Epic Adventure for One (Part II)

This is part two of a two-part post. If you have not yet read part one, please, please do so by using the link to the immediate right under "Blog Archive."

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My reassurance came from the fact that I was gradually approaching the cache site. Only thirty meters remained, and I started to keep my eye out for trees that could be hollow, perhaps concealing a secret cache beneath a bark cover that was slightly askew. GPS is only accurate to within approximately ten meters, which means that a geocacher has a twenty-meter-wide area that they need to sweep with no guide but their wits. Finally, I was within that range. A few times, I thought I might have found it, and picked at the bases of some dead trees with my shoe, but found nothing but fungus, insects, and goosebumps on my arms. Eventually, I saw an old tree stump that I just knew had to be it. It took some bushwhacking and carefully-chosen steps, but there stood the stump, next to the tree that had previously stood upon it, now covered in thick moss. And covering the near side of the stump was a ramshackle arrangement of large strips of bark. I flipped the top one aside with my toe. There it was! A rush of adrenaline hit, and I laughed out loud in the silent forest. I nudged away the rest of the bark, and cautiously picked up the container. I nearly dropped it when I pressed my finger against a fat slug on the back side of the container, but after expressing my shock in undecipherable noises and shaking the container vigorously to remove it and any other disgusting things from its surface, I had the nerve to open it.

It was a special moment, flipping through a logbook with scribbled notes and signatures that dated back years and years, and lining up each of the small ‘treasure’ objects on a nearby log. A delicate cloth doll with a smiling face, a plastic toy gorilla, a smooth green glass stone…there were less than a dozen objects, all trivial, but that was part of the fun. The shiny glass stone was the size of a soup spoon’s head and had a swath of marble-like pattern snaking through it, and it caught my eye, so I traded it for the “J’aime Mozart” pin I had tucked in my pocket. After smiling at the treasures for a few more moments, I dropped them back into the container, sealed it up, and placed it back in the tree trunk.

But…I still had to replace the bark. Gross. I flipped the second piece back into place with my shoe, but the top piece had rolled down the pile a ways. I stared at it. “It’s not going to explode into a roiling mass of maggots,” I told myself out loud. Because that was actually one of my concerns. I peered hard at the top corner of the bark. There seemed to be nothing living on it. I reached out and delicately grabbed as small a portion of the bark as possible. It immediately crumbled under my fingers. I sighed and quickly tried again, grasping a larger portion of the bark. I earned the same result. There was no way I was putting my whole hand around this piece of decaying bark, so I opted to balance the whole thing across my foot and replace it by means of a ridiculous balancing act. There. Hidden.

I had a small moment of panic rise when I realized once I’d turned around to face the wall of trees again that I had no idea how to get out. But I realized with great relief that I could zoom out and use the river as a waypoint, and I wove along the trails again, rushing to get back to the river so that no harm could befall me on the way out.

(I also may or may not have had to stop writing this post briefly at this point and turn music on, due to a very vivid recollection of a certain scene from “The Village,” (which thankfully did not come to mind during this forest expedition) followed by an unknown object striking my window in the middle of a bad storm outside. Just possibly. That’s all.)

I made it. I stood on the paved path again, grinning like an idiot, shoes soaked completely through and covered in those burrs that were the size of superbouncers, looking left and right to see if anyone had happened to see the person emerge from the seemingly-impenetrable forest. The coast was clear. I decided that the next leg of my adventure was going to include a steaming hot bowl of ramen, at a new ramen restaurant that had recently opened. I’d been dying to try it, and if there was a day that called for ramen, this was it.

After escaping from the park, I hopped a bus downtown and squished my way down the street to the ramen restaurant. It was a little classier than I thought it would be, so I felt a bit out of place with my burr-covered shoes and wild hair, but the only other people seated were a ridiculously cute Asian couple who couldn’t have been more than fourteen, and sat awkwardly across from each other at a table, all dressed up, and chatting about math class and their favourite foods in between awkward pauses. I was seated next to the window and sipped green tea from a clay cup while I waited for my tonkatsu ramen. I could hear the tonkatsu start to sizzle in the back of the restaurant, and I sat in patient anticipation, watching businesspeople and couples stride by on the bustling sidewalk.

I enjoyed cradling my warm cup in my hands as I watched the sky turn slowly to gray outside the window of this cozy restaurant. I love the novelty of a special atmosphere as much as I love adventure. I love the magic of an orchestral concert, I love the way the mountains swallow you up as you drive into their arms, and I love clear starry nights, the thrill of takeoffs and touchdowns, and the first sips of those specialty lattes that come out for fall and Christmas. The trouble is, novelty cannot last forever. A show I’ve been watching recently has struck that same nerve in me and helped me to label it. The thirty-six episodes it ran for cover five years of the everyday lives of a group of university art students of differing ages in a way I’d never seen any show deal with life. There were no laugh tracks, no time-loops that prevent the characters from aging or graduating, and no implausible, feel-good solutions to life’s problems. The episodes were filled with some of the most powerful, heartbreaking metaphors I’ve ever seen, and the realism of the issues that the characters faced as they journeyed and changed through their early and mid-twenties hit so close to home that I’d sometimes feel like I’d been punched in the heart as the credits started to roll.

One of the characters I loved the most, who usually narrated the series, seemed a whole lot like me, in the way he cherished both his friends and the small things in life. He was always treasuring his memories as he made them together with his friends, because he realized how fleeting and precious those days were. Life carried on, though, just like it does for us, and gradually, people were one by one taking jobs, moving away, starting grad school, and winning and losing at love. Things were changing, and he was struggling to soak up every second of the time he had left while things were still as they were. In the end, even though this character is still confused and discouraged about his future, he has to face it, including all the separation and loss of innocence that it brings.

The final scene of the final episode sees him catching the train to move away to start a job, and one of his old friends barely catches him at the station in time to exchange good byes and hand him a package. The scene is sad, but tolerably so, until he unwraps the package and discovers, hidden in between its layers, a message in the form of a physical metaphor so complex it can’t be described outside of the context of the show, and the symbolism is so powerful that this man breaks down sobbing in his train car. And I wept. I am never a cry-in-movies sort of person. The worst that will happen is that I’ll tear up, and then I’ll be so annoyed that I’ve gotten teary-eyed that I’ll spend the rest of the scene glaring at the screen and telling myself that it’s just a stupid actor. This time I wept, silently and unrestrainedly, having never related so fully to any portrayal in my entire life.

