visual time - but let's face it, the panoramic views of cameras/ different angles that can be shot, the looks on the faces of the main character and the opposite of the scene, etc...it's not a problem. If you can't get a book into a two-hour movie, again, there's something wrong. Vice versa, if you have to break up a book into several movies, there might also be something wrong. There are always exceptions to the rule, again, but as a general rule, this stands. And for all the haters out there, yes, I'm looking at Peter Jackson's "The Hobbit" on this one (Even though I thoroughly enjoy his stuff - including The Hobbit" - I would probably rather have seen one 4.5 hour film than three different films.)
7) "Based on a true story." No. Just tell us the story, stop taking "dramatic license" I know, it's not half as fun, but please, if it was only one play on a football field, don't make a whole season out of it, ok?
8) "This was a great play." Then please...leave it as such. It works as a play because a play has a unique audience, being live. A film audience can't interact with the film in the same way a theatre audience interacts with a play...the energy back and forth just isn't there. Just because it's a great play doesn't mean it will make a great film - and not everything needs to be made into a film.
9) "That was a great movie!" I'm looking at Disney and Dreamworks here. You make some fascinating films, you really do. But seriously?? It doesn't need to be made into a musical. Or a stage play. Or anything else. it's JUST a movie. Often, based on a fairy tale. Don't do this. Please. It's just wrong. You don't own these stories. Let them go.
10) "Reality TV" No. Stop. It was a horrible idea. Seriously - it's The Hunger Games, and you're not on Katniss's side. You're the Empire...and not the good parts of it.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Friday, December 6, 2013
Monday, November 25, 2013
A moment to pause...
Walking around campus on my lunch hour is nice. It's particularly nice when the students are on break for the week, and it's nice and quiet. In a city, that's something rare to find: quiet. But Thanksgiving Break is a wonderful time to be out and about, even if it's rather unseasonably cold this year.
As I wandered, I saw a statue that is, after some 50 years or so, getting repaired. Yes, for those who have seen it, know to avoid "the circle," etc, The statue that was labeled by me and my cronies as we went through the university here as "Scary Jesus" is getting repaired, and eventually, moved to a new location. For those who've not seen Scary Jesus - this is a very modern take on the Crucified Christ erected in the 1960's. Like any art, it is an interpretation, nothing more. And, it was the 60s, so.....it looks a little misshapen when you're close to it. From a distance, it looks pretty decent. Standing next to it, yeah, it's pretty scary-looking. The problem is that the wooden cross to which the bronze figure is attached is rotting, and both for safety and preservation, it needs to be repaired.
But, as a quick "stop-gap" and safety measure, the figure has been ratchet-strapped to the cross. I rounded the corner of a building and was looking straight at it. It was, in a word, humbling. No, that sculpture itself isn't what caught me off-guard. I've seen it these past 18 years, and so I was expecting to see it. But the thought occurred to me how, in this festive time, when we are to be thankful for friends and family, and as we embark on another season of Advent for the Christian communities of this world, how we tend to lose the meaning of the season. How we bind Christ to that cross, by wrapping presents, by trimming trees, by enjoying the excesses of our world, and forgetting the meaning of the season.
Now, I am not suggesting that those of you out there who are against formal and organized religion must "believe." Far from it. But, I have seen many people complaining how stores are opting to stay open on Thanksgiving. There are many memes, chain letters, calls for boycotts, etc - all saying what a shame it is that people will be made to work on Thanksgiving, all because the greed of corporate America simply does not care about families, about togetherness, about the Brotherhood of Man. And when I saw that figure, strapped tightly to that cross, all I could think of is how we, too, are binding that spirit of giving tighter and tighter.
Before anyone gets the idea that this is going to be me going off on a rant about how Christianity is being stifled, let's pause. Every country, every religion, every tribe, every culture - indeed, every person - has their heroes. These are men and women who have contributed something of such great worth that they deserve to be remembered. They come from many walks of life - some were religious figures, others were military folk, some were politicians, and some were men and women of science. The facts are, they've come from all walks of life, but they all did something great: They gave of themselves. Some gave so they could receive, and some just gave because they felt it was right. It doesn't matter - they simply GAVE. Many gave themselves to a cause, completely, and to their deaths. It is this spirit of giving that makes them worthy of remembrance.
While it may seem a trite notion, and more like me justifying a self-righteous attitude, I can't help but stop and think, "What do I give, and from where do I give it?" Does it come from the heart, or from a checkbook, or a store? Do I give because it's right, or because someone expects me to do it? Do I try and give "things" or do I try and give of myself? These are questions I must answer, and I'm not sure I always want the honest answers. I think, perhaps, the more important question - for me, at least - is in my giving, no matter how I choose to do it, am I practicing that same spirit of giving that so many have lived for, and perhaps died for? Or, am I taking that spirit of giving and binding it up tightly?
That's a heck of a thought for a Monday.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
As I wandered, I saw a statue that is, after some 50 years or so, getting repaired. Yes, for those who have seen it, know to avoid "the circle," etc, The statue that was labeled by me and my cronies as we went through the university here as "Scary Jesus" is getting repaired, and eventually, moved to a new location. For those who've not seen Scary Jesus - this is a very modern take on the Crucified Christ erected in the 1960's. Like any art, it is an interpretation, nothing more. And, it was the 60s, so.....it looks a little misshapen when you're close to it. From a distance, it looks pretty decent. Standing next to it, yeah, it's pretty scary-looking. The problem is that the wooden cross to which the bronze figure is attached is rotting, and both for safety and preservation, it needs to be repaired.
But, as a quick "stop-gap" and safety measure, the figure has been ratchet-strapped to the cross. I rounded the corner of a building and was looking straight at it. It was, in a word, humbling. No, that sculpture itself isn't what caught me off-guard. I've seen it these past 18 years, and so I was expecting to see it. But the thought occurred to me how, in this festive time, when we are to be thankful for friends and family, and as we embark on another season of Advent for the Christian communities of this world, how we tend to lose the meaning of the season. How we bind Christ to that cross, by wrapping presents, by trimming trees, by enjoying the excesses of our world, and forgetting the meaning of the season.
Now, I am not suggesting that those of you out there who are against formal and organized religion must "believe." Far from it. But, I have seen many people complaining how stores are opting to stay open on Thanksgiving. There are many memes, chain letters, calls for boycotts, etc - all saying what a shame it is that people will be made to work on Thanksgiving, all because the greed of corporate America simply does not care about families, about togetherness, about the Brotherhood of Man. And when I saw that figure, strapped tightly to that cross, all I could think of is how we, too, are binding that spirit of giving tighter and tighter.
Before anyone gets the idea that this is going to be me going off on a rant about how Christianity is being stifled, let's pause. Every country, every religion, every tribe, every culture - indeed, every person - has their heroes. These are men and women who have contributed something of such great worth that they deserve to be remembered. They come from many walks of life - some were religious figures, others were military folk, some were politicians, and some were men and women of science. The facts are, they've come from all walks of life, but they all did something great: They gave of themselves. Some gave so they could receive, and some just gave because they felt it was right. It doesn't matter - they simply GAVE. Many gave themselves to a cause, completely, and to their deaths. It is this spirit of giving that makes them worthy of remembrance.
While it may seem a trite notion, and more like me justifying a self-righteous attitude, I can't help but stop and think, "What do I give, and from where do I give it?" Does it come from the heart, or from a checkbook, or a store? Do I give because it's right, or because someone expects me to do it? Do I try and give "things" or do I try and give of myself? These are questions I must answer, and I'm not sure I always want the honest answers. I think, perhaps, the more important question - for me, at least - is in my giving, no matter how I choose to do it, am I practicing that same spirit of giving that so many have lived for, and perhaps died for? Or, am I taking that spirit of giving and binding it up tightly?
That's a heck of a thought for a Monday.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Thursday, November 14, 2013
The Blocke
Ahh, the Blocke. I'm writing about the blocke for several reasons: First, the Blocke is the world's most horrible thing to experience. It's not that there's anything wrong, or that it's physically painful or anything like that. Far from it. The Blocke is really just nothing. And it's a horrible nothingness. Second, I'm a little bit inspired by my friend Kim - whose blog can be found here http://www.chicagonow.com/listing-toward-forty/2013/11/40-really-awful-writing-prompts/ - and her thoughts on writing prompts. Third, I am always frustrated by writing prompts whenever I come across them. So, I am now writing about The Blocke.
Oh yes, I know that Writer's Block is not spelled with the extra "e' on the end. Even the British wouldn't do something as trivial as that, and I'm pretty sure that they invented the extra "e" on the end of things, just to make English a harder language to understand. No, no - I put the "e" on the end because I want to, because it makes me smile, and because I often type the letter "e" on the end of a whole bunch of words, only to realize that it never belongs there, looks stupid, and makes anything I type look like a a teacher told her third-grade class to re-type a book of Kantian ethics from memory, and then went and corrected everything in red pen.
But, The Blocke is a terrible thing. Imagine, if you will, that you are good at something. No - I mean REALLY good at it. Not just "better than average," or "passable," I mean so good at something that you really cannot imagine that it would not be a part of your daily life. Yeah, you're THAT good at it - and on top of that, you're THRILLED by the concept that this thing would be in your life all the time. It can be anything at all, from playing sports to brushing your teeth (although that's just a bit scary). And then, one day, you are ready to do your favorite thing, only to discover that you have NO IDEA how to do it. That is The Blocke. Only, it's not that you don't remember how-you just....can't, and the harder you try, the harder it is. Not only that, but you KNOW you're good at it, and you KNOW you love it. You also KNOW that right now, it's the most horribly nasty thing that can happen to you and no matter what you do it's not going to be helping a damned thing so you might as well just write any old thing that pops into your head and who cares it's a run-on sentence that sounds more like the drivel spouted by a teen-aged girl who is breaking up with her boyfriend for the seventeenth time this week. Yeah, it's also that annoying.
But my friend wrote a very interesting little list of all the things to NOT write about when you are in The Blocke, including writing about The Blocke. Why does she say this? Because, the world at large does not care about anyone who is experiencing The Blocke, nor is it interested in hearing about your particular struggles with it, etc - because it's also a very, very personal thing, and let's face it - the public in general has no interest in hearing about the writer's personal problems. No, the world wants to be entertained, and that is a writer's job. Whether you're writing for a news source, or a personal blog, or Saturday Night Live, the object is to make it just entertaining enough to get people to continue to read while still be informative....or just plain making them spit their coffee all over their computer screen.
And to get through The Blocke, we have writing prompts. These are nothing more than ideas to try and get the creative juices of writing moving again. And I hate them. Oh, it's not that they're bad, or wrong, or anything at all - I just find them annoying, and I've finally come to the conclusion of WHY I find them so annoying: They all have to do with "I," because they all seem to start with getting in touch with the inner self: "Write about your worst day at school," "Write about a time when someone you love did something nice for you," or "You're walking down the street and happen upon a package containing $1,000. What do you do?" Really???? Are they serious? There are lists of these things, and people who get paid to come up with these lists...all for what? To help writers get over something that cannot be specifically defined or understood? I mean, what is this, the dark ages? Why don't we just pull the leeches out of retirement for medicine, or start treating people for "vapors" again? This is preposterous.
I'm not going to claim that I have the missing answer, one-size-fits-all magical snake oil that can "cure" The Blocke - that's silly. The problem is that every writer is different. Some may go bowling. Some may drink like a fish, since it worked for Hemingway. Some might listen to music - there are as many ways to get through The Blocke as there are writers who are busy doing it. I've experienced The Blocke many times before, and the only thing that I know works for me is busying my mind with things that do not involve writing, and putting myself in places where I feel inspired. Because nobody cares about what you would do with that $1,000, anyway - least of all, you. You're busy living in The Blocke.
Oh yes, I know that Writer's Block is not spelled with the extra "e' on the end. Even the British wouldn't do something as trivial as that, and I'm pretty sure that they invented the extra "e" on the end of things, just to make English a harder language to understand. No, no - I put the "e" on the end because I want to, because it makes me smile, and because I often type the letter "e" on the end of a whole bunch of words, only to realize that it never belongs there, looks stupid, and makes anything I type look like a a teacher told her third-grade class to re-type a book of Kantian ethics from memory, and then went and corrected everything in red pen.
But, The Blocke is a terrible thing. Imagine, if you will, that you are good at something. No - I mean REALLY good at it. Not just "better than average," or "passable," I mean so good at something that you really cannot imagine that it would not be a part of your daily life. Yeah, you're THAT good at it - and on top of that, you're THRILLED by the concept that this thing would be in your life all the time. It can be anything at all, from playing sports to brushing your teeth (although that's just a bit scary). And then, one day, you are ready to do your favorite thing, only to discover that you have NO IDEA how to do it. That is The Blocke. Only, it's not that you don't remember how-you just....can't, and the harder you try, the harder it is. Not only that, but you KNOW you're good at it, and you KNOW you love it. You also KNOW that right now, it's the most horribly nasty thing that can happen to you and no matter what you do it's not going to be helping a damned thing so you might as well just write any old thing that pops into your head and who cares it's a run-on sentence that sounds more like the drivel spouted by a teen-aged girl who is breaking up with her boyfriend for the seventeenth time this week. Yeah, it's also that annoying.
But my friend wrote a very interesting little list of all the things to NOT write about when you are in The Blocke, including writing about The Blocke. Why does she say this? Because, the world at large does not care about anyone who is experiencing The Blocke, nor is it interested in hearing about your particular struggles with it, etc - because it's also a very, very personal thing, and let's face it - the public in general has no interest in hearing about the writer's personal problems. No, the world wants to be entertained, and that is a writer's job. Whether you're writing for a news source, or a personal blog, or Saturday Night Live, the object is to make it just entertaining enough to get people to continue to read while still be informative....or just plain making them spit their coffee all over their computer screen.