When the series ends, you want desperately for there to be some sense of resolution. You want things to work out for these people. You want the broken hearts to mend, you want the confused to be given a sense of direction, and you want answers for the people who have none. Unfortunately, real life isn’t that easy. So how could such a realistic show have ended in that way? Part of the show’s synopsis describes these years of our life as “a good time, full of energy, promise, and friendship. A time when happiness is based on all the little things in life.” I cried my eyes out at the end of this show for the exact same reason I cried my eyes out on my very last day of undergrad. A chapter closed. A wonderful, incredible chapter that can never be reopened again.

It’s not that I miss undergrad itself. It’s just that I know that the end of that era was one of the very last nails in the coffin of this time in our lives where we face everything with passion and shining eyes, where we’re on top of the world and the future is ours, and where every ordinary day and every memory is a precious treasure. I know the memories won’t fade, and the people will still be there, but things will never be the same. I thought I could continue to live with the same abandon, but real life, even grad school and its not-quite-real-life-ness, is different. Maybe it’s the loss of intimacy with our friends. We can’t walk down the hall of dorms and bang on their door, or even jump on a bus to their house a few minutes away. The distances between everyone are spreading in many different ways. People move. People have kids. People change. And after walking along the same path with people you really love for a period of time, when the path splits into a dozen different, individual paths, the loneliness destroys you. I know exactly how the guy on the train felt. It’s not that he wasn’t going to enjoy his job, and it’s not that he would never see his friends again or make new ones, but he knew that the closeness of that community and the innocence and excitement of those days were gone forever.

I recently went to an orchestral performance of a particular piano concerto that I was absolutely in love with as an undergrad. I’ve always listed it as the one piece I would take with me to a desert island if I could pick only one. It was played in my hometown last season, and I was sorely tempted to fly home just to hear it. To my amazement, it was on the program for our local orchestra this year! I attended, filled with excitement. The opening chords sounded, and I expected to be washed away in starry-eyed wonder, like I had been every time all these years. But…I wasn’t. It was a terrible shock. It wasn’t that the piece had changed, it was that I had. It’s not that I had listened to it so many times that I’d worn out my love for it, it’s just the simple fact that I listen now with different ears than I did a few years ago. And I couldn’t bring back the magic, no matter how hard I tried. I used to think that life would always be painted with the vibrant colours I saw it in five years ago. But I’ve realized that that just isn’t the case. Novelty and innocence cannot last forever. Maybe it’s the aging thrill seekers, lavish millionaires, and eccentric adventurers who have tried to hold on to the feeling too long, and are left behind by their more sensible friends who have ‘settled down,’ as we call it. Maybe the colours of life are supposed to gradually settle into pleasant, comfortable shades of gray. Just like the sky outside.

Suddenly, the enormous bowl of ramen arrived, which was good, because I was starving. Delicate curls of steam drifted lazily upwards before being brushed away by an invisible current of air. The surface was covered in an array of toppings, and the broth was milky white. Not a sickly yellow like the broth made from an instant packet of MSG, but rich and flavourful, hearty and creamy, like broth can only be when it’s made from pork bones that have been simmering for hours over a hot stove. The aged waitress set down a plate of crispy tonkatsu, a pair of heavy chopsticks, and a ladle-shaped spoon next to the bowl, and I smiled and thanked her.

The ramen possessed the flavour of legends. I gobbled noodles voraciously at first, and then slowed to enjoy the way the flavours of the toppings added to the broth and noodles. When I was done, I paid, tipped generously, complimented the staff on their broth, and stepped outside into the cool air again. The rain had slowed to intermittent spitting, and I leaned the shaft of my umbrella over my shoulder, as though I were strolling with a parasol. For some reason, I felt…happy. Rejuvenated. The adventure had been silly, but a much-needed escape from the intense pressure and isolation of my thesis writing. And the splurge on the ramen had been infinitely worth it, warming me up inside and out. I walked back to campus instead of catching the bus, taking long, leisurely strides, singing snatches of tunes as I crossed over bridges where the water mirrored the last traces of the season’s fiery orange leaves.

It’s not that I suddenly feel like everything’s going to be okay. It’s not that I don’t feel haunted by loss and loneliness still. Maybe things will get better, or maybe I’ll feel this way for a long time to come. Academic life unfortunately exacerbates this problem, forcing its minions to move around the continent every few years, unable to put down permanent roots and stay close to the people who matter most to them. No wonder so many turn into bitter, lonely shells of people who have no meaning to their lives apart from their tiny niche of research and the prestige they cling to. I realized this, though: I was simultaneously trying to come to terms with this loss, run away from it, and cling to the pain of it. All at once. I’ve tried to force myself to accept the isolation by telling myself that this is the way it’s going to be, and as a result, I’ve unintentionally fallen out of contact with my friends. I’ve been so afraid of the fact that they’re going to forget about me on the other side of the country here that I’ve paralyzed myself into immobility and come across as forgetting about them myself. As that has happened, I’ve tried to prove to myself that I’m okay on my own, and have gone about life in a miserably hermit-ized way, without having meaningful conversations with anyone. And yet, in the midst of trying to convince myself of this and unknowingly keep everyone at arm’s length, why, then, if it’s fine with me, do I continue to refresh my email and facebook multiple times every hour hoping to hear from them, and why do I continue to post status updates and blogs as though people still care to read them? I’m such an idiot. Yes, life changes. It will continue to. Yes, people will get married, move away, and take different life paths. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t still your friends, and it doesn’t mean that each of them isn’t still one of the most valuable people in your life. If anything, those times you shared together then were the foundation for many more years of meaningful friendship through all the changes that are to come. Perhaps passion and innocent vigour can’t last forever, but how can we look down the road and know what will really be best when we're older? Maybe I can strive to replace the exuberance with stability and maturity instead of the cynicism that I am troubled to see creeping into so many people my age. Maybe it all comes down to optimism. I can’t have all the answers yet, but I can trust that God will give them to me with time.

I came in the door of my dark, empty apartment, gave a long, thoughtful sigh, peeled off my drenched shoes and socks with a laugh, and ran myself a hot bath with twice the amount of bubble bath I’d normally ration myself. The moment I slid under the water, thirty-five hours without sleep caught up to me all at once and I could barely see straight. I forced my eyes to stay open a while longer so that I could make my 9 PM goal, and then I slipped into bed, and for the first time in many weeks, savoured the delicious feeling of having sleep carry me away.

Epic Adventure for One (Part I)

This is a departure from my usual posts. It's far longer, and along with the usual blog-type adventure, sincerely discloses some of my deepest thoughts and fears. I'd be honoured if you choose to read it despite its length.

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It all kind of started because I decided to stay up all night.

You see, my insomnia had been so bad recently that I was shifting from been unable to sleep until 4 or 5 in the morning to 6 or 7 in the morning most nights, but once I fell asleep, I'd still stay asleep for seven or eight hours, and my lack of classes this year meant that I was starting to wake up at times that were becoming increasingly socially unacceptable. I'd tried to gradually back up my wake-up time, but had just turned into a zombie because of lack of sleep and eventually crashed, with no change in the time I was able to fall asleep whatsoever.

There's something ingrained in our society that tells us that morning people are somehow morally better than the rest of us who are not. It already makes a person feel a little badly about themselves when someone else describes how they get up at 5 AM every morning to go to the gym, and in the same kind of way, when the school across the street lets out, and you know even secretly that you just woke up two hours ago, you feel even worse.

When Thursday rolled around, I had a dilemma: I had to be on campus at 8 AM the next morning to grade sight singing exams. So I decided that the best approach to take would be to just stay up an extra couple of hours and not go to bed at all. I also decided I would follow that up by not going to bed until 9 PM the next night, in a drastic effort to reset my schedule to something more normal.

The plan worked splendidly for a while. I turned up on campus a little before 8, got in line at Tim Horton's and cheerily texted the TA who was co-grading with me to ask if she'd like tea or coffee. I breezed through three hours of grading. I met with someone for smoothies and intense discussion for two hours afterwards. Then I got home and was suddenly very tired. I tried to go for a walk, but was foiled by a sudden thunderstorm. I tried to watch a video, but my eyes started involuntarily ceasing to send vision signals to my brain. I had to do something, quickly. Work was unfortunately out of the question, because I'd already tried to write some emails, and realized when I read them over that I was skipping words and misspelling things, which scared me.

I couldn't get any work done, and I definitely couldn't let myself fall asleep. So I decided then that I was going to go on a really great adventure. All by myself. I decided to start by trying out geocaching.

Have you ever heard of geocaching? You've likely heard mention of it somewhere along the way. It's been growing as an activity ever since GPS came out, and exploded with the release of cheap mobile devices that had mapping capabilities. What it is, essentially, is a huge, worldwide treasure-hunting game in which someone makes a secret cache containing at the very least a logbook, but usually small trinkets for trade, hides it somewhere, and then posts the GPS coordinates along with a clue or two on the internet. Participants then look up geocaches nearby, and find their way to the cache site where they sign the logbook to prove they were there, and trade one of the items in the cache for something of equal or greater value. It's a terrific, fun activity for people who like to be outdoors, and depending on the cache difficulty, it can be family-friendly as well.

I scrolled through a listing of local caches, and decided that my target was one located about two kilometers away. I struck out and picked my way towards the target point that was flashing on my GPS map. I hit the end of the residential area pretty quickly, and realized that just because the line on the map was straight and only 2km, my route was not necessarily the same. It started to rain much harder. I had my umbrella this time that was at least keeping the top half of me dry, so I slogged on anyway, determined to meet my goal. I couldn't find a way across the mess of highway interchanges that clogged the area, and was forced to keep walking until I was way past the mark. A bridge finally presented itself, and I crossed over and started doubling back. The second problem that arose was the fact that as I got closer, I could see that the cache site was in a park, but the park was far lower than the ground I was on, and there was also a river between it and me. I spent ages weaving behind tennis courts, apartment buildings, and bus stations, being repeatedly foiled by fences, until I found the start of the park and squished my way through the wet field. Finally, I was within 500m of the cache.

It was then that I reached the river's edge, though, and approaching it made me realize that I couldn't just walk up to it and expect there to be a little footbridge. This was a full-fledged river. I didn't know which direction to go, since I couldn't tell based on my map whether the bridges on it had pedestrian bridges, or whether they would even get me down to the level of the park. I kept squishing along in my half-soaked shoes, until I ran into a man walking his dog along a path. I stopped to ask him for help, and he seemed startled and puzzled, which is maybe because it's not all that often that you run into a person in the middle of a park in the pouring rain who is just walking along with an umbrella and is lost. I probably looked a little creepy with my black jacket, black umbrella, bleary eyes and completely windblown hair, stalking along through the mushy grass and the rainstorm. In any case, the man pointed me towards the nearest bridge, and I headed for it gratefully, despite the fact that I was yet again walking in a big circle around the cache.

I crossed the bridge to discover a paved trailhead, and I followed it, pleased to see the numbers on my map dropping quickly. 400...300...200... There was next to no one in the park, except for the odd cyclist or jogger in rain gear. The park itself even felt creepy today. It was mid-October, so a lot of things were overgrown and dying, veering off at unnatural angles due to the heavy rain. Especially to a prairie girl, the four-foot-tall thickets of stick-like plants bearing burrs the size of superbouncers, the plants that leered with flapping leaves the size of dinner plates, and the masses of vegetation so dense you couldn't see through them all looked very ominous. My shoes made audible sucking sounds as I walked, and the bottom half of my pant legs were sticking to my skin. Which, surprisingly, I was fine with, and perhaps even a little pleased with. I'll admit to having been recently fixated on the notion that I will not have my independence and health forever, and so I seize opportunities to do things that will greatly inconvenience me while I can still take great inconveniences in stride. I never have to worry about rushing to pick up the kids from school, worry about having a bad knee start to act up, worry about getting home to get supper going on time, or anything else. I'm more worried about someday turning 50 and feeling like my life was boring, because I have no memories to look back on of going on adventures, big and small, whenever I could.

The thoughts that pressed on me as I walked down the path, one squish at a time, were similar. Looking into the future always scares me, not because it's unknown, but because I fear having to make the big choices that will dictate it -- not because I'm afraid of making the wrong choice, but because I'm afraid of the way the decision sets itself in stone and narrows the range of all of your subsequent choices. A couple of years ago, I realized that I'd long since passed the point in my life where I could do anything I wanted, where all the horizons were open to me. I told my roommate about it, but didn't let on how much the realization bothered me. Time has already locked up that period of adolescent moldability, and from here on out, it will continue to ever-so-slowly strip us of our mental and physical capacities. The thought terrifies me, and makes me want to climb a thousand mountains and encourage a thousand people before the day comes when I'm in my forties and I realize that all the young people around me don't even realize that I was young once, too. I think we all wonder where we'll be, and what kind of person we'll be in ten years. Wonder what life will look like, too. The thing that has nearly paralyzed me recently is the realization that today is directly connected to that day ten years away and another day ten years after that by a thin string of ordinary days, and so is the day forty years down the road where I'll be looking back on all of this as though it's just thin haze over a distant lake. What a thin string it is, slowly, inexorably winding itself up until it runs out.