And to get through The Blocke, we have writing prompts. These are nothing more than ideas to try and get the creative juices of writing moving again. And I hate them. Oh, it's not that they're bad, or wrong, or anything at all - I just find them annoying, and I've finally come to the conclusion of WHY I find them so annoying: They all have to do with "I," because they all seem to start with getting in touch with the inner self: "Write about your worst day at school," "Write about a time when someone you love did something nice for you," or "You're walking down the street and happen upon a package containing $1,000. What do you do?" Really???? Are they serious? There are lists of these things, and people who get paid to come up with these lists...all for what? To help writers get over something that cannot be specifically defined or understood? I mean, what is this, the dark ages? Why don't we just pull the leeches out of retirement for medicine, or start treating people for "vapors" again? This is preposterous.
I'm not going to claim that I have the missing answer, one-size-fits-all magical snake oil that can "cure" The Blocke - that's silly. The problem is that every writer is different. Some may go bowling. Some may drink like a fish, since it worked for Hemingway. Some might listen to music - there are as many ways to get through The Blocke as there are writers who are busy doing it. I've experienced The Blocke many times before, and the only thing that I know works for me is busying my mind with things that do not involve writing, and putting myself in places where I feel inspired. Because nobody cares about what you would do with that $1,000, anyway - least of all, you. You're busy living in The Blocke.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
My Junk E-mail, Hungary, and Godwin's Law.
OK, it's a guilty pleasure of mine, but occasionally, I actually DO look through my junk mail folder to see if there's anything funny to laugh at, or, on rare occasions, something that was actually accidentally sent there. Today offered me something that is both truly outrageous, humorous, offensive, and assinine - all at the same time. It began with the simple title, "Hungary has fallen."
Now, as I happen to be of Hungarian descent, this is of some interest to me - which also explains why this came to me, I'm sure. "Well," I figured, "This ought to be at least amusing."
According to this message, Hungary is no longer a democracy. OH GOOD GOD, SAY IT ISN'T SO!!!!
I mean, really, why wouldn't everyone in the world stand up and be the exact same as 'Merica? Don't they KNOW that our system is the best and they should all aspire to be just like us? But I digress. The message went on to say that the current president has signed away the rights of the opposition parties after many years of, "gutting legislative powers, crippling the free press, and eliminating all mention of a "republic" in the country's constitution." Hmmm...so, they managed to do what the GOP and Democrats have both been trying to do (unsuccessfully) for the last 200+ years. And they made it legal? This is sounding almost more like a blueprint than a travesty. But this gets better.
The message goes on to say that there has been a marked rise in state-sanctioned antisemitism, racism, the criminalization of the homeless, attacks on women and the LGBT community, and worst of all - there are three (count them, THREE) men who are simply known to have ties to the pro-Nazi Arrow Cross Party. Now, here's where I began to laugh. I know, I know, call me crass, but here's where this message really "jumps the shark." I will invoke Godwin's Law here, (for those not aware, in 1990 Mike Godwin surmised that eventually, every internet conversation will lead to a comparison to Hitler and Nazi Germany) because the rest of the e-mail pretty much says, "sign this petition to tell the European Union to do something before Hungary becomes the next Third Reich."
And I laughed. I laughed hard.
Now, I did not laugh because the accusations - especially if they are indeed true - are something to laugh about. I don't like to hear that people are being oppressed anywhere. Nope, what I'm laughing at is the implication that Hungary could ever become something even remotely close to the Third Reich of Nazi-Germany. I mean, this is Hungary. The last "Notable Battle" according to the Wiki on it.....1849, when they tried to gain independence from the Austrian-Hungarian Empire (you know, those Habsburgs we all learned about in high school). The attempt failed.
This is a very small country (just under 100,000 km2 and just under 10 million people) surrounded on all sides by mountains, with 44,000 military personnel - 34% less than our good neighbors to the north, Canada. (via nationmaster.com). Oh, and their neighbors are Serbia, Croatia, Romania, Austria, Slovenia, Slovakia, and the Ukraine. Let's pretend that Sun Tzu's "Art of War" is still practical for a second...how would an army made of mostly tanks and needing supplies, get through any of its neighbors without a sudden and vicious onslaught coming back at them??????? The next Third Reich? Really??? I mean, there's a big difference between having France to one side of you, Poland to the other, and being surrounded by mountains full of people who have turned fighting and killing each other for the last 50 years into an art form!
We're talking about a country that hasn't really been in the news for anything since a small political uprising in 1956. The Gabor sisters (Zsa-Zsa and Eva) are the most known export, other than Gymnastics coach Bela Karolyi, and perhaps musician Bela Fleck. So - what are they going to do to the world? Make us watch old ladies do a floor program to music that Fleck wrote? This is, of course, assuming that they CAN prevail in any sort of world-conquering scheme.
OK - I realize that what this email was talking about was not the military might of Hungary. It's talking about a mindset that can very easily be taken over by fanaticism and warped into something wholly different. We see it all the time, from Islamic extremists to the Westboro Baptist Church, to the GOP members who try to outlaw love to the Liberals who try to outlaw guns. It is pervasive in our world. Extremism - the blatant and purposeful lack of understanding housed in the idea that what an individual or group believes is correct, regardless of practicality - is wrong. But we must also remember something: as Americans, our viewpoint that because we have certain freedoms, rights, and privileges then everyone else MUST have the same ones is ALSO wrong. We're good at demanding our own social freedoms. We're arrogant in assuming that our way is the best for everyone, everywhere.
Commentary is welcome, both positive and negative. Please construct good arguments.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Now, as I happen to be of Hungarian descent, this is of some interest to me - which also explains why this came to me, I'm sure. "Well," I figured, "This ought to be at least amusing."
According to this message, Hungary is no longer a democracy. OH GOOD GOD, SAY IT ISN'T SO!!!!
I mean, really, why wouldn't everyone in the world stand up and be the exact same as 'Merica? Don't they KNOW that our system is the best and they should all aspire to be just like us? But I digress. The message went on to say that the current president has signed away the rights of the opposition parties after many years of, "gutting legislative powers, crippling the free press, and eliminating all mention of a "republic" in the country's constitution." Hmmm...so, they managed to do what the GOP and Democrats have both been trying to do (unsuccessfully) for the last 200+ years. And they made it legal? This is sounding almost more like a blueprint than a travesty. But this gets better.
The message goes on to say that there has been a marked rise in state-sanctioned antisemitism, racism, the criminalization of the homeless, attacks on women and the LGBT community, and worst of all - there are three (count them, THREE) men who are simply known to have ties to the pro-Nazi Arrow Cross Party. Now, here's where I began to laugh. I know, I know, call me crass, but here's where this message really "jumps the shark." I will invoke Godwin's Law here, (for those not aware, in 1990 Mike Godwin surmised that eventually, every internet conversation will lead to a comparison to Hitler and Nazi Germany) because the rest of the e-mail pretty much says, "sign this petition to tell the European Union to do something before Hungary becomes the next Third Reich."
And I laughed. I laughed hard.
Now, I did not laugh because the accusations - especially if they are indeed true - are something to laugh about. I don't like to hear that people are being oppressed anywhere. Nope, what I'm laughing at is the implication that Hungary could ever become something even remotely close to the Third Reich of Nazi-Germany. I mean, this is Hungary. The last "Notable Battle" according to the Wiki on it.....1849, when they tried to gain independence from the Austrian-Hungarian Empire (you know, those Habsburgs we all learned about in high school). The attempt failed.
This is a very small country (just under 100,000 km2 and just under 10 million people) surrounded on all sides by mountains, with 44,000 military personnel - 34% less than our good neighbors to the north, Canada. (via nationmaster.com). Oh, and their neighbors are Serbia, Croatia, Romania, Austria, Slovenia, Slovakia, and the Ukraine. Let's pretend that Sun Tzu's "Art of War" is still practical for a second...how would an army made of mostly tanks and needing supplies, get through any of its neighbors without a sudden and vicious onslaught coming back at them??????? The next Third Reich? Really??? I mean, there's a big difference between having France to one side of you, Poland to the other, and being surrounded by mountains full of people who have turned fighting and killing each other for the last 50 years into an art form!
We're talking about a country that hasn't really been in the news for anything since a small political uprising in 1956. The Gabor sisters (Zsa-Zsa and Eva) are the most known export, other than Gymnastics coach Bela Karolyi, and perhaps musician Bela Fleck. So - what are they going to do to the world? Make us watch old ladies do a floor program to music that Fleck wrote? This is, of course, assuming that they CAN prevail in any sort of world-conquering scheme.
OK - I realize that what this email was talking about was not the military might of Hungary. It's talking about a mindset that can very easily be taken over by fanaticism and warped into something wholly different. We see it all the time, from Islamic extremists to the Westboro Baptist Church, to the GOP members who try to outlaw love to the Liberals who try to outlaw guns. It is pervasive in our world. Extremism - the blatant and purposeful lack of understanding housed in the idea that what an individual or group believes is correct, regardless of practicality - is wrong. But we must also remember something: as Americans, our viewpoint that because we have certain freedoms, rights, and privileges then everyone else MUST have the same ones is ALSO wrong. We're good at demanding our own social freedoms. We're arrogant in assuming that our way is the best for everyone, everywhere.
Commentary is welcome, both positive and negative. Please construct good arguments.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Once More Unto the Breach...
Thus begins what is perhaps one of the most compelling speeches in human history...that ever came from a piece of mostly fiction. These words, uttered by Henry V in Shakespeare's famous work of the same name, were used to galvanize the will of the English forces to fight on and commit everything they had to win in battle - and they have been used ever since then when we find ourselves facing decisions which require us to give our all, commit wholeheartedly, and abandon ourselves to our fate for the decisions we face. This phrase has taken on many guises over the years: "Damn the torpedoes" "Come Hell or high water" "Jump in with both feet" "All in," etc, are just a few of the examples of this attitude that are still found in our language usage today.
It's not necessarily something we encounter every day, but the opportunities we have to steel our own will, call upon what courage we have in our blood, do surround us, and what makes us who we are is what we choose to do in those moments. Yesterday was a moment like that for me.
For quite a while now, the Fat Kid has been planning. See, I fell in love with a beautiful woman who changed my life forever. She has shown me patience, kindness, understanding, mercy, faithfulness, and most of all, love. She's shown me how to laugh again, how to experience real joy, and how to cultivate that inner light that burns inside each one of us. She's shown me what it means to go "all in." And so, I began planning for that moment when I could go "all in" with her, forever. Yup - I'm talking about the Big M...marriage.
So yesterday, with the plans to surprise this woman with a ring in a few weeks' time securely in my mind (and no one else's, mind you - nobody knew the whole story) I realized that those plans would come to naught. Not because I was no longer sure of the response, but because there was simply no need to wait any longer. It would have served no purpose other than to make her more anxious and frustrated. So I did the unthinkable: I spoiled my own secret machinations of surprise. Faced with the choice, I decided to go "all in."
Oh, she was mad. She wanted to be surprised. I ruined that one thing she was looking forward to, and now, how could she be surprised? It was ruined, and shattered. The perfect plan, laying in scraps at my feet. That's when I realized why it was that committing wholeheartedly to this woman wasn't just something I wanted to do - it's what I needed to do. There I was, the ring in my pocket, and my somewhat distraught love sitting on the edge of the water fountain next to me. And I knew that she loved me, even through the ruined surprise, she loved me still, and I loved her the more for it. It wasn't perfect, it wasn't according to plan, but there it was, staring me in the face: Life isn't perfect. It's full of twists and turns that take our perfect plans, tip them over, twist them up, crumple them and throw those plans on the trash heap. It's what we do when that happens that makes us who we are.
So, I reached into my pocket, knelt down on a knee before her, and said, "Life isn't perfect. It doesn't go according to plans, no matter how good they might be. This isn't how I envisioned it. But I'm not asking you to marry because I want perfection. I'm asking you to marry me because I want honesty. I love you with all I am, and if you'll have me, I would be honored if you would be my wife." ALL IN.
When was the last time you had one of these moments? What did you decide to do? Did you play it safe, or did you commit to it, wholeheartedly? Safe may keep you existing, but to truly live, you have to go all in, at least some of the time. No, you don't know what will happen. It probably won't go "according to plan." It probably will feel a little weird and strange. And sometimes, you may lose. But not doing it is like not asking a question - the answer will always be "no" if you don't ask it. It can't happen if you don't try. You cannot change anything if you do not take the risk, the chance, the guts and courage to say,
Oh, and for those playing along at home, she said, "Yes!"
The Fat Kid is getting married!
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
It's not necessarily something we encounter every day, but the opportunities we have to steel our own will, call upon what courage we have in our blood, do surround us, and what makes us who we are is what we choose to do in those moments. Yesterday was a moment like that for me.
For quite a while now, the Fat Kid has been planning. See, I fell in love with a beautiful woman who changed my life forever. She has shown me patience, kindness, understanding, mercy, faithfulness, and most of all, love. She's shown me how to laugh again, how to experience real joy, and how to cultivate that inner light that burns inside each one of us. She's shown me what it means to go "all in." And so, I began planning for that moment when I could go "all in" with her, forever. Yup - I'm talking about the Big M...marriage.
So yesterday, with the plans to surprise this woman with a ring in a few weeks' time securely in my mind (and no one else's, mind you - nobody knew the whole story) I realized that those plans would come to naught. Not because I was no longer sure of the response, but because there was simply no need to wait any longer. It would have served no purpose other than to make her more anxious and frustrated. So I did the unthinkable: I spoiled my own secret machinations of surprise. Faced with the choice, I decided to go "all in."