I suddenly realized I'd walked too far. But how was that possible? I'd been at 82 meters the last time I'd checked, and now my map said I was over 150 away! I couldn't have gone that far in so little time. Maybe this point on the map was around a sharp, hairpin turn in the path? I had no way of knowing without going on to look. My hopes were dashed when I arrived at a point where the path swung emphatically the other way. I cheated a little bit and used my 3GS internet to find a map of the park, which showed the one lone trail that I was on. It was elliptical in shape, and nearly a kilometer across the middle going the narrow way. The cache, then...was in the middle of this horrible, sodden forest?? I halfway wanted to give up, but that would have been utterly depressing to have come within 82 meters of the cache after all my circling and slogging, and then turn back. I retraced my steps to the point where my map said 82 meters again. This was the closest I could come to the cache point without battling the seething, sagging forest.

I stared at it long and hard. I paced up and down the path a dozen meters or so, looking for a possible entry point. It was then that I spotted it: a thin strip of beaten-down grass, invisible to anyone not looking for it, leading off into the sea of yellows and browns. I could only see about three meters along it. 79 more meters was a long way to go when I didn’t know what to expect. But I had to try.

Ten meters into the forest, I couldn’t see the edge behind me anymore. I was sealed in by the dying vegetation, and it was silent as a tomb, save for the dribbling of raindrops off innumerable leaves. I tramped along the trail determinedly, but thirty meters in, I started wondering how wise this had been. The truth was, I could very well run into a real tramp in here. Then what? The best thing would have been to come with someone, but that wasn’t very well an option now. I doubted I knew anyone who would want to drop what they were doing and trek through the rain to meet me at the edge of some creepy forest.

I continued cautiously, with every sense tingling, searching for any sound or colour that seemed out of place. The trouble with this trail was that it was not straight, so I had no idea how long I would be following it for. Sometimes my compass pointed at the mark, and sometimes it pointed ninety degrees in the wrong direction as I wove between trees, with my umbrella occasionally tugging at a barren branch, triggering a splashing cascade of droplets. This situation was made more uncomfortable for me by the fact that, in truth, I am afraid of touching any matter that is organic in nature. Maybe this means I should pick adventures other than geocaching, but that’s beside the point for now. My mom tells me that even when I was a baby, I would cry for absolutely no reason if I was set down in some leaves. When I was little, I actually had severe nightmares about decaying plants being on my bed. Whatever caused this odd phobia, I still feel nervous about touching organic matter to this day, even if it’s just picking up a leaf off of the sidewalk.

It was at this point that I hit a problem: a fork in the trail. Which one to take? I arbitrarily picked the one that pointed more towards the mark, even though I knew it could turn away at any moment. I had no way of making a more informed decision. Only ten meters later, another fork. Another, and yet another followed after that. This was a rat maze!

Neti Pots and Thesis Writing - The Connections You Never Knew About

A couple of years ago, my roommate bought a Neti Pot and started using it. The concept of Neti Pots terrifies me, frankly, because I've never gotten along well with water, and loathe having my face submerged to this day. So to voluntarily pour water into your nose sounds like self-inflicted torture, thank you very much, and I couldn't even watch when my roommate used this Neti Pot device, because just imagining the sensation struck terror into my being.

Now, let me suspend that unpleasant train of thoughts to quickly issue a public health warning. I would just like to inform you all that the research topic of Glenn Gould carries a curse. Because every single time I attempt to write a scholarly paper about the man, I come down with a terrible cold. I'm not exaggerating, either. I wrote my application paper on Gould, researched for it, and was ready to write when I was stricken with a cold and fever. With application deadlines approaching, I tried to write it anyway, surrounded by kleenexes and books, but I had to rewrite half of the thing after a couple of days of recovery, because I was in such a delirium that it was the most lackluster writing I'd ever produced. Second time: I was writing a paper for a seminar about Gould and the Goldberg Variations. Hit with cold, no joke. Third time: I decide to start writing my thesis, and lo and behold, the inevitable cold presents itself in full-force. I am...vexed.

Oh, and you see the connection now, don't you? Neti Pots...colds...what have I done?? Well, you see, I was so fed up with my current cold that I decided I would do anything to alleviate my sinus symptoms. Including things I am terrified of. I very calmly did some Web MD research to make sure Neti Pots actually did what they promised they do, and the answer was a resounding 'Yes!' so I decided I would buy one. A few years ago, I might have sat and thought about it for so long that I would have scared myself out of it, or else I would have bought it and then sat staring at it for so long that I would have talked myself out of it. Apparently I have become fearless and determined in my old age! I made my decision, collected my keys and money, and marched myself down to Shopper's Drug Mart. I bought a Neti Pot and carried it home, all the while refusing to allow myself to even consider the possibility that this might be scary, painful, or uncomfortable. So I arrived back home, opened the box, and read the whole panphlet that came with it -- well, all except for the diagrams of the sinuses, because I was pretty sure that understanding what part of my head I was actually filling up with water would really freak me out to the point of not being able to go through with it. This time, I was going to go on faith in the fact that people around the world had been doing this for hundreds of years without dying, and so could I.

So. Feeling fairly confident, I took the Neti Pot, added the instructed amount of water and a packet of saline stuff, and swirled it around. I carried it to the bathroom, and knelt on the ground, leaning over the sink. I picked it up, and...decided that I really ought to at least have some pleasant music for this period of time. Just in case it took a while and I was tempted to panic while my sinuses were full of saline solution, you know. I settled on Beethoven. 32 Variations in C Minor? Too depressing. Sonata in F Major? There's the ticket! I wondered briefly what my old piano teacher would think if he knew I was irrigating my sinuses to the sounds of his CD, but then decided not to reflect on that. Back to the bathroom. Back over the sink. I fiddled with the Neti Pot, trying to get a good grip on it, and then...went for it!!

Once I'd figured out that I needed to make sure it was sealing properly, and once I'd learned to NOT attempt to swallow while Neti Pot-ing (that lesson involved a bit of spluttering), it was fine! Sure, it felt weird, but only in the same kind of way as it feels weird when your nose is stuffed up with a cold. And, you know, I think it worked pretty well! I'm going to give it a few more tries before I draw any hard-and-fast conclusions, but my sinuses were indeed clear for a good while afterwards!

Um...so what is the point of all of this, you ask? Well, that's a good question. I'm not writing to advertise for Neti Pots (although with the number of times I've said 'Neti Pot,' I may very well get google hits for it)), I'm writing because there was actually a very improbable connection between my Neti Pot and my thesis.

Huh??

Apart from the fact that my Neti Pot and my thesis topic both seem to fill my sinuses with stuff, I learned an important lesson from my experience with both of them.

You see, I've been trying to start writing my thesis for quite a while now. I've read all kinds of literature for my topic over the last year, and I have things floating around in my head that I want to say, but I just couldn't get them out, because I couldn't conceive of opening a blank document called 'thesis.doc' and starting to type. I couldn't get over the mental hurdle of making my first few words profound and riveting, and I was terrified by the prospect of writing a 150-page document. So I couldn't even start.

I realized, however, that it was kind of like my Neti Pot aversion of the past. I'd thought so hard about the scariness of the whole big process of pouring liquid into your sinuses, and about how hard it would be the moment you had to 'go for it' and start pouring, being afraid of choking or drowning or something, blah blah blah, that I would never have done it. What it took was breaking it down into simple, do-able things that weren't actually hard. Go to the store. Buy one. Go home. Read booklet. Etc. All without worrying about the steps that were yet to come. It was the exact same thing with my thesis. Instead of starting with the whole thing in mind, I had to start small, with do-able steps. Re-read one source. Pick out a few points to take up. Jot some notes. Start writing a few sentences. They don't have to be the riveting opening sentences of my thesis; maybe they'll start a chapter, or maybe I'll totally rewrite them in a few weeks after I've gotten twenty pages under my belt. But I started! And I think that was the hardest part so far.

It comes to my mind now that I found a quote not so long ago that is super relevant: "The impossible can always be broken down into possibilities." I hope you'll be able to break something impossible down for yourself, too, but I'll leave the sermonizing for you to do yourself. I have to continue writing my thesis!

There are plans, and then there are realities.

How I planned my day yesterday:

12 AM: Go to bed.

9 AM: Get up and write the presentation I'd finished the research for the previous night.

12 PM: Meeting with research supervisor to fill out progress report.

1 PM: Make lunch, pack food for supper, edit and revise presentation.

2 PM: Meeting with presentation partner. Combine work and create handouts.

4 PM: Seminar. Give presentation.

7 PM: Heat up supper in grad office, go to iaido class.

10 PM: Come home, unwind a little, go to bed.

The reality of my day yesterday:

12:00 AM: Go to bed. Be stricken with insomnia until after...

2:00 AM: Maybe fall asleep, but being so exhausted, sleep through until...

10:45 AM: Wake up, panic, write a page of the presentation, get dressed and run out the door.

12:00 PM: Knock on supervisor's door. He opens it, says, "Oh, wait, I need to heat my lunch."

12:05 PM: Stand and wait for supervisor, until he says to another grad student...

12:10 PM: "Oh! I need to talk with you about something important!" and asks me to wait.

12:15 PM: Stare at notices board until other student returns and tells me the story.

12:20 PM: Finally start meeting with supervisor. Discuss PhD applications scatteredly.

12:45 PM: A prof comes to the door, requesting an immediate conversation with my supervisor.

12:50 PM: Stand in the hallway and chat with passing people until urgent meeting concludes.

1:00 PM: Finally resume meeting. "What are your instincts about your thesis?" I don't know.

1:25 PM: Phone rings. "I'm so sorry, I have to take this!" I say that I'm kind of out of time.

1:30 PM: Meeting postponed. Run home. Furiously type presentation while inhaling leftovers.

2:10 PM: Run back to campus for partner meeting. Wave notes around and feign completion.

2:45 PM: Shrieking siren noises! Panicked librarian runs in, screaming, "Get out! Get out now!"

2:50 PM: Get outside with arms full of cords, mangled notes, pens, books, and a computer.

2:55 PM: Sit under a tree and fiercely type presentation.

3:05 PM: Fire drill is over. Return to meeting and tell partner "almost ready." Type like mad.

3:40 PM: Done writing. Trying to make handout. Printer is down?!

3:45 PM: Run home, jump around impatiently while printing on home printer. Make handout.

3:55 PM: Run back to campus, arrive in a sweat, with slightly crunched presentation in hand.

4:00 PM: Seminar. Give awesome presentation that asks bold questions and sparks debate.

7:00 PM: Seminar over. Prof says "very, very well done" again. Partner is stunned.

7:05 PM: No supper. Need to buy some. Head to student store.

7:10 PM: Lineup at student store is wrapping around the aisle. I won't make it.

7:15 PM: Arrive at bus station just in time. Ride to iaido class. Pretend not to be hungry.

7:40 PM: Feat of coordination and memory: put on brand-new hakama and obi correctly.

8:00 PM: Third class in new iaido style. Have my footwork, cuts, and form thoroughly critiqued.

9:30 PM: Struggle greatly to fold crazy hakama. Finish just in time to make it to the bus stop.

10:00 PM: Arrive home. Make KD for supper and stare at the wall, exhausted. Check email.

12:00 PM: Get into bed. But thanks to good old buddy insomnia, sleep won't come until...

3:00 AM

Here and There

Things I missed about Ottawa:
Parliament Hill
Buses that actually come on time
Crickets
Maple & oak trees
Being able to walk everywhere I need to go
Warm nights sitting and talking on patios
Bilingualism
Compact city where a car is unnecessary
Amazing culture

Things I did NOT miss about Ottawa:
Freaking HST
Larger bugs
Trying to fall asleep when it's 31 degrees indoors
Doing all the cooking and dishes myself
Noisy neighbours
Humidity
Insomnia
Academia

Things I will miss about Calgary:
Friends
Family
The mountains
Mild temperatures

Things I will NOT miss about Calgary:
Horrendous transit system, inaccessibility
Commuting time
Cultural wasteland
Mindless, meaningless jobs

On the Power of Music, and a New Year

I think nearly everyone must have a few songs in their life that are inseparably connected to a particular event or time. The kind that, when you hear the first few bars, draw those strong feelings up out of you that you hadn't felt in a while, and suddenly, you're back there, in the moment that the music connects you to.

The conversations I've had with people where I can ask them about certain pieces of music that mean something special to them are often some of the ones that allow me to see them at their most lively and sincere. We all know, and often say as a great understatement, how powerful music is. The fact that it can connect us so strongly to a feeling or an experience is really remarkable.