Oh, she was mad. She wanted to be surprised. I ruined that one thing she was looking forward to, and now, how could she be surprised? It was ruined, and shattered. The perfect plan, laying in scraps at my feet. That's when I realized why it was that committing wholeheartedly to this woman wasn't just something I wanted to do - it's what I needed to do. There I was, the ring in my pocket, and my somewhat distraught love sitting on the edge of the water fountain next to me. And I knew that she loved me, even through the ruined surprise, she loved me still, and I loved her the more for it. It wasn't perfect, it wasn't according to plan, but there it was, staring me in the face: Life isn't perfect. It's full of twists and turns that take our perfect plans, tip them over, twist them up, crumple them and throw those plans on the trash heap. It's what we do when that happens that makes us who we are.
So, I reached into my pocket, knelt down on a knee before her, and said, "Life isn't perfect. It doesn't go according to plans, no matter how good they might be. This isn't how I envisioned it. But I'm not asking you to marry because I want perfection. I'm asking you to marry me because I want honesty. I love you with all I am, and if you'll have me, I would be honored if you would be my wife." ALL IN.
When was the last time you had one of these moments? What did you decide to do? Did you play it safe, or did you commit to it, wholeheartedly? Safe may keep you existing, but to truly live, you have to go all in, at least some of the time. No, you don't know what will happen. It probably won't go "according to plan." It probably will feel a little weird and strange. And sometimes, you may lose. But not doing it is like not asking a question - the answer will always be "no" if you don't ask it. It can't happen if you don't try. You cannot change anything if you do not take the risk, the chance, the guts and courage to say,
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,
Or close the wall up with our English dead!
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility,
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger:
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage,
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect,
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon, let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a gallèd rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English,
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof,
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument.
Dishonor not your mothers. Now attest
That those whom you called fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture. Let us swear
That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not,
For there is none of you so mean and base
That hath not noble luster in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot.
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry “God for Harry, England, and Saint George!”
The Fat Kid is getting married!
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
A Little Less Fat Kid, a Lot More Awesome
It's time again for an update from the Fat Kid!
Well, as most of you all know, I've struggled on and off for a long time with weight issues. I mean, seriously, I call myself the Fat Kid...weight/body image issues, much??? Along with this whole running thing that I've been doing - yep, I've kinda sorta kept on AFTER the 5k - I've been trying to eat better, too. The last time I did this, I went from a heavy 265 lbs to 225 lbs. I looked great, I felt great, and then I sort of stopped taking as much care of myself as I should have, and my weight went back up to about 250 lbs. So, with the running and activity level this year, my goal was to lose about 20 lbs. And I'm proud to say that in about 12 weeks, I've done just that, and am sitting pretty at about 230 lbs!!!! YAY! Go, Me!
And then, today, a friend of mine posted an article on his facebook page about "crossfit." Now, if you're unfamiliar with it, crossfit is pretty much a high-energy, kick-ass program designed to improve your overall fitness level while building muscle, cutting fat, and making you physically capable of accomplishing anything. In basic terminology, this is what you should be doing if you are planning on outrunning and outmuscling the zombie apocalypse. It's crazy, in that same way the "p-90x" and "insanity" workouts are crazy. But...it does work. But, I digress. My friend posted an article about what winning means, and why it's important. Here's the quote from the article that caught me:
"Winning is about overcoming doubts, overcoming fears and insecurities. It's ridding ourselves of negative thoughts and telling our bodies and our minds to do what they've been training to do over the past weeks, months, and years." -Pat Hanavan
OK, you might be saying, "I'm tired of all your positive-talk and gobbledegook nonsense!" I don't blame you. It's tough to keep hearing it over and over, particularly if you're NOT one of those annoyingly positive people. But please, re-read that quote. It says it plain as day: "...telling our bodies and minds to do what they've been training to do..." That's how you win. That's how you succeed, in anything. There's a scientific principle that mimics this, in the laws of intertia: Objects at rest tend to stay at rest, while objects in motion tend to stay in motion. This is the same thing. If we train to be sedentary, we will stay that way, and if we train to be active, we will remain so. All it takes is a little willpower to overcome our fears, our doubts, and our insecurities. I'm an expert in those. I have many. They challenge me constantly, and I hate them. I hate that I can't shut those fears off. I hate that they intervene in my life and cause me to doubt. For a long time, those fears ruled my life, and I didn't very much like me. Now? Now, I still have skirmishes with those fears, those doubts, those insecurities. Sometimes, they win. I win a lot more of those skirmishes than I used to.
I'm training to win them all.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Well, as most of you all know, I've struggled on and off for a long time with weight issues. I mean, seriously, I call myself the Fat Kid...weight/body image issues, much??? Along with this whole running thing that I've been doing - yep, I've kinda sorta kept on AFTER the 5k - I've been trying to eat better, too. The last time I did this, I went from a heavy 265 lbs to 225 lbs. I looked great, I felt great, and then I sort of stopped taking as much care of myself as I should have, and my weight went back up to about 250 lbs. So, with the running and activity level this year, my goal was to lose about 20 lbs. And I'm proud to say that in about 12 weeks, I've done just that, and am sitting pretty at about 230 lbs!!!! YAY! Go, Me!
And then, today, a friend of mine posted an article on his facebook page about "crossfit." Now, if you're unfamiliar with it, crossfit is pretty much a high-energy, kick-ass program designed to improve your overall fitness level while building muscle, cutting fat, and making you physically capable of accomplishing anything. In basic terminology, this is what you should be doing if you are planning on outrunning and outmuscling the zombie apocalypse. It's crazy, in that same way the "p-90x" and "insanity" workouts are crazy. But...it does work. But, I digress. My friend posted an article about what winning means, and why it's important. Here's the quote from the article that caught me:
"Winning is about overcoming doubts, overcoming fears and insecurities. It's ridding ourselves of negative thoughts and telling our bodies and our minds to do what they've been training to do over the past weeks, months, and years." -Pat Hanavan
OK, you might be saying, "I'm tired of all your positive-talk and gobbledegook nonsense!" I don't blame you. It's tough to keep hearing it over and over, particularly if you're NOT one of those annoyingly positive people. But please, re-read that quote. It says it plain as day: "...telling our bodies and minds to do what they've been training to do..." That's how you win. That's how you succeed, in anything. There's a scientific principle that mimics this, in the laws of intertia: Objects at rest tend to stay at rest, while objects in motion tend to stay in motion. This is the same thing. If we train to be sedentary, we will stay that way, and if we train to be active, we will remain so. All it takes is a little willpower to overcome our fears, our doubts, and our insecurities. I'm an expert in those. I have many. They challenge me constantly, and I hate them. I hate that I can't shut those fears off. I hate that they intervene in my life and cause me to doubt. For a long time, those fears ruled my life, and I didn't very much like me. Now? Now, I still have skirmishes with those fears, those doubts, those insecurities. Sometimes, they win. I win a lot more of those skirmishes than I used to.
I'm training to win them all.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Monday, June 24, 2013
The lasting effect...
It often surprises me how I remember things. Strange things that make no real sense for me to remember, and some things that make perfect sense. There's probably some crazed pattern to it -moments from my life when I was particularly observant for some reason or other, or something that was drilled into my head repeatedly until I had no choice but to incorporate it into myself. Either way, it sometimes amazes me.
This was a weekend full of memories. I was lucky to get to witness the retirement of a Serbian Eastern Orthodox priest, who, for the last 37 years has been in service in a single parish. Now, it's rare to get to witness the retirement of any priest in any religion, but to find anyone who has been in the service of a single parish for that long a time is even more rare. Of course, the outpouring of love for this man was simply astounding. Speeches were given, Kola dancing was performed, choirs sang, and then, the person everyone was honoring stood up and said his many thanks. But then he said something that made me understand just why the crowd of 400 was there to honor him.
Slightly stooping with age, in his broken English, this man simply said, "I would ask you to forgive me. Forgive each other, have no fear or anger in your hearts when you come to church, or anywhere you seek God." Wow. His retirement, and all he wants is to be forgiven. 37 years of service, and he asks, of all things, to be forgiven. This is the picture of humility. In this exceedingly cynical age, where most organized religion is looked down upon by the media in general, it is so nice to see that there are still humble people who recognize the gifts of mercy, kindness, simplicity, and love.
The following morning, I was given permission to sing in the choir during the Divine Liturgy. Now, growing up Catholic, I thought the Roman church was pretty strict, and that an hour long Mass was long. An Orthodox service is usually about twice as long a Catholic Mass, and it's all singing. Well, almost all of it. And the choir is...pretty darned important. Indeed, it's essential to the Liturgy. THey take the choir pretty seriously, and here, a stranger who doesn't know the music and doesn't know the language (yes, some of it is in Serbian) was allowed to sing in the choir. Luckily, I can sing, and I can read music quickly. It seems the director of the choir is VERY picky about whom she allows to sing...and I was invited back to sing any time. I guess I was trained pretty well.
I owe much of that training to one man, whom, I found out after the service, passed away, I think that morning. Jim Callaghan, long-time teacher, mentor, and friend, taught me to learn music, learn it quickly, and to trust my voice. He taught me to sing with gusto, and if I was going to make a mistake - own it. He taught me what it meant to lead and to follow, and to recognize the qualities of leadership in others. He taught me that music is born from within, that it lives in the soul, and that the gift of music - or any art, for that matter - lies not in posessing a talent, but in sharing it with others. He taught me that the reward was not to be found in the accolades one might receive, but in watching the faces of those reacting to art, and making their lives, for just a moment, a touch better. He taught me how the arts have a power to bring about change. He especially taught me that music is a prayer. There are prayers said before battles, and prayers said before celebrations. There are prayers of sorrow, and prayers of joy, prayers of loss and prayers of reward. I like to think that on Sunday morning, the prayers that I was singing maybe helped Jim along his way to a choir of another sort - that of the angels of Heaven. Thank you, Jim, for all that you have done for me and for countless others. May you know a heavenly rest.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
This was a weekend full of memories. I was lucky to get to witness the retirement of a Serbian Eastern Orthodox priest, who, for the last 37 years has been in service in a single parish. Now, it's rare to get to witness the retirement of any priest in any religion, but to find anyone who has been in the service of a single parish for that long a time is even more rare. Of course, the outpouring of love for this man was simply astounding. Speeches were given, Kola dancing was performed, choirs sang, and then, the person everyone was honoring stood up and said his many thanks. But then he said something that made me understand just why the crowd of 400 was there to honor him.
Slightly stooping with age, in his broken English, this man simply said, "I would ask you to forgive me. Forgive each other, have no fear or anger in your hearts when you come to church, or anywhere you seek God." Wow. His retirement, and all he wants is to be forgiven. 37 years of service, and he asks, of all things, to be forgiven. This is the picture of humility. In this exceedingly cynical age, where most organized religion is looked down upon by the media in general, it is so nice to see that there are still humble people who recognize the gifts of mercy, kindness, simplicity, and love.
The following morning, I was given permission to sing in the choir during the Divine Liturgy. Now, growing up Catholic, I thought the Roman church was pretty strict, and that an hour long Mass was long. An Orthodox service is usually about twice as long a Catholic Mass, and it's all singing. Well, almost all of it. And the choir is...pretty darned important. Indeed, it's essential to the Liturgy. THey take the choir pretty seriously, and here, a stranger who doesn't know the music and doesn't know the language (yes, some of it is in Serbian) was allowed to sing in the choir. Luckily, I can sing, and I can read music quickly. It seems the director of the choir is VERY picky about whom she allows to sing...and I was invited back to sing any time. I guess I was trained pretty well.
I owe much of that training to one man, whom, I found out after the service, passed away, I think that morning. Jim Callaghan, long-time teacher, mentor, and friend, taught me to learn music, learn it quickly, and to trust my voice. He taught me to sing with gusto, and if I was going to make a mistake - own it. He taught me what it meant to lead and to follow, and to recognize the qualities of leadership in others. He taught me that music is born from within, that it lives in the soul, and that the gift of music - or any art, for that matter - lies not in posessing a talent, but in sharing it with others. He taught me that the reward was not to be found in the accolades one might receive, but in watching the faces of those reacting to art, and making their lives, for just a moment, a touch better. He taught me how the arts have a power to bring about change. He especially taught me that music is a prayer. There are prayers said before battles, and prayers said before celebrations. There are prayers of sorrow, and prayers of joy, prayers of loss and prayers of reward. I like to think that on Sunday morning, the prayers that I was singing maybe helped Jim along his way to a choir of another sort - that of the angels of Heaven. Thank you, Jim, for all that you have done for me and for countless others. May you know a heavenly rest.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Bike to 5k....I'm the luckiest man alive.
You know, there are a lot of people out there who have done a "Couch to 5k" program - and it's awesome. I'm not sure I could have done that. Well, I didn't do that, as a matter of fact. I did a "Couch to biking" program, and now I've started down a "Bike to 5k" program...and everything, including the aches and pains...has been worth it.
Saturday morning, 6 AM. If I'm going to eat, I know that I have to do it now. Otherwise, there's no eating until after the race. I know this because there have been countless training runs where I was cramping from eating too close to the run. So I eat just a little, and start drinking.
7:30 - leave the house to get to the race start. Registration starts at 8 and there's only a mile and half to go, but you never know how these things go, so it's "get there early and get it done." I think we were the first in line to get to the registration tables. And met the newly re-elected mayor. Oh, ok.
9:00 - Race start. I get off to a good start and am feeling pretty decent for the first mile....and that's when it starts: pain in the shins. Pain? More like, "my shins felt like 80 lbs of lead." In the interest of wanting to conserve energy, I think I failed to warm up quiiiiiiiite enough, and the result was fast-building lactic acid in my shins. Maybe that's "shin splints" and maybe it's not - the truth be told, I don't really care. All I know is that it forced me to.....walk. I know that a lot of runners have to walk for a bit in their races, and that's fine. A lot of those people I talk to are walking while doing a malf marathon, or a 10k, or other even longer race. I was walking after about the first .75 (yeah, that's 3/4) of a mile. REALLY???? Talk about disappointing.