I've wondered before whether these experiences are particularly strong for performers with the works they've performed before. Maybe one that we've struggled with for hours in the practice room to the point of rage, maybe one we had a bad performance experience with, or maybe one that we fell rapturously in love with and had profound musical experiences playing. Performers, chime in here if this is the case for you. I'd be very interested to know.

As for me, yes, I still involuntarily stop breathing when I hear a piece start with a crescendoing timpani roll, writhe in discomfort when I hear Beethoven's "Pathetique," and feel imaginary keys that seem almost real under my fingers when I hear certain Chopin pieces. Unfortunately for me as a perfectionist, the most strongly-associated psychological responses to music I have experience with are negative, because of the regrets of tiny slips that only I remember but will never have a chance to correct, the residual feelings of crushing performance anxiety, or the abject feelings of inadequacy after a failed practice session or harsh lesson. That sounds really depressing, I know, but friends, that is precisely why I am not a performer. My most pleasant responses to classical music are with pieces I have never played; usually ones that I fell for at an early age and have never had to spoil my relationship with through study. That list would include Rachmaninoff's 2nd (which I think every pianist on the face of the earth must have a love affair with at some point -- my advisor at Prairie told me that once when I excitedly mentioned it, and in my naivete, I was disappointed to find out that I had not in fact championed some obscure gem. But he was right.).

Performers as a breed aside, I'm sure for most people, the emotional connections they have with songs are more in the popular vein. Maybe a favourite song from a special summer, maybe a movie or video game theme that moved them, maybe a song they danced to, drove to, fell in love to, or sang their heart out to at a concert. And I'm sure we all have songs that take us right back to certain periods of time, like high school, working certain jobs, moving, etc. I definitely have songs that are forever attached to certain times in my life. In fact, a couple of years ago, in a fit of nostalgia, I went and bought a bunch of them individually on iTunes, and sat listening to them, staring into space, being pulled back into the thick of the days they were associated with for me.

Something I started doing around the same time I discovered the potency of this phenomenon was intentionally choosing brand new 'soundtracks' for major events in my life. I find that there are a few good uses for this.

If you are preparing for something like an important exam or a big game, or if you are trying to make a new habit for a big life change, attaching some music to it can be a powerful motivator, because that song becomes associated with the initial rush of determination, motivation, and excitement we feel when we tackle a new challenge. Consistency in attaching this new music to times where you have enthusiasm for your task can later be turned around to pump up your motivation when you feel discoraged, or to trigger a focused mindset.

Another way I've applied this strategy was by taking a couple of brand-new albums with me when I moved. The newness of the music meshed itself with the newness of the experiences, and kept me in the present, instead of letting me sit around and miss the old.

The flip-side effect of this technique is that way down the road, returning to music that became an integral part of a big life change will inevitably bring you back to the overwhelming feelings that came with the big experience. That was the thing that prompted this blog post, actually. This afternoon, I realized it had been a while since I had listened to the Arcade Fire album I bought for my move for grad school, so I put it on. The familiar, ethereal guitar introduction started up, and a funny feeling crept up my shoulders with it, and - WHAM! Oh my word, I was back in my old skin from August 2010, replete with the incredible feelings of lostness, hopefulness, and vulnerability. I felt like I was once again surrounded by Ikea cardboard, overwhelmed by how utterly strange all the things around me felt that were supposed to feel like home now, and could nearly feel the unfamiliar, thick warmth of humid, 25-degree heat at 10 PM on my skin.

Plunging into that adventure felt so monumental. Well, it was monumental, really, considering how huge the change was. It was very different than moving to Three Hills, because even though I was still settling into something very unfamiliar at Prairie, I was on a floor in dorms that surrounded me with people whom I belonged with in a sense. But this time, I was on the other side of the country, and there was no "freshmen orientation" to connect me with classmates through stupid games, no dining hall to awkwardly meet people in, and no late-night floor parties to build community. The Weepies' "Nobody Knows Me At All" became a bittersweet mantra.

The thing is, it's hard to believe that was all a year ago. What felt so massive then is now half over. That's difficult to comprehend, except for the fact that I'm now starting to ramp up into my fifth round of admission battles in only seven years. I'm excited and not excited for this year to start. I have to write a thesis. I don't want to write a thesis. I'm not even sure I can write a thesis. I'm excited to join a new dojo and start training more often. I'll be glad to see my place, unless the ants I fought last year have moved in full time in my absence (I'll open the door very slowly on Wednesday). I wonder if I should buy a new 'soundtrack' for this year, or use last year's. But I have a lot more questions swirling through my mind:

Will I go crazy with my thesis looming over me like a massive, hideous vulture?

Will I actually succeed in turning out such a substantial piece of work? Will it be any good or will I be disappointed with it?

Will I be an OK instructor for the accelerated aural skills group? Will I have problem students with attitudes that will make my life miserable?

What will the new grad students be like? Will they resent us? Will we resent them? Will we hang out? Will they seem like idiots to us?

Will we have a full-fledged eastern Canadian winter? Will my apartment's temperature fall below ten degrees this time?

Will continuing my martial arts studies be an effective safety valve for the insane pressure I know will come with next year? Or will the pressure be so intense that I'll be forced to drop it?

What is going to happen with my PhD applications? where will I wind up living the following year? Will I get in anywhere? Will I lose my sanity in the demeaning process?

Will I be able to finish in the spring, or will I get sucked into a vortex of endless deletions, additions, and revisions, and not finish until the last second in August?

Will everyone back home give up on me and fall out of touch?

Will I lose sleep, weight, and hair over my thesis research, writing, and defense? Is there really even any question about that? Will people be able to tolerate my ravings about it?

Will I be able to maintain balance, focus, and happiness in my life despite the pressure, torture, and stress? Or will I turn into the stereotypically bitter, hermit-like grad student?

Why does this all seem so terrible and scary??

My life is never boring.

BAM!
The resounding noise from the impact of human body against mat rebounded off the walls of the empty gymnasium, making the fall sound as hard as it had been fast. My heart was pounding, not only from the focus and exertion this required, but from the panicky feeling that comes over you when you realize you're about to be forced to face an old fear.

I have always abhorred all manner of things that belong in the same category as roller coasters, heights, really steep hills, high ropes courses, and ridiculous drop-of-doom amusement park rides. What category is this? "Things That Involve and/or Possibly Involve Falling." The things where you are out of control of what is happening to your body, and at any given moment, you may be subjected to 9.81 meters per second squared of gravitational acceleration, possibly head over heels, and possibly with unpleasant injuries at the bottom.

Even in gym class when I was a kid, I had a very tenuous relationship with anything that involved my feet being above my head. I absolutely dreaded the time of year when the gymnastics unit came around, and I put unbelievable amounts of effort into avoiding having to attempt somersaults, cartwheels, and headstands. It was a "chicken or egg" issue, since I'm not really sure if I was so bad at gymnastics because I hated it so much, or if I hated it so much because I was so bad at it.

For most of my classmates, it was one of the best parts of the whole year when we got to spend a few weeks in groups, making up a gymnastics routine set to music. We had to include a certain number of pyramids, rolls, stands, etc, and we were supposed to 'include all the group members equally.' I tried really hard to strategically get all my group members to be included more equally than I was. So I spent the majority of the routine holding up people's feet in headstands, being the bottom of the pyramids, and fearfully and awkwardly completing my one required somersault. Somersaults for me went something like this:

Ok...kneel down...you can do it...
Hands on the mats. Are they placed okay? Can I stall more by making sure they're placed okay?
Head down...aaaahhhh...!
Feet...up...AAAAHHHH!

At this point, my awkwardly-tall-for-her-age grade-school self would basically just tip over, straight as a board, flat onto her back, with a painful jar to the brain. I'm not sure why I couldn't do somersaults properly, or why no one ever helped me get it right, but being upside down and that moment of kicking myself over backwards was terrifying. I would always arrive on the ground wide-eyed, amazed that I was still alive. Back somersaults? Forget it. The moment I finished grade 10 gym, I realized I never had to do another somersault again, and I gleefully left those days on the blue squishy mats behind forever. Forever until last night, that is.

You see, even though the class I train in is sword AND aikido due to the commonality of the underlying principles in both arts, since we usually practice in a dance studio, we don't actually go flinging people around like in most aikido classes. (Like in this picture.) With no padding on the floor, we practice only techniques that don't involve flipping people upside down, and we still either go very slowly, or else just to the point that the attacker's balance is broken, and we could take them down. This was perfectly fine with me. I do a lot better in general on my feet than in other postures. However, really, if I were ever in a position where someone came up to me at an ATM, a bus stop, or whatever, and grabbed me, using slow aikido or merely breaking their balance would not really be terribly effective.

Coupled with the hardwood flooring limitation is the fact that since our class is very new, we more often than not have new people coming in to check things out and try a couple of classes. Each time, we go back to some of the fundamentals of sword and aikido, which is still excellent for more experienced people to practice, but doesn't terrify or frustrate the new people. But last night, for the first time in the four months I've been training, I was the only person who came to class. This meant there were no new people to hold us to doing easy things, and also no chances to take a breather while watching Sensei instruct someone else. After we'd warmed up, Sensei headed over to a stack of blue gym mats and we pulled a couple out. Not only was this the first time we'd ever used mats in class, this was my first time touching them in a decade. I was not pleased to be seeing them again.

"Ukemi," said Sensei, ponderously.
I knew exactly what ukemi was. I have done way, way more than my share of reading on aikido. I've probably read more aikido articles than most people who have spent years practicing aikido. But I stood patiently while Sensei took athoughtful moment to come up with an explanation, and then he said, "It means...well, 'receiving.' We're going to start doing some breakfalls."

Dooooom.

My first-ever exposure to ukemi (pronounced "oo-kem-ee," by the way) was about four years ago, when I went to observe an aikido class being held at the rec centre by my house. I thought I wanted to join, but when I watched the class, the first thing they did was 'warm up' by flinging themselves back and forth across the length of the mats in unending series of rolls. Mind you, they were very graceful-looking, but the whole spectacle made me think, "There is no WAY I would EVER be able to do that." It looked like a torture variation of junior high gym class.

My second encounter with ukemi was in literary form, which is, granted, never the best way to learn any physical skill, but as I was researching to choose a martial art, I read discussions, descriptions, and tips, and looked at all manner of pictures and videos. A basic forward roll in aikido is far removed from the kneel-down-hands-down-head-down-ready-GO! somersault, since it's meant to protect you if you're being thrown forcefully by someone who's got you by the arm. The descriptions I read instructed the uke to lay one arm (the one that isn't in the grip of the person who's throwing you) down flat with the palm up on the mat, pointing towards your feet, and from that point of contact, to roll, creating a diagonal line from that shoulder to the opposite hip, ending up with one leg underneath you and one leg forward, almost in a standing position. If that sounds horribly confusing, it's because it is.

Last night, we started with easier breakfalls than that. This was a good thing, because they were scary enough as it was. First, we just practiced falling over backwards by ourselves, and landing properly, using our free arm to slap out at a 60-degree angle from our body and distribute the force of the fall so that it wasn't painful. I did it wrong twice, got two painful rattles to my brain, and then I suddenly got it right after that, and realized how well it worked if done correctly. This was okay, until we did it in an attack situation. Sensei held one of my arms straight away from me in an immobilizing grab and told me he was going to step behind me to take out the leg my weight was now on while applying force across the collarbone with his other arm.

Oh my gosh.

"You're going to fall. Ok? You will fall, so fall properly and you'll be fine."

Oh my gosh, oh my gosh.

Very, very slowly, he did as he said he would, and my every muscle clenched for dear life as I approached the breaking point in my balance. In a split instant, it was over.
Whoosh. BAM!
My feet were taken out from under me and I fell backwards, hard, hit the mat, slapped out, and stayed down, still frozen with adrenaline, but completely unharmed and even completely unjolted.
It was okay! I told myself. It was okay!!

For what felt like the next hour, but was definitely less than a third of that, we did the same thing over and over again. Hitting the mat, and struggling right back up to be thrown again. And again. And again with different variations on the throw, until I didn't even know what direction I was going to be flung the next time, and I felt as though I was soon going to become one with the blue mats. Sometimes we'd trade, and I would throw Sensei (much less skillfully) so that I could watch his ukemi, and understand the principle behind the balance-breaking technique in the throw, too.

The continual up-and-down was exponentially more exhausting than I thought such a simple activity could possibly be, and despite the fact that moderately-steep, three-hour mountain treks fail to even make me out of breath, by the end of this twenty minutes of falling, I was in a total sweat, and was struggling to catch my breath so much that I couldn't even get a question out about an aspect of the throw. It was GREAT. Compared to Sensei's fast and furious breakfalls, I could see I clearly still had a lot to learn, but I was happy because I knew I had made the big first step, and I also understood better now why a guest instructor will ask someone's experience level before throwing them in a demonstration: so that they know how good their ukemi is and don't hurt them with too hard a throw. (I also understand why a simple aikido technique can be so devastating against an attacker who doesn't know what to expect and doesn't know how to fall safely!)