Now, it's amazing. Several times in my life, it's felt like time slows when I'm in the middle of a moment. This felt like that. My love and partner in this running event caught up to me (not that she was ever far behind) and pushed me through the pain. Wow. What an amazing woman. Not only is she running the race, but she's motivating the Fat Kid to keep it going. It's at this point where I sit back and look at it all and say, "What did I ever do to deserve the love of a woman like this?" Those minutes seemed like hours to the pain in my legs, but her support made me realize something: I had to fight to get here, and this race was not going to let me finish it without that same fight.
So we kept going. I walked when I had to, and I ran as much as I could. Finally, at the end, I had enough in the tank (and for the record, the energy, my lungs, etc ALL felt great - except the lower half of my legs) And then I saw the finish line...and the best thing ever: that clock that tells you just how much time has passed. And then I saw the worst thing ever: the 70+ yr old man in front of me. OK, I can't make this phrase sound good, but "AAWWWWW HELL TO THE "NO." Yeah. Pain or no pain, I can't let a senior citizen beat me. That bit about conserving energy came in handy as I crossed the line at 32:46, one second ahead of Mr. Anderson, who crossed at 32:47. My support, my love, my inspiration, my cheerleader, my best friend...crossed just afterwards at 32:52. She was only behind me because I didn't tell her I was going to sprint. She deserved better from me.
11AM - packed, ready to go, a camping weekend awaiting us, we head off for a weekend of cold nights, warm campfires, hiking, beach volleyball and a little well-deserved camp cooking (steak, sausage and peppers, eggs, chicken salad, yams, etc.) and there may or may not have been a little whiskey, too!
There have been a lot of "great/awesome weekends" for me in the last bunch of months. In fact, I've been blessed with many weekends liek that over the course of my life. This one....this one put them all to shame. I am the luckiest man alive.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Saturday morning, 6 AM. If I'm going to eat, I know that I have to do it now. Otherwise, there's no eating until after the race. I know this because there have been countless training runs where I was cramping from eating too close to the run. So I eat just a little, and start drinking.
7:30 - leave the house to get to the race start. Registration starts at 8 and there's only a mile and half to go, but you never know how these things go, so it's "get there early and get it done." I think we were the first in line to get to the registration tables. And met the newly re-elected mayor. Oh, ok.
9:00 - Race start. I get off to a good start and am feeling pretty decent for the first mile....and that's when it starts: pain in the shins. Pain? More like, "my shins felt like 80 lbs of lead." In the interest of wanting to conserve energy, I think I failed to warm up quiiiiiiiite enough, and the result was fast-building lactic acid in my shins. Maybe that's "shin splints" and maybe it's not - the truth be told, I don't really care. All I know is that it forced me to.....walk. I know that a lot of runners have to walk for a bit in their races, and that's fine. A lot of those people I talk to are walking while doing a malf marathon, or a 10k, or other even longer race. I was walking after about the first .75 (yeah, that's 3/4) of a mile. REALLY???? Talk about disappointing.
Now, it's amazing. Several times in my life, it's felt like time slows when I'm in the middle of a moment. This felt like that. My love and partner in this running event caught up to me (not that she was ever far behind) and pushed me through the pain. Wow. What an amazing woman. Not only is she running the race, but she's motivating the Fat Kid to keep it going. It's at this point where I sit back and look at it all and say, "What did I ever do to deserve the love of a woman like this?" Those minutes seemed like hours to the pain in my legs, but her support made me realize something: I had to fight to get here, and this race was not going to let me finish it without that same fight.
So we kept going. I walked when I had to, and I ran as much as I could. Finally, at the end, I had enough in the tank (and for the record, the energy, my lungs, etc ALL felt great - except the lower half of my legs) And then I saw the finish line...and the best thing ever: that clock that tells you just how much time has passed. And then I saw the worst thing ever: the 70+ yr old man in front of me. OK, I can't make this phrase sound good, but "AAWWWWW HELL TO THE "NO." Yeah. Pain or no pain, I can't let a senior citizen beat me. That bit about conserving energy came in handy as I crossed the line at 32:46, one second ahead of Mr. Anderson, who crossed at 32:47. My support, my love, my inspiration, my cheerleader, my best friend...crossed just afterwards at 32:52. She was only behind me because I didn't tell her I was going to sprint. She deserved better from me.
11AM - packed, ready to go, a camping weekend awaiting us, we head off for a weekend of cold nights, warm campfires, hiking, beach volleyball and a little well-deserved camp cooking (steak, sausage and peppers, eggs, chicken salad, yams, etc.) and there may or may not have been a little whiskey, too!
There have been a lot of "great/awesome weekends" for me in the last bunch of months. In fact, I've been blessed with many weekends liek that over the course of my life. This one....this one put them all to shame. I am the luckiest man alive.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Thursday, May 2, 2013
The Fat Kid Runneth???
Well, I thought it might be about time to dedicate a post to this latest project of mine: running a 5K race. For someone who understands that running and cycling share a lot of the same qualities, you'd think that I might take to it quickly, and enjoy it. Well, there's a hidden quality they both share, and that is that TRAINING SUCKS. Yup. Training is where the hard work is done. That's where you run, even if you don't want to, even if you can't stand the pain, even if you know you look like an idiot out there, even if your legs are about to fall off - you keep doing it. The rewards are the races, but the training? No, the training is where you do the hard work, and for me, that hard work - on the bike or on my feet - will never be "fun." It's training, and it hurts, and that's why I don't like it.
But in the last couple of weeks, a few things have happened. See, the Fat Kid's girlfriend LIKES to run, and convinced me that doing a 5k race was a good and important thing. She's right, of course - running is a good thing for me to do. It's healthy, it's easier to do wherever I go, it's relatively low-cost (if you want it to be) and I can still wear most of my biking gear while doing it...so it's really a smart thing, as it also works other muscle groups and is good for my lungs, etc. I know all this, but the facts remain: I have never run a distance of 3.1 miles in my life, and up to now, have convinced myself that I could NOT do it. In fact, I've been afraid of it, hiding behind excuses like "flat feet" (which is true) "shin splints" (which is true, but I've likely exaggerated it) and other such things. So, registering with her for this race is a way for me to face this rather silly fear of running.
And it turns out that "silly" is precisely what it is. I mean, really? Afraid of running? Who does that? And I remembered something: I used to be afraid of hills, too. Now I just don't like them a whole bunch, but I used to be afraid to even try them. Now, I see a hill and even though I know it's going to hurt, I do my best to ride up it anyway. Why? Because I don't want to be afraid anymore. I don't like that guy who fears hills. Just like I don't like that guy who's afraid to run.
So, with that in mind this week, I've been running regularly, and on Tuesday, something pretty incredible happened: I ran the first mile without stopping. Previously, I'd been running about 1/3 mile before having to stop and rest for a second, or at least walk just a little. Not on that day. I finally completed the first mile. For the first time since starting this exploration into running (which started about 6 weeks ago with occasionally running with my girlfriend) I could look at what I did, and be mildly pleased. Oh hell, I was ecstatic!!! I - me - the Fat Kid - RAN A MILE. I don't think I've ever run a mile before in my life. Ever. And here I am, doing it. Still not necessarily "enjoying" it...but DOING it.
Now - for a quick dose of reality, one mile's not going to get me far in a 3.1 mile race. Not in the least. So I should only be just "so proud" of 1 mile. But it's that first mile that's the hardest to conquer. I know if I can do one mile, I can eventually do two, and if I can do two, I can eventually do three. The only problem is that I have until the 25th to be able to do those three. Damned time limitations. But that's a good thing, because it doesn't let me hide from it. I'm forced to do it, to own it, to push myself, in an endeavor that is good for me. And I'm telling you all about it because that's me not hiding from it either. Who knows? There may be a day when I become "The Kid Formerly Known As Fat" and I get to make my name into just a symbol. Ummm...Don't hold your breath on that one.
In other knews...I'm getting even with her, and making her prep for a ride-to-be-disclosed-later. Maybe we can both win!
Thanks for Reading,
The Fat Kid
But in the last couple of weeks, a few things have happened. See, the Fat Kid's girlfriend LIKES to run, and convinced me that doing a 5k race was a good and important thing. She's right, of course - running is a good thing for me to do. It's healthy, it's easier to do wherever I go, it's relatively low-cost (if you want it to be) and I can still wear most of my biking gear while doing it...so it's really a smart thing, as it also works other muscle groups and is good for my lungs, etc. I know all this, but the facts remain: I have never run a distance of 3.1 miles in my life, and up to now, have convinced myself that I could NOT do it. In fact, I've been afraid of it, hiding behind excuses like "flat feet" (which is true) "shin splints" (which is true, but I've likely exaggerated it) and other such things. So, registering with her for this race is a way for me to face this rather silly fear of running.
And it turns out that "silly" is precisely what it is. I mean, really? Afraid of running? Who does that? And I remembered something: I used to be afraid of hills, too. Now I just don't like them a whole bunch, but I used to be afraid to even try them. Now, I see a hill and even though I know it's going to hurt, I do my best to ride up it anyway. Why? Because I don't want to be afraid anymore. I don't like that guy who fears hills. Just like I don't like that guy who's afraid to run.
So, with that in mind this week, I've been running regularly, and on Tuesday, something pretty incredible happened: I ran the first mile without stopping. Previously, I'd been running about 1/3 mile before having to stop and rest for a second, or at least walk just a little. Not on that day. I finally completed the first mile. For the first time since starting this exploration into running (which started about 6 weeks ago with occasionally running with my girlfriend) I could look at what I did, and be mildly pleased. Oh hell, I was ecstatic!!! I - me - the Fat Kid - RAN A MILE. I don't think I've ever run a mile before in my life. Ever. And here I am, doing it. Still not necessarily "enjoying" it...but DOING it.
Now - for a quick dose of reality, one mile's not going to get me far in a 3.1 mile race. Not in the least. So I should only be just "so proud" of 1 mile. But it's that first mile that's the hardest to conquer. I know if I can do one mile, I can eventually do two, and if I can do two, I can eventually do three. The only problem is that I have until the 25th to be able to do those three. Damned time limitations. But that's a good thing, because it doesn't let me hide from it. I'm forced to do it, to own it, to push myself, in an endeavor that is good for me. And I'm telling you all about it because that's me not hiding from it either. Who knows? There may be a day when I become "The Kid Formerly Known As Fat" and I get to make my name into just a symbol. Ummm...Don't hold your breath on that one.
In other knews...I'm getting even with her, and making her prep for a ride-to-be-disclosed-later. Maybe we can both win!
Thanks for Reading,
The Fat Kid
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Poetry Challenge, v. 4.0, Days 29 and 30
Well, here we are, Day 30, and I have my final two poems of this year’s installment. Normally, I’m relieved when the final day of the poetry project comes around, but today, I almost find myself feeling a little saddened. I’ve simply had a great time this year, and even though some of my stuff may have seemed garbled or unclear, I’ve still enjoyed writing it, much more so than I ever have before. That is a very refreshing thought amidst my sadness at having finished out the month. Very refreshing indeed. So, without further ado, let’s get on to the last of this year’s poems!
The First Mile
Feet pounding the pavement,
Legs heavy, steps smaller than I’d like,
Breathing in sync on a two-count.
In, in, out, out, in, in again.
I turn down the street,
Unsure if I can make it to the end,
But I press onward.
I must keep going,
Keep moving,
Keep breathing,
Keep living,
Even if only for the next breath
Or the next step.
It must be.
Giving up is not an option,
Quitting – an avenue I’ve traveled before
And never want to take again.
A short rise up ahead,
And I lean into the wind,
Out, out, in, in, out – it fills my head until
I hear magical words
Telling me the mile is over.
The first of many more.
Corner-House
A house can be sad.
Broken windows boarded up
Tell the story of a place
Where love used to rule
And smiles were currency.
The roofline is still straight,
It could not have been too long ago,
the grass is long and overgrown now,
and the yellow brick of the walls,
with its red mortar,
looks like the tulips
still barely surviving in the yard.
So, there we have it: another year of poetry challenge done! Some good, some...less than good...but I hope, in all, that you enjoyed this part of the journey. Maybe you've even decided to start a journey of your own, I dunno. I only know that I've enjoyed having you all with me on this ride, and, as always, Thanks for reading, The Fat Kid
The First Mile
Feet pounding the pavement,
Legs heavy, steps smaller than I’d like,
Breathing in sync on a two-count.
In, in, out, out, in, in again.
I turn down the street,
Unsure if I can make it to the end,
But I press onward.
I must keep going,
Keep moving,
Keep breathing,
Keep living,
Even if only for the next breath
Or the next step.
It must be.
Giving up is not an option,
Quitting – an avenue I’ve traveled before
And never want to take again.
A short rise up ahead,
And I lean into the wind,
Out, out, in, in, out – it fills my head until
I hear magical words
Telling me the mile is over.
The first of many more.
Corner-House
A house can be sad.
Broken windows boarded up
Tell the story of a place
Where love used to rule
And smiles were currency.
The roofline is still straight,
It could not have been too long ago,
the grass is long and overgrown now,
and the yellow brick of the walls,
with its red mortar,
looks like the tulips
still barely surviving in the yard.
So, there we have it: another year of poetry challenge done! Some good, some...less than good...but I hope, in all, that you enjoyed this part of the journey. Maybe you've even decided to start a journey of your own, I dunno. I only know that I've enjoyed having you all with me on this ride, and, as always, Thanks for reading, The Fat Kid
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Poetry Challenge, v. 4.0, Days 26, 27, and 28
Ahh, the weekend. Time to do things around the house, spend some time with my honey, and forget to do poetry for a few days. Ummm...oops. But hey, it's the final push to get all these things done, I've made it this far, and so, once again, it's time to buckle down, finish this month of poems up, and get ready for the next great adventure! Yes, this has been a good adventure thus far this year, and even though I've not exactly been wonderful at coming up with a poem a day, there will still be 30 poems in 30 days, and that's what really matters most of all. It's not easy, and this little challenge is something that I have grown to love doing. As we finish this month out this coming week, I hope that you've all enjoyed taking this part of the journey with me. I thank you for your participation, your putting up with me, and most of all, your friendship and support through this. But...I've still got a few days left to go, including a three-fer today!!! So let's get to some poems!!!!
Praying
I, a traveler in a land far from home,
came upon a most unusual thing;
a man, saggy skin and bone,
sat with eyes closed upon a frayed carpet.
He was alone,
and but for my presence there, unknown.
I could not look away,
this strange fellow held me so,
that I wondered if he were not some
grotesque, carved from the sandstone
over which I traveled,
and painted with hues from the earth.
He did not move,
the desert-flies alighting upon his skin
in such a way that makes a horse flick his tail,
but the man stirred not to deplace them.
I stood, amazed.
I could not see him breath, hear any sign
that he was living,
so complete was his trance.
I know not what made me do it, then,
but I sat there on the ground,
though I had no carpet to sit on,
and I attempted to copy the man.
I struggled to be as he was,
resolute in my posture,
calm as the very breath of a newborn babe,
as still as a cloudless night sky.
I failed.
Ashamed, I made my way,
turning my back on that place,
I fancied for a moment that I heard something,
a sigh, a laugh - which, I cannot say,
but when I turned, the man was gone.
Secret Flame
Quietly, it burns,
there, deep down, in the empty recesses
between what is and what was,
in the silent moments between memory,
lies the Power.
It does not like to be shown,
to be heard,
to be known or seen,
but when called upon,
is ready to be shared with those in need.
It is the true self,
the deepest part of me,
where no one can touch,
save One.
It is the secret that I carry,
heat and light from without and within.
Song of Life
Music pours through me,
a constant barrage of phrase and note,
of rhythm and rhyme,
endless torrent of ideas.
It will have no end, no time to cease,
no stop, save my own coda.
It plays, constantly on,
propelling me to dance,
keep the time as it changes,
ever moving through the steps,
the song of life.
hmmm...possibly a little heavier in thought than I initially set out with in my head today, but hey, not everything can be lighthearted and simple. This is part of never knowing where poetry is going to take me, and on the whole, even though I don't understand some of today's stuff, I'd say it's a pretty decent effort. It's part of what I enjoy most of doing this project. I know I'll hit some out of the park, and others will...well, they'll suck. But I never know what's going to happen, and I'm glad just to be doing it.
Speaking of doing it....that running thing? Yeah, right now, I still hate the pain that comes with learning how to do this, let alone do it well. Today, though, was 2.5 miles in 37 minutes. I guess that means I'm looking at maybe a 45-minute 5k at the moment. Not good, by far, but also not too bad, either, for a guy who has never really run very far at all. So the goal: 5k in 40 minutes. If I can hit that, I think I've got every reason to be happy with myself. Where I'll go with it from there.....who knows. I'll tackle this like I tackle climbing those hills on the bike: one day at a time!!!
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Praying
I, a traveler in a land far from home,
came upon a most unusual thing;
a man, saggy skin and bone,
sat with eyes closed upon a frayed carpet.
He was alone,
and but for my presence there, unknown.
I could not look away,
this strange fellow held me so,
that I wondered if he were not some
grotesque, carved from the sandstone
over which I traveled,
and painted with hues from the earth.
He did not move,
the desert-flies alighting upon his skin
in such a way that makes a horse flick his tail,
but the man stirred not to deplace them.
I stood, amazed.
I could not see him breath, hear any sign
that he was living,
so complete was his trance.
I know not what made me do it, then,
but I sat there on the ground,
though I had no carpet to sit on,
and I attempted to copy the man.
I struggled to be as he was,
resolute in my posture,
calm as the very breath of a newborn babe,
as still as a cloudless night sky.
I failed.
Ashamed, I made my way,
turning my back on that place,
I fancied for a moment that I heard something,
a sigh, a laugh - which, I cannot say,
but when I turned, the man was gone.
Secret Flame
Quietly, it burns,
there, deep down, in the empty recesses
between what is and what was,
in the silent moments between memory,
lies the Power.
It does not like to be shown,
to be heard,
to be known or seen,
but when called upon,
is ready to be shared with those in need.
It is the true self,
the deepest part of me,
where no one can touch,
save One.
It is the secret that I carry,
heat and light from without and within.
Song of Life
Music pours through me,
a constant barrage of phrase and note,
of rhythm and rhyme,
endless torrent of ideas.
It will have no end, no time to cease,
no stop, save my own coda.
It plays, constantly on,
propelling me to dance,
keep the time as it changes,
ever moving through the steps,
the song of life.
hmmm...possibly a little heavier in thought than I initially set out with in my head today, but hey, not everything can be lighthearted and simple. This is part of never knowing where poetry is going to take me, and on the whole, even though I don't understand some of today's stuff, I'd say it's a pretty decent effort. It's part of what I enjoy most of doing this project. I know I'll hit some out of the park, and others will...well, they'll suck. But I never know what's going to happen, and I'm glad just to be doing it.
Speaking of doing it....that running thing? Yeah, right now, I still hate the pain that comes with learning how to do this, let alone do it well. Today, though, was 2.5 miles in 37 minutes. I guess that means I'm looking at maybe a 45-minute 5k at the moment. Not good, by far, but also not too bad, either, for a guy who has never really run very far at all. So the goal: 5k in 40 minutes. If I can hit that, I think I've got every reason to be happy with myself. Where I'll go with it from there.....who knows. I'll tackle this like I tackle climbing those hills on the bike: one day at a time!!!
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Poetry Challenge, v. 4.0, Day 25
Fat kids hate running. I once heard a joke told by a guy who had some extra weight, and he said, "I hated running. Now, I could go fast enough, but the problem was, it took me 15 minutes to stop jiggling after I stopped." This is precisely how I feel about running. It doesn't help that I have fairly flat feet, and really just don't care that much for the sport of running. I don't hate people who love it, or think they're foolish - after all, I love to get on my bike and go for 20-30 miles as an "average" outing, so I can hardly hate anyone for their chosen love of a sport. I just personally get nothing out of it. So, today, the love of my life registered me for a 5k. Well, to be fair, she registered us both, but that's not the point. The point is, I'm going to have to run a race. Dammit. I hate running. Yet, the point of this, as far as I'm concerned, is to spend time and energy training with her so as to perform decently (read as, "actually run/jog the whole thing). It's only 3.1 miles. I know I can do this. I think. Maybe. Perchance. It's a distinct possibility that I may or may not be able to withstand the pounding of my feet on pavement for 3.1 miles and possibly even finish ahead of anyone else. I may be in trouble. I'm probably screwed. Oh shit.
Hey, let's have some poetry...you know, since that's what this post is supposed to be about...
The Halfland
Pen to paper,
fingers on the keys,
I know what it is I want to write,
but every beginning halts;
an abrupt stoppage,
and I can go no further,
thoughts stagnate in my mind
fizzle into the abyss from which there is no return.
Where do they go?
Is there a secret place,
of dreams and half-thoughts,
where they combine to form things foreign to imagination?
Is it the land that lives between sleeping and waking,
between our reality and the fae?
Oh, let me in to this treasured place,
this nowhere between my thoughts,
to find the answers that linger there,
between the pen and the paper
where the ink runs.
Hmmm....interesting. I wonder if I can do anything with this concept somewhere down the road. I suppose it's possible - we'll have to see. Still, it's a bit of how I'm feeling today. While I didn't see some of this stuff coming, I'm glad it's here.
Oh, and for those who are wondering, I may be doing some running, but there is no way the page title will become "Triathlon with the Fat Kid." NO. I reapeat, NO. And if you still didn't catch it, you can go here: http://nooooooooooooooo.com/ That is all.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Hey, let's have some poetry...you know, since that's what this post is supposed to be about...
The Halfland
Pen to paper,
fingers on the keys,
I know what it is I want to write,
but every beginning halts;
an abrupt stoppage,
and I can go no further,
thoughts stagnate in my mind
fizzle into the abyss from which there is no return.
Where do they go?
Is there a secret place,
of dreams and half-thoughts,
where they combine to form things foreign to imagination?
Is it the land that lives between sleeping and waking,
between our reality and the fae?
Oh, let me in to this treasured place,
this nowhere between my thoughts,
to find the answers that linger there,
between the pen and the paper
where the ink runs.
Hmmm....interesting. I wonder if I can do anything with this concept somewhere down the road. I suppose it's possible - we'll have to see. Still, it's a bit of how I'm feeling today. While I didn't see some of this stuff coming, I'm glad it's here.
Oh, and for those who are wondering, I may be doing some running, but there is no way the page title will become "Triathlon with the Fat Kid." NO. I reapeat, NO. And if you still didn't catch it, you can go here: http://nooooooooooooooo.com/ That is all.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Poetry Challenge, v. 4.0, days 23 and 24
So, I have had a complaint. Well, more of something that was noticed than a complaint. It seems that most of my poems are about the same length this year, though I tend to think that my writing is just as long as it needs to be to get my idea across...though I will admit sometimes, it's being stretched. Well, that's because, with no editing, with no real forethought for most of the poems that get published on here, it's all "ad hoc." So it seems that I just think in about the same length before I lose the thought every time. I guess. I dunno. BUT, the upshot is that a challenge has been set forth to me to really do something a little more serious, and to try and conform to a little bit of restraint in form and length. OK, challenge accepted!!!! The first challenge was to write a poem in six lines, the second challenge, write a couplet.
It should be known that I absolutely detest couplets, so I may or may not take that challenge. I dunno, I feel a little less like a poet and more like some white guy trying to rap. Having made a foray or two into that world when I was young and incredibly stupid, I try and stay out of it, as I am older and only slightly less stupid now. We'll see on that one.
There is no Beauty
There is no beauty,
that hangs upon
the sodden earth
like the tresses
that fall silently
to her shoulders.
Ahh, the short six-line poem. I normally stay away from these types of poetry because, while they are simple and beautiful, in their own right, I get rather bored with them easily. It doesn't diminish their value, of course, I think I just like to incorporate more things than can fit in six lines. But hey, it's an experiment, after all, so I might as well experiment away....
She runs against the night
She runs against the night,
from or to
an overbearing lover,
her deepest need a change
from her daily abuses.
Does tomorrow begin anew?
Slightly depressing, perhaps, on the last one, but then, I suppose that if poetry doesn't make you stop and think, wonder, and look at it, then it might not be doing its job.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
It should be known that I absolutely detest couplets, so I may or may not take that challenge. I dunno, I feel a little less like a poet and more like some white guy trying to rap. Having made a foray or two into that world when I was young and incredibly stupid, I try and stay out of it, as I am older and only slightly less stupid now. We'll see on that one.
There is no Beauty
There is no beauty,
that hangs upon
the sodden earth
like the tresses
that fall silently
to her shoulders.
Ahh, the short six-line poem. I normally stay away from these types of poetry because, while they are simple and beautiful, in their own right, I get rather bored with them easily. It doesn't diminish their value, of course, I think I just like to incorporate more things than can fit in six lines. But hey, it's an experiment, after all, so I might as well experiment away....
She runs against the night
She runs against the night,
from or to
an overbearing lover,
her deepest need a change
from her daily abuses.
Does tomorrow begin anew?
Slightly depressing, perhaps, on the last one, but then, I suppose that if poetry doesn't make you stop and think, wonder, and look at it, then it might not be doing its job.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Monday, April 22, 2013
Poetry Challenge, v. 4.0, Days 21 and 22
Well, I get one day right, and then....get too enthralled with Grandma's stories to get to a poem the next day. You know, I think I still win. But it's a bright sunny morning here, and the day has begun anew, full of promise. There's only a couple ways in which it could be better, so I'll take it and be happy. And write poems.
Sun Salutation
In the stillness of
the dark morning
the pre-dawn sky is pierced;
a shrill whistle of
waking life
that signals the new day,
an orchestral cue
a tuning note
that begins the overature
of the morning
ever building
a crescendo until the sun
peeks over the trees
and through the window,
bidding me to wake
to new adventures and possibilities.
Little Child
Little child,
how come you here,
amist the changing world,
the raucus tide,
to be a shell of Man,
and empty inside?
Were you listening in your school-days,
were you learning,
were you trying,
were you away from the land of dreams,
youth and fancy dying?
How come you here
to this place and time,
a prescribed venture your worn route,
when there is so much
for you to dream about?
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Sun Salutation
In the stillness of
the dark morning
the pre-dawn sky is pierced;
a shrill whistle of
waking life
that signals the new day,
an orchestral cue
a tuning note
that begins the overature
of the morning
ever building
a crescendo until the sun
peeks over the trees
and through the window,
bidding me to wake
to new adventures and possibilities.
Little Child
Little child,
how come you here,
amist the changing world,
the raucus tide,
to be a shell of Man,
and empty inside?
Were you listening in your school-days,
were you learning,
were you trying,
were you away from the land of dreams,
youth and fancy dying?
How come you here
to this place and time,
a prescribed venture your worn route,
when there is so much
for you to dream about?
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Poetry Challenge, v. 4.0, Day 20
Wow! I'm actually getting to this post on the day I'm supposed to! It's like a Christmas Miracle!! You're welcome for that earworm. But you know, sometimes, life turns out a few really great moments, and I have to share one with you today. See, this weekend, while my family is gathered to celebrate my nephew and one more milestone that he's taken, I'm staying with my grandmother, which allows my parents to attend said blessed event. I love my Gram. She is an amazing lady at 93, and speding time with her is somethng I cherish. She's bright, witty, funny, and has lived a life so full of activity that frankly, I'm a bit jealous. I wish, even though she tells stories of the depression-era problems, of the way that life was so much harder than it is today, of the differences in community, responsibility, societal niceties, that I could have lived through half the things she has known in her days. She is awe-inspiring. Her strength and wisdom are things I can only hope to one day achieve. And she is the inspiration for today's poem.
Grandmother Stories
My grandmother tells stories.
I hear of people I'll never meet,
of tough lives that only made sense,
of the flood that turned a ten-mile walk into seventy,
and of the time her hand was caught in the washer.
The list is long, names of strangers even my mother never heard,
but they did something that meant the world to a now-old lady.
She smiles a lot as she talks,
living in the days of her youth,
as a young woman,
a newlywed,
a mother,
a grandmother,
memories that begin 35 years ago
and only get older.
Sometimes, amidst the circular telling of tales,
I hear the same one over and over.
And I wonder if that will be me someday,
telling stories of my life.
I only know that I will tell the stories
my grandmother told me today.
They're good stories,
and they make my life worthwhile, too.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Grandmother Stories
My grandmother tells stories.
I hear of people I'll never meet,
of tough lives that only made sense,
of the flood that turned a ten-mile walk into seventy,
and of the time her hand was caught in the washer.
The list is long, names of strangers even my mother never heard,
but they did something that meant the world to a now-old lady.
She smiles a lot as she talks,
living in the days of her youth,
as a young woman,
a newlywed,
a mother,
a grandmother,
memories that begin 35 years ago
and only get older.
Sometimes, amidst the circular telling of tales,
I hear the same one over and over.
And I wonder if that will be me someday,
telling stories of my life.
I only know that I will tell the stories
my grandmother told me today.
They're good stories,
and they make my life worthwhile, too.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Friday, April 19, 2013
Poetry Callenge, v.4.0, Day 18 and 19
OK, so I'm not sure why April is being such an odd month this year, but every time I have time to sit down and write, there is....nothing to write, no wayto organize my thoughs into something that soundslike anything other than gibberish. And then I am reminded f e.e. cummings, who turned gibberish into lyrical art, and many of the other great poets who also did fun things with wrds (hence, "great poets"). It reminds me that, while poetry is expression of thought, it is also an experiment with multiple facets: sound, word economy, thought, popular culture, wit, grammar, tempo, and perhaps most importantly, feelings. It's an experiment the poet takes on to make the reader fel something. Sometimes, it's good things,and sometimes...not so good things. The point is to illicit a responce from the reader. Very important to remember this...especially when reading this first one!
Chaos Theory
Order la ckin g,
R ando mnes s appears
and i s g one agai n,
when y ou lea st exp ect,
it grabs a t you,
stee ly blad es shar pen ed
t o raz or edg e,
cut ting loo se t he re d
tid e o f li fe.
You're no thin g, an d som eth ing,
al wa ys going to a nd f ro,
kn owin g hate a nd fe ar
mea n li ttle.
"Me" i s lo st i n th e shu ffle.
They say that en creating poetry, you're not suposed to take on such grand topics like love, hate, despair, anger, fear, etc. The idea is that these topics are too large to even try and explain, so "don't do it" is the rule. Given this week, though, and the events in Boston, and in some few lives of some people I know, it sems somehow appropriate to deal with one of these larger topics.
Hurt
There is no sense,
no reason, no truth,
no need,
but we do it.
Kill, maim, destroy,
disrupt-
anger and resentment the drug,
adrenaline flows unchecked.
The rush we're addictd to -
to make us feel better, like we're in control.
but we're not.
We do it with words,
actions, lies; with fists and kicks,
with guns and bombs.
There is always collateral damage,
the curse of the selfish.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Chaos Theory
Order la ckin g,
R ando mnes s appears
and i s g one agai n,
when y ou lea st exp ect,
it grabs a t you,
stee ly blad es shar pen ed
t o raz or edg e,
cut ting loo se t he re d
tid e o f li fe.
You're no thin g, an d som eth ing,
al wa ys going to a nd f ro,
kn owin g hate a nd fe ar
mea n li ttle.
"Me" i s lo st i n th e shu ffle.
They say that en creating poetry, you're not suposed to take on such grand topics like love, hate, despair, anger, fear, etc. The idea is that these topics are too large to even try and explain, so "don't do it" is the rule. Given this week, though, and the events in Boston, and in some few lives of some people I know, it sems somehow appropriate to deal with one of these larger topics.
Hurt
There is no sense,
no reason, no truth,
no need,
but we do it.
Kill, maim, destroy,
disrupt-
anger and resentment the drug,
adrenaline flows unchecked.
The rush we're addictd to -
to make us feel better, like we're in control.
but we're not.
We do it with words,
actions, lies; with fists and kicks,
with guns and bombs.
There is always collateral damage,
the curse of the selfish.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Poetry Challenge, v. 4.0, Day 16 and 17
Life as never so good as automobile troubles can't get in the way, and my life is no exception. Yep, brakes gave out on the way home from work the other day. Oh fun, what joy. No worries, I'm safe, but it sorta puts a few things into perspective, when you're just not sure if you're going to be able to stop your moving vehicle. At any rate, all is safe, and all will be fixed shortly. Adam, Fate is hating me at the moment. You can have Fate's ire back any time you want it!
Despite Fate not being my biggest fan at the moment, though, was asked today what I thought of the Boston Marathon bombings. And I must say, I'm sick of it. I'm sick of the way that we feel the need to destroy each other, to hurt each other, to maim and dismember one another, over things that are, to be sure, petty. It makes me ask the same old question, "How are we the ultimate creation of this planet?" Whether you believe in evolution or in creationism, we simply have to ask, "how is it that Man was chosen to progress?" How did nothing beat us out, if this is how we treat one another? It offers little to hope for. So I take hope where I can get it: from my imagination. These poems have nothing to do with current events, other than perhaps the mood and tone. I hope you enjoy.
Dreaming
Sometimes, I lie back and watch
the clouds move about the sky,
forming and reforming time and again,
and make them into shapes in my mind,
that fight and collide in kingly battle,
yet no blood is spilled.
Visions of gods and men,
nature and industry,
go forth, playing out their fate
on a background of blue,
Only to form into something new, beautiful,
boundless.
I envy the clouds.
Love Is
A mother holds her young,
born without arms,
pink and wriggly-wrinkled
in a soft blanket,
She does not care,
she speaks to the child,
caresses the tiny face,
nuzzles it close,
knowing life will be hard all the while.
A woman and man hold each other,
dance timelessly,
while onlookers smile and remember,
and worry about the future,
knowing that they have only a few short months
before she dies.
A grandfather rests,
a football game on,
while his wife makes dinner in the next room,
only to find out that she made dinner for one.
And it's not fair.
Not fair that all these people
learned, in the simple day-to-day moments,
That even in the midst of tragedy,
Love still exists.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Despite Fate not being my biggest fan at the moment, though, was asked today what I thought of the Boston Marathon bombings. And I must say, I'm sick of it. I'm sick of the way that we feel the need to destroy each other, to hurt each other, to maim and dismember one another, over things that are, to be sure, petty. It makes me ask the same old question, "How are we the ultimate creation of this planet?" Whether you believe in evolution or in creationism, we simply have to ask, "how is it that Man was chosen to progress?" How did nothing beat us out, if this is how we treat one another? It offers little to hope for. So I take hope where I can get it: from my imagination. These poems have nothing to do with current events, other than perhaps the mood and tone. I hope you enjoy.
Dreaming
Sometimes, I lie back and watch
the clouds move about the sky,
forming and reforming time and again,
and make them into shapes in my mind,
that fight and collide in kingly battle,
yet no blood is spilled.
Visions of gods and men,
nature and industry,
go forth, playing out their fate
on a background of blue,
Only to form into something new, beautiful,
boundless.
I envy the clouds.
Love Is
A mother holds her young,
born without arms,
pink and wriggly-wrinkled
in a soft blanket,
She does not care,
she speaks to the child,
caresses the tiny face,
nuzzles it close,
knowing life will be hard all the while.
A woman and man hold each other,
dance timelessly,
while onlookers smile and remember,
and worry about the future,
knowing that they have only a few short months
before she dies.
A grandfather rests,
a football game on,
while his wife makes dinner in the next room,
only to find out that she made dinner for one.
And it's not fair.
Not fair that all these people
learned, in the simple day-to-day moments,
That even in the midst of tragedy,
Love still exists.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Monday, April 15, 2013
Poetry Challenge, v.4.0, Day 15
And this should finally get me all caught up. Yep, it's that day, every year, when all kinds of people start scrambling to get those taxes done. No matter how early I intend on doing it, I usually end up waiting until at least April 1st. Oh well, I got them done in plenty of time this year, and everything is hunky-dory. I hope that all of your tax prep went well, readers, and that you are having celebrations of getting your refunds, if you haven't gotten them already. After all, who knows what the next year will bring. I'm sure it's going to be a lot less fun for all of us, economically speaking. But enough politicking, let's get to the real reason we're all here: poetry!!! Why else would you tune in to a blog about a fat kid on a bicycle?
Sometimes, Something Else
Sometimes,
I lie awake at night and think
about the sad and lonely people I see each day,
and how some of them don't even know it.
I wonder if they would see it if I showed them,
if it would matter,
if they would do something about it,
or if they're so used to it they would defend
the sadness, simply because they are afraid to try
something else.
Today also happens to be my mother's birthday, and so I wanted to take a moment to give a shout-out to my mom, who taught me how to look at the world in awe and wonder, and to express myself. I owe you so much, Mom, that words cannot do it justice. THank you for the opportunities you gave me, for the encouragement and understanding through the years, and for the never-failing love with which you and Dad guided our family. You did take the road less traveled - and it has made all the difference.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Sometimes, Something Else
Sometimes,
I lie awake at night and think
about the sad and lonely people I see each day,
and how some of them don't even know it.
I wonder if they would see it if I showed them,
if it would matter,
if they would do something about it,
or if they're so used to it they would defend
the sadness, simply because they are afraid to try
something else.
Today also happens to be my mother's birthday, and so I wanted to take a moment to give a shout-out to my mom, who taught me how to look at the world in awe and wonder, and to express myself. I owe you so much, Mom, that words cannot do it justice. THank you for the opportunities you gave me, for the encouragement and understanding through the years, and for the never-failing love with which you and Dad guided our family. You did take the road less traveled - and it has made all the difference.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Poetry Challenge, v.4.0, Days 13 and 14
If it seems like this is a day later, and the theme is become week one: every day, week two: every other day, and week three: every three days.....you're wrong. I actually was able to write days 13 and 14 on time, but was having a few problems getting online, so I'm forced to wait until today to publish them, even though they were done on time. Oh the silliness of life! Well, so life's not perfect. So what? I say, "let it go, and live for the day anyway!" Carpe Diem!!!!!!
Prayer
Vene Sancte Spiritus
Simple words, running under a haunting descant,
the simple repetition
of a complex need for something
I do not understand,
but feel in my bones.
Vene Sancte Spiritus
A meditiation,
an opening of one's self to
something greater, something powerful,
a oneness with life old and new.
Vene Sancte Spiritus
I allow it to envelop my senses,
to carry me up like the perfumed air,
to empty myself,
only to fill up again.
Vene Sancte Spiritus
The rhythm continues,
never ceasing,
there in the quiet moments,
that simple thought
that propels me forward.
The Climb
It was my enemy,
in another life,
when I was someone else,
when I was afraid.
I cursed it and called it names,
because the climb beat me down,
held me back,
tortured my tired body upon its sides.
I was battered, torn, beaten and tired,
and I gave up.
The pain was too great
and I could not endure it.
I returned to my enemy,
a year older, a year stronger,
and met with it again,
in what I thought would be a battle,
and it was not.
I was the conquerer.
I was not afraid.
I have been re-made,
and my enemy has become my friend.
Today's first poem is something that stuck with me from the week of Easter, and I've been struggling/ enjoying trying to put it into words. It's not so much that I had this poem planned, per se, more like something that's just been running around inside me, and I had to get it out...this is what happened.
The second is a true story of an experience on the bike, and for those who care I will tell you that it was the North Park Lake Loop, in particular. The first time I did it, that hill my the boathouse was a doozy for me. I didn't have an idea how to even try and climb a hill, let alone succeed without causing myself undue pain. I wanted to quit. I was afraid of the pain. Now I see ahill and I know that it might be painful, but that I can climb it. Even though it might hurt, and even if I have to stop in the middle or change my pacing, I know I can make it. But I still hate hills. I recently witnessed someone struggling up a hill that i rode easily, and was reminded of this particular climb that once seemed huge to me, and now seems like just a small bump.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Prayer
Vene Sancte Spiritus
Simple words, running under a haunting descant,
the simple repetition
of a complex need for something
I do not understand,
but feel in my bones.
Vene Sancte Spiritus
A meditiation,
an opening of one's self to
something greater, something powerful,
a oneness with life old and new.
Vene Sancte Spiritus
I allow it to envelop my senses,
to carry me up like the perfumed air,
to empty myself,
only to fill up again.
Vene Sancte Spiritus
The rhythm continues,
never ceasing,
there in the quiet moments,
that simple thought
that propels me forward.
The Climb
It was my enemy,
in another life,
when I was someone else,
when I was afraid.
I cursed it and called it names,
because the climb beat me down,
held me back,
tortured my tired body upon its sides.
I was battered, torn, beaten and tired,
and I gave up.
The pain was too great
and I could not endure it.
I returned to my enemy,
a year older, a year stronger,
and met with it again,
in what I thought would be a battle,
and it was not.
I was the conquerer.
I was not afraid.
I have been re-made,
and my enemy has become my friend.
Today's first poem is something that stuck with me from the week of Easter, and I've been struggling/ enjoying trying to put it into words. It's not so much that I had this poem planned, per se, more like something that's just been running around inside me, and I had to get it out...this is what happened.
The second is a true story of an experience on the bike, and for those who care I will tell you that it was the North Park Lake Loop, in particular. The first time I did it, that hill my the boathouse was a doozy for me. I didn't have an idea how to even try and climb a hill, let alone succeed without causing myself undue pain. I wanted to quit. I was afraid of the pain. Now I see ahill and I know that it might be painful, but that I can climb it. Even though it might hurt, and even if I have to stop in the middle or change my pacing, I know I can make it. But I still hate hills. I recently witnessed someone struggling up a hill that i rode easily, and was reminded of this particular climb that once seemed huge to me, and now seems like just a small bump.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Friday, April 12, 2013
Poetry Challenge, v. 4.0, Days 11 and 12
Well, if you haven't guessed yet, this is the week of two-fers! Yeah...Yeah, that's what it is! I'm doing on purpose! Of course I am! It's not like I just keep forgetting to do a poem, or don't have inspiration when I'm near a computer....noooooooo, that would NEVER happen! Ha! OK, OK...it happened this week, and honestly, I can't figure out why, but the point is still that I'm doing 30 fresh, original poems in 30 days, and I'm not pretending that I'm in high school and doing it all at the last minute.
At any rate, today's first piece goes out to my friend, Meghan, who is dealing with a rather unfortunate loss. That's all I'll say on the matter.
What Else to Say
Numb.
An empty void that is
terrifying and comforting at once,
when you feel too much and too little,
and all those thoughts come rushing in,
flooding the mind with a torrent of snapshots,
all flooding down around you like so many snowflakes
amidst a chorus of people all saying they're sorry -
because they don't know what else to say.
And, because we all took that lesson in hihg school/freshman english in college where we had to compare and contrast two poems that represented both sides of the spectrum (I'm remembering "Little Lamb" and "Tiger! Tiger!" personally) Let's look at the opposite side of this issue.
Childish Dreams
Sometimes,
I daydream of one day,
any day,
when it will be the norm
to think about the future,
any future,
that a little hand in mine
would like to choose,
any choice,
and I can answer
with a look,
any look,
at the child who calls me "Daddy."
Yeah - I can admit it: I want to be a daddy someday. I'm cool with that.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
At any rate, today's first piece goes out to my friend, Meghan, who is dealing with a rather unfortunate loss. That's all I'll say on the matter.
What Else to Say
Numb.
An empty void that is
terrifying and comforting at once,
when you feel too much and too little,
and all those thoughts come rushing in,
flooding the mind with a torrent of snapshots,
all flooding down around you like so many snowflakes
amidst a chorus of people all saying they're sorry -
because they don't know what else to say.
And, because we all took that lesson in hihg school/freshman english in college where we had to compare and contrast two poems that represented both sides of the spectrum (I'm remembering "Little Lamb" and "Tiger! Tiger!" personally) Let's look at the opposite side of this issue.
Childish Dreams
Sometimes,
I daydream of one day,
any day,
when it will be the norm
to think about the future,
any future,
that a little hand in mine
would like to choose,
any choice,
and I can answer
with a look,
any look,
at the child who calls me "Daddy."
Yeah - I can admit it: I want to be a daddy someday. I'm cool with that.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Poetry Challenge, v. 4.0, days 9 and 10
Life gets distracting, and things happen that make you sometimes forget that it's 11PM and you forgot to write a poem today. Boy, it's handy that I allow myself the occasional two-fer, huh? It's still 30 poems in 30 days, and that's really the point, after all. Besides, doesn't it say more if I can come up with two post-worthy poems in a day??? Yeah, give me enough time, I'll find a way to justify it! But enough about me, let's get on to some poetry!!!
Healing
it begins with nothing.
that is all you can feel,
that pit inside, voided of emotion,
pain, suffering -
the cauterization of all feeling,
like someone burned the ends of the rope
you are clinging to.
nowhere left to go.
no hiding.
no running away.
it's just you, in the void.
and you understand, then,
in that moment of perfect clarity,
there is nowhere left to fall,
and healing can begin.
I find it interesting, in looking at some summer films that are coming out, there there is a great emphasis being put on self-protection. Yes, I'm looking at you, makers of "The Purge" and "You're Next." Both of these films are "home invasion" scenarios, each set in slightly different circumstances. It's a theme that pops up every once in a while in film, and is usually very predictable: well-off individuals with extensive security systems become victims of a home invasion, whereby almost all are killed except the kids. Well, ok, some vary that format slightly, but really, it's the plot to "Home Alone" without Christmas songs and with swearing and a bit of blood. But I digress. I find it odd that in the midst of the popular weapons ban talk that's going around, liberal Hollywood is putting out these films, which seem to imply that we need assault weapons in the home to protect ourselves. An odd stance for Hollywood. Anyway, it has me thinking about this issue, and if it might work in poetry. I dunno, maybe I'll explore it. Not today, but maybe.
View from the Hill
One day you will come
and sit with me awhile,
and be reminded of things long past -
moments that do not matter now,
washed away with the passage of time
like water over white marble dulls the chiseled cut.
And we will sit in silence,
remiscing of all that was,
knowing it can never be this way again.
A great banquet is here,
serving the most delicious meats,
and the guests are welcomed readily.
There is plenty for all.
Here, when you sit next to me
upon the hill,
And the world forgets you
and your monument.
And that's all he wrote for today.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Healing
it begins with nothing.
that is all you can feel,
that pit inside, voided of emotion,
pain, suffering -
the cauterization of all feeling,
like someone burned the ends of the rope
you are clinging to.
nowhere left to go.
no hiding.
no running away.
it's just you, in the void.
and you understand, then,
in that moment of perfect clarity,
there is nowhere left to fall,
and healing can begin.
I find it interesting, in looking at some summer films that are coming out, there there is a great emphasis being put on self-protection. Yes, I'm looking at you, makers of "The Purge" and "You're Next." Both of these films are "home invasion" scenarios, each set in slightly different circumstances. It's a theme that pops up every once in a while in film, and is usually very predictable: well-off individuals with extensive security systems become victims of a home invasion, whereby almost all are killed except the kids. Well, ok, some vary that format slightly, but really, it's the plot to "Home Alone" without Christmas songs and with swearing and a bit of blood. But I digress. I find it odd that in the midst of the popular weapons ban talk that's going around, liberal Hollywood is putting out these films, which seem to imply that we need assault weapons in the home to protect ourselves. An odd stance for Hollywood. Anyway, it has me thinking about this issue, and if it might work in poetry. I dunno, maybe I'll explore it. Not today, but maybe.
View from the Hill
One day you will come
and sit with me awhile,
and be reminded of things long past -
moments that do not matter now,
washed away with the passage of time
like water over white marble dulls the chiseled cut.
And we will sit in silence,
remiscing of all that was,
knowing it can never be this way again.
A great banquet is here,
serving the most delicious meats,
and the guests are welcomed readily.
There is plenty for all.
Here, when you sit next to me
upon the hill,
And the world forgets you
and your monument.
And that's all he wrote for today.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Monday, April 8, 2013
Poetry Challenge, v. 4.0, Day 8
Allrighty - we're back on track, right where we should be! After a great weekend of fun in the sun, it was back to work today. Complete drag, as the weather was really nice out, but hey, Monday happens. Unfortunately, Monday is also always right on time, while its younger sibling, Friday, always seems to be dragging its feet in getting here! Damn you, Friday! Be more punctual, or arrive early for once! We now return you to your regularly scheduled poetry update.
I Seek a Space
I seek a space,
still and silent,
a celebration of emptiness
where soul and spirit survive
on silvered moonbeams that sift through
the clouds of a summer's eve.
There I thrive,
thrum-thumping heart and breathing
through the thin-walled evening melody
of the trilling thrush in the thicket.
Somewhere, sighing in the brush-border,
circling the space I've set aside,
is my old self, who cannnot enter
the sacred space of stillness
and silence.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
I Seek a Space
I seek a space,
still and silent,
a celebration of emptiness
where soul and spirit survive
on silvered moonbeams that sift through
the clouds of a summer's eve.
There I thrive,
thrum-thumping heart and breathing
through the thin-walled evening melody
of the trilling thrush in the thicket.
Somewhere, sighing in the brush-border,
circling the space I've set aside,
is my old self, who cannnot enter
the sacred space of stillness
and silence.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Poetry Challenge v. 4.0, Days 6 and 7
Oops, I did it again!
Yes, friends, I went and had a great weekend with my dearest love which included hiking, biking, whiskey drinking, cigar smoking, beer sampling, and a bit of wonderful food. All of which means that I forgot to write a poem yesterday, and today, I'm having to play catch up with a two-fer. I know, I know - some of you are asking where my commitment to art is, and I will say simply: She is cuter than art. She wins, hands down, so there. Don't like it? Deal with it! So...onwards to poetry!!!
Quiet Forest
Not a creature stirs
amidst the waking woods,
the dead-dry leaves of autumn last
cover the still-cold ground
that holds within it the secret grasses and ferns
only now begun to wake,
but still too young to push through
the decaying carpet.
As I walk by,
padded, measured footfalls, my tempo,
trying to find a rhythm that matches nature's own,
the still cool sun beating down upon me
as I march on through hills, woods, and fallen trees.
I have no part in this,
I am not needed,
And yet, I am called to see this time and place,
the Observer to recount the passing of
just another springtime
amidst the waking woods
where not a creature stirs
but me.
Today also happens to be my father's birthday. I won't bother to tell you how old he is. Besides, even if I did tell you that, his siblings, my aunts and uncles, if they bother to read my ramblings, would tell you I was lying - they consider him much older than his real age. But, having just spoken with him a short time ago, It put me in the mood to write a word or two, say a nice "Happy Birthday, Dad," and close out the day.
Hands
When I look down at my hands,
I see history.
They are my father's,
strong enough to build anything,
large enough to hold anything,
gentle enough to know when a soothing touch is all that's needed.
They are my grandfather's,
crafty and quick,
sure of their purpose,
warm and welcoming,
knotted with age and small scars and stories that keep young boys amused for hours.
They are my hands,
their own scars and stories still forming,
each time in the retelling, getting greater and greater,
until I become a legend to smaller hands that I will someday hold,
when I will build anything,
hold anything
cure a child's hurt,
be crafty and quick
and sure of purpose,
warm, welcoming,
and knotted with age
All for another generation to remember
when they look down and see their hands.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Yes, friends, I went and had a great weekend with my dearest love which included hiking, biking, whiskey drinking, cigar smoking, beer sampling, and a bit of wonderful food. All of which means that I forgot to write a poem yesterday, and today, I'm having to play catch up with a two-fer. I know, I know - some of you are asking where my commitment to art is, and I will say simply: She is cuter than art. She wins, hands down, so there. Don't like it? Deal with it! So...onwards to poetry!!!
Quiet Forest
Not a creature stirs
amidst the waking woods,
the dead-dry leaves of autumn last
cover the still-cold ground
that holds within it the secret grasses and ferns
only now begun to wake,
but still too young to push through
the decaying carpet.
As I walk by,
padded, measured footfalls, my tempo,
trying to find a rhythm that matches nature's own,
the still cool sun beating down upon me
as I march on through hills, woods, and fallen trees.
I have no part in this,
I am not needed,
And yet, I am called to see this time and place,
the Observer to recount the passing of
just another springtime
amidst the waking woods
where not a creature stirs
but me.
Today also happens to be my father's birthday. I won't bother to tell you how old he is. Besides, even if I did tell you that, his siblings, my aunts and uncles, if they bother to read my ramblings, would tell you I was lying - they consider him much older than his real age. But, having just spoken with him a short time ago, It put me in the mood to write a word or two, say a nice "Happy Birthday, Dad," and close out the day.
Hands
When I look down at my hands,
I see history.
They are my father's,
strong enough to build anything,
large enough to hold anything,
gentle enough to know when a soothing touch is all that's needed.
They are my grandfather's,
crafty and quick,
sure of their purpose,
warm and welcoming,
knotted with age and small scars and stories that keep young boys amused for hours.
They are my hands,
their own scars and stories still forming,
each time in the retelling, getting greater and greater,
until I become a legend to smaller hands that I will someday hold,
when I will build anything,
hold anything
cure a child's hurt,
be crafty and quick
and sure of purpose,
warm, welcoming,
and knotted with age
All for another generation to remember
when they look down and see their hands.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Friday, April 5, 2013
Poetry Callenge v. 4.0, Day 5
There's a lot of hubbub lately in the news. In fact, it stretches a lot further than the news, and it's become a viable part of our everytday lives. No, it's not gun legislation. No, it's not gay marriage. No, it's not North Korea. It's not the environment. It's also not poverty, our economy, womens' rights, religions' rights, taxes, death, or even the question that can never be answered in this lifetime, "is there a god?" It's none of these things at all, though it has a bearing on each of them. Frankly, I don't understand it. Oh, I understand that people feel differently about the "issues" and everyone has "THE answer." That much is plain. But I have to wonder that if everyone has THE answer, why no one seems to be practicing it. The problem is anger.
We are all so busy being angry over the injustice we perceive in our daily lives - against the environment, against foreigners, by governments against their people, by neighbor against neighbor - that so many of us have lost what it means to find peace and contentment where we can. Instead, we just get angrier and angrier with one another. Friendships are tested, families are torn apart, relationships fail. All because of anger. I just don't understand it.
But - it's great fuel for poetry.
Tired
"I'm tired," said the man.
"Of what?" said his wife.
"Just tired."
"I'm boring you?"
"No, I'm just tired."
"I'm not important?"
"Just tired."
"I'm not smart enough?"
"Just tired."
"My thoughts don't count?"
"Just tired."
"I'm less than you?"
"Just tired."
"You're not all that smart, you know."
"Just tired."
"You're no better than me!"
"Just tired."
"You always fight."
"Just tired."
"Why should I have to do what you say?"
"Just tired."
"I'm just as important as you!"
"I'm tired - I'm going to bed."
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
We are all so busy being angry over the injustice we perceive in our daily lives - against the environment, against foreigners, by governments against their people, by neighbor against neighbor - that so many of us have lost what it means to find peace and contentment where we can. Instead, we just get angrier and angrier with one another. Friendships are tested, families are torn apart, relationships fail. All because of anger. I just don't understand it.
But - it's great fuel for poetry.
Tired
"I'm tired," said the man.
"Of what?" said his wife.
"Just tired."
"I'm boring you?"
"No, I'm just tired."
"I'm not important?"
"Just tired."
"I'm not smart enough?"
"Just tired."
"My thoughts don't count?"
"Just tired."
"I'm less than you?"
"Just tired."
"You're not all that smart, you know."
"Just tired."
"You're no better than me!"
"Just tired."
"You always fight."
"Just tired."
"Why should I have to do what you say?"
"Just tired."
"I'm just as important as you!"
"I'm tired - I'm going to bed."
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Poetry Project, V. 4.0, Day 4
I often find it tempting to just simply pilfer from poets one might actually consider "great." No, not for an entire post, but more like stealing the first line of a poem and seeing where I can go from there, if there was an avenue yet unexplored, or, to put it in poetic terms, a "road not taken." I suppose, in some strange way, this is a good exercise, but probably one that I will never attempt to really fall back on. It feels like cheating, even if it's just a couple words. Actually, now that I think of it, it seems like it really could be a fun exercise to do some day - a "poetry gone wrong" sort of experiment. You know, like a "reader's digest condensed and malformed poetry - A primer on what not to do." I would hate to see what might happen to nursery rhymes at that point, or fairy tales. Of course, with my luck, that just gave someone the next idea for a Tony-Award-Winning Broadway production, for which I shall never receive credit. C'est la vie.
At any rate, that's something I still don't feel like I should do in this venue. It's irresponsible, and really not challenging me much at all to start with something someone else also started with. Kinda not the point. Despite evidence to the contrary provided to us by Wierd Al Yankovic, that is not how you become a legend. Yes, becoming a legend is my goal. How it happens...well, as long it's not a cautionary tale like an E! Tur Hollywood Story or the next newsclipping starring Lindsey Lohan, or a mention in the Darwin Awards, I don't much care how it happens.
Moves
e4 - obvious start
c6 - are you sure?
Nf3 - solidify
d6 - not aggressive
Bc4 - calculated opening, safety assured.
Nf6 - finally!
Ng5 - I don't think this can be stopped.
e6 - except by that.
a4 - secure the flank
Be7 - I've played this game before.
What was the answer here?
I don't remember!
Why am I always in the same place?
This isn't progress.
I'm playing the same thing I always do.
The result is the same.
I need to invent something,
change something,
come at the problem from the other side,
ANYTHING.
I know how this ends.
O-O.
OK, perhaps this one's a little enigmatic, but for those who do like the game of chess, it might actually make some sense. For those who don't....what a great time to learn, yes??
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid.
At any rate, that's something I still don't feel like I should do in this venue. It's irresponsible, and really not challenging me much at all to start with something someone else also started with. Kinda not the point. Despite evidence to the contrary provided to us by Wierd Al Yankovic, that is not how you become a legend. Yes, becoming a legend is my goal. How it happens...well, as long it's not a cautionary tale like an E! Tur Hollywood Story or the next newsclipping starring Lindsey Lohan, or a mention in the Darwin Awards, I don't much care how it happens.
Moves
e4 - obvious start
c6 - are you sure?
Nf3 - solidify
d6 - not aggressive
Bc4 - calculated opening, safety assured.
Nf6 - finally!
Ng5 - I don't think this can be stopped.
e6 - except by that.
a4 - secure the flank
Be7 - I've played this game before.
What was the answer here?
I don't remember!
Why am I always in the same place?
This isn't progress.
I'm playing the same thing I always do.
The result is the same.
I need to invent something,
change something,
come at the problem from the other side,
ANYTHING.
I know how this ends.
O-O.
OK, perhaps this one's a little enigmatic, but for those who do like the game of chess, it might actually make some sense. For those who don't....what a great time to learn, yes??
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Poetry Project, V.4.0, Day 3
I had a conversation recently with my father, in which I mentioned when it is that I'm the happiest. It turns out that I am the most happy when I am creating something. It doesn't matter what the medium - I'm simply happy when I create. Te very act of creating is both relaxing and stimulating simultaneously. Whether it's a the simple action of sanding a piece of wood until smooth, or writing a poem, or painting a picture, or even just cooking dinner, there is something about me that is inherently connected with the act of creating things. On the whole, I even tend to be decently good at it, too. Not the best, but certainly not the worst. On the whole, I think that's a pretty good place to be. But it was this conversation that got me thinking about the act of creating, and that I wanted to write about it. Thus, we have today's poem.
The Blacksmith
I miss the sound-
hammerfalls,pinching hot metal against cold,
a ringing in my ears
and the muscle memory of the shock in my hands.
You learn to absorb it,
see through the sweat as it drips,
stinging the eyes as the metal cools all too fast
and the shape begins to form.
Heat, motion, iron, sweat -
a meeting of man and metal,
giving soul to the earth
and strength to the body.
One cannot be without the other -
the interplay of will
their combat
on a field between this world and the next.
What was, what is, what can be -
as each gives his all
with every strike
to forge something new within the other.
Perhaps a bit vague and enigmatic - probably more simplistic and silly, if you really want to look at it. I can't decide, personally. But, that's part of the point of doing this thing every April: to take a journey, and to share it with those who might be willing to take a few minutes to read.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
The Blacksmith
I miss the sound-
hammerfalls,pinching hot metal against cold,
a ringing in my ears
and the muscle memory of the shock in my hands.
You learn to absorb it,
see through the sweat as it drips,
stinging the eyes as the metal cools all too fast
and the shape begins to form.
Heat, motion, iron, sweat -
a meeting of man and metal,
giving soul to the earth
and strength to the body.
One cannot be without the other -
the interplay of will
their combat
on a field between this world and the next.
What was, what is, what can be -
as each gives his all
with every strike
to forge something new within the other.
Perhaps a bit vague and enigmatic - probably more simplistic and silly, if you really want to look at it. I can't decide, personally. But, that's part of the point of doing this thing every April: to take a journey, and to share it with those who might be willing to take a few minutes to read.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Poetry Challenge, V. 4, Day 2
I was asked today if I found it a challenge to get back into writing a poem each day. In truth, the answer is not really, because for the last 11 months, I have been thinking from time to time about poetry, and what kinds of poems I would like to write. I don't put fingers to keyboard on these ideas, but every once in a while, I entertain a few topics. When the time comes to jump back into the daily challenge, I've got a few ideas of some of the things I want to write, and now find myself with the excuse to get to write them! It's kinda nice how that works out, isn't it?
Some things, like yesterday's, are things that I see every day, or experience often enough that I can entertain them a lot. The Twi-Lite Motel is actually something I pass on my daily commute, and I often think about what the place might have been like, since the building is gone now. It's things like that, encountered regularly, that might make it into poems. Often, I don't know what the poem will look like, and that is half the fun. But the challenge of staying into the method of poetry writing beyond a week or so...that's when it gets tough. I've been stockpiling ideas for a little while in the beginning.
But that's enough about the origins of some of my ideas. I know you're only reading this so that you can experience more poetry!!! Today's offering is in honor of an old friend who is a little disheartened at the moment. Life has been less than lucky for her of late.
The Unlucky One
On the keychain is a rabbit's foot,
a silver dollar rests under your pillow,
a dreamcatcher over the bed,
thread and feathers and hoop.
Near the door, a horsehoe hangs,
over the peg that holds the lucky hat,
that leather jacket you always wear out nearby,
it goes so well with that red shirt to offset your hair.
Trinkets.
Faith in them misplaced,
trust, a thing of folly.
It is not enough to hear your worth,
it must be known and lived,
amidst the storm of denial, rejection,
that feeling that you are utterly alone.
It is the test for the Unlucky,
and those who never face it have not lived.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Some things, like yesterday's, are things that I see every day, or experience often enough that I can entertain them a lot. The Twi-Lite Motel is actually something I pass on my daily commute, and I often think about what the place might have been like, since the building is gone now. It's things like that, encountered regularly, that might make it into poems. Often, I don't know what the poem will look like, and that is half the fun. But the challenge of staying into the method of poetry writing beyond a week or so...that's when it gets tough. I've been stockpiling ideas for a little while in the beginning.
But that's enough about the origins of some of my ideas. I know you're only reading this so that you can experience more poetry!!! Today's offering is in honor of an old friend who is a little disheartened at the moment. Life has been less than lucky for her of late.
The Unlucky One
On the keychain is a rabbit's foot,
a silver dollar rests under your pillow,
a dreamcatcher over the bed,
thread and feathers and hoop.
Near the door, a horsehoe hangs,
over the peg that holds the lucky hat,
that leather jacket you always wear out nearby,
it goes so well with that red shirt to offset your hair.
Trinkets.
Faith in them misplaced,
trust, a thing of folly.
It is not enough to hear your worth,
it must be known and lived,
amidst the storm of denial, rejection,
that feeling that you are utterly alone.
It is the test for the Unlucky,
and those who never face it have not lived.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Monday, April 1, 2013
National Poetry Month Challenge, Version 4.0
Well, in what may seem to be the cruelest April Fool's joke of all, it's the beginning of National Poetry Month, and so, the beginning of the 4th Annual challenge to write a new poem every day for the month of April. Yep, I'm at it again, as was recently promised!!
This past year has been a whirlwind of things for me: moving, a wonderful new relationship with the most amazing woman I've ever known, and some new ground personally - both in emotional growth and a sort of spiritual renewal - have put me in a place that I haven't been in quite a while. I'm grateful for all those that read and share in my journey. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. Your friendship, understanding, love and fellowship have been a large part of my personal growth, and I dearly hope that you enjoy this installment of my yearly journey.
As always, comments are welcome. I don't ask that you enjoy everything, or that you "get" everything - merely that you read and hopefully get a glimpse of my encounters with the world. Participation is good - feel free to send me anything if you become inspired, and I will post your work alongside my own. I ask that you please keep criticisms on the constructive side. "I hate this" messages just don't do anything but inspire resentment, and who needs that? If you hate it...at least tell me why, or you can keep your opinion to yourself.
Largely, what I put up here is very rarely edited, though I usually do check for spelling. While I believe that editing and re-working poems can be a good thing, it takes away some of the raw energy that comes with simply writing. Sometimes, it's that unpolished feel that really brings out emotion. So that's what you're getting when you read my stuff. Now that you know what you're in for...let's get started, shall we??
Twi-Lite Motel
Three lone pines stand sentry
beside a cracked basin, stark white against the weeds,
rumors only of the Twi-Lite Motel.
Beneath the boughs, a stubborn pile of concrete and rubble,
refuse someone carried over the decaying bridge.
I pass by the rusted sign pole with its faded plastic words,
the only reason I know what used to be here,
and see the past: a low building with loud air conditioners that left
puddles on the sidewalks outside the doors
while high school proms ended here,
and new lives began.
Small things, they seem now, that once were monumental dreams,
lost in a pile of rubble beneath the boughs of three pines,
over a bridge no one can cross again.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
This past year has been a whirlwind of things for me: moving, a wonderful new relationship with the most amazing woman I've ever known, and some new ground personally - both in emotional growth and a sort of spiritual renewal - have put me in a place that I haven't been in quite a while. I'm grateful for all those that read and share in my journey. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. Your friendship, understanding, love and fellowship have been a large part of my personal growth, and I dearly hope that you enjoy this installment of my yearly journey.
As always, comments are welcome. I don't ask that you enjoy everything, or that you "get" everything - merely that you read and hopefully get a glimpse of my encounters with the world. Participation is good - feel free to send me anything if you become inspired, and I will post your work alongside my own. I ask that you please keep criticisms on the constructive side. "I hate this" messages just don't do anything but inspire resentment, and who needs that? If you hate it...at least tell me why, or you can keep your opinion to yourself.
Largely, what I put up here is very rarely edited, though I usually do check for spelling. While I believe that editing and re-working poems can be a good thing, it takes away some of the raw energy that comes with simply writing. Sometimes, it's that unpolished feel that really brings out emotion. So that's what you're getting when you read my stuff. Now that you know what you're in for...let's get started, shall we??
Twi-Lite Motel
Three lone pines stand sentry
beside a cracked basin, stark white against the weeds,
rumors only of the Twi-Lite Motel.
Beneath the boughs, a stubborn pile of concrete and rubble,
refuse someone carried over the decaying bridge.
I pass by the rusted sign pole with its faded plastic words,
the only reason I know what used to be here,
and see the past: a low building with loud air conditioners that left
puddles on the sidewalks outside the doors
while high school proms ended here,
and new lives began.
Small things, they seem now, that once were monumental dreams,
lost in a pile of rubble beneath the boughs of three pines,
over a bridge no one can cross again.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
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