Well, I was happy with that, and was relieved I hadn't had to fling myself in rolls across the mats, either -- until Sensei said, "Next..." and, lo and behold, it was a roll just like the ones that had scared me years ago. I was sure I was doomed to embarrassing failure and injury.
We tried them from a kneeling position first, but I just could not get past my childhood somersaulting inhibitions, and froze. So then he said we should try them standing.
Won't that make it even worse...? I wondered.
With me copying Sensei, we stepped forward with one foot, pointed our inside arm backwards along the mat, leaned forward, and...Sensei rolled perfectly from shoulder to hip, winding up perfectly positioned on the other side of the mat. I, however, remained riveted to the starting position. I watched twice more, and it just looked impossible. We set up again, and I leaned forward again -- oh gosh, how was this going to work?? -- and Sensei said, "I can't explain what happens here, you just have to feel it." Deciding that nothing any worse than humiliation and terror could result from going through with the roll, I steeled my resolve and tipped myself over.

Somehow, magically, astonishingly, the next thing I knew, I was sitting at the other end of the mat in a half-decent defensive position, with nothing any worse for wear. I would have sat there in shock for a full minute had Sensei not moved right along. "Pretty good! Again!" I feared I couldn't repeat the feat, but I made myself do it again, and lo and behold, it worked again. We worked on adjustments, like pulling my free arm in more so that my shoulder was used for the roll more, and making the motions smaller and tighter. I still don't actually know what happens between the moment that I put my shoulder down and the moment I find myself sitting on the mat again, but maybe that's okay for now. We did a lot of these before we moved on eventually. It was good we did move on, because to me, being completely unaccustomed to inversions of all kinds, after doing so many rolls in quick succession, I felt like I'd just taken a spin in a fighter jet.

I'll spare you most of the boring details of the rest of class, but, presumably due to the lack of new people today, we did one other very, very unusual and difficult thing in our iaido (sword drawing) practice. After first practicing only the footwork of one of our kata (forms; sets of specific movements studied in training), we paused, and then, as I knelt on the mat, Sensei came around behind me with my bokuto (heavy wooden practice sword) and carefully balanced it across the top of my head. I sat as straight as I could, accepting the point of what I thought was a very quick lesson on posture.

But rather than removing the bokuto and saying something about keeping the same sense of verticalness as I did the kata, Sensei simply stepped back, leaving the bokuto balanced on my head, and said, "Okay. Now do your kata."
"Seriously??" I said, which was perhaps rather impudent, but the wooden blade was wobbling precariously enough on top of my head already without my having even moved yet that I was extremely skeptical about even being able to move out of my kneeling position without it falling. (At right: Artist's rendition of described esoteric iaido training technique)

Of course he wasn't kidding, though, and so I began, with great concentration and care. It was tremendously difficult to move through such a dynamic sequence of actions with a meter-long stick on my head. But after a lot of tries, I got through the first kata with the bokuto only dropping at the very end. Sensei was just on the mat opposite mine, practicing in the same way himself, and this bizarre, esoteric training definitely had a little bit of mystical, martial-artsy, 'cool' factor to it. Both of us were just training in perfect silence, eyes focused straight ahead, moving in slow, smooth, sweeping motions, maintaining an impossible-looking balance despite the large motions required. If we had been doing this in front of a waterfall in the middle of nowhere, the awesomeness factor would have gone through the roof. (Maybe I'll try this someday...)

We did other kata in this way, too, and it wasn't until towards the very end of this training that I realized my muscles were in serious trouble. Going through any demanding movement at one-tenth speed absolutely requires ten times more muscle control than it normally would (think of slow situps, pushups, or squats), because you can't rely on momentum, and each individual muscle group has to do its share of the work as you move slowly into a new position. And iaido kata involve kneeling with tops of the feet on the floor, kneeling with toes tucked under, kneeling on one knee, standing, crouching, shifting weight forward and back, and all sorts of other postures. Imagine trying to change between those without leaning forward or back at all. Even after we put the bokuto away and were doing other kata at normal speed, I was starting to have serious issues moving from kneeling to standing. My leg muscles were staging an outright rebellion.

We finished class just when I was thinking I couldn't draw my sword one more time, and after thanking Sensei, I headed downstairs to get changed. Or I tried to. It was a rather alarming experience, actually: while attempting to go downstairs, my left leg, which had apparently taken most of the brunt of the slow-motion training, started wobbling uncontrollably like jello, and nearly gave out twice as I went down the stairs. My right leg wasn't an awful lot better, and this, being different than mere stiffness or pain, was quite startling. I made my way shakily to the train, and sat down for the ride home, wondering if I'd be able to stand again at the other end. I was (thankfully), but even this morning, my legs hadn't gone from floppiness to soreness yet -- that hit this afternoon!

My abs hurt. My sides hurt. My shoulders and arms hurt. My entire left leg from knee to hip is a single, unified sheath of pain. I can't figure out what was from repeatedly smashing 'properly' into the mat, and what was from the sword-balancing training. But as multiple people I've talked to over the last couple of years have agreed, that kind of soreness that you get from a really good workout, hard physical labour, or doing something really challenging is a great kind of soreness. Maybe that sounds masochistic, but we think it's because you know every time you feel those aching muscles that they'll be stronger for it, and you've accomplished something by pushing your envelope. I think my personal envelope got a pretty big push. I'll probably be nervous next time I have to do ukemi again, and trying to perform those rolls and breakfalls at high velocity while being thrown across the room seems even more daunting, but I'll get there, I'll get there.

Last story: it's about my sword case, which draws a lot of attention. It looks a lot like a case for a sniper rifle or something violent like that. People have inquired curiously about it before, and I admit I find it kind of fun to watch their expression go from surprise to disbelief to confusion when I tell them what's really inside it. So last night as I was making my way to the train, I came across a group of businessmen and businesswomen in their late 20's. Passing by them, I overheard them debating amongst themselves as to what my bag was. I ignored them until I was a ways past them, when I had to stop for the crosswalk light and one of the guys called after me in friendly curiousity, to settle the debate: "Pool cues, or hunting rifle??" I paused for a second, deciding if and how to answer. Concluding it was safe to reply with full disclosure, I looked back over my shoulder at them, and with coincidental dramatic flair that couldn't have been timed better in a movie, I looked at them for a moment, and then answered emphatically, "Katana!" a single second before the traffic signal changed, and I turned my back and strode away grinning as a moment of shocked silence from the businesspeople passed, and then gave way to howls of amazement and a couple of 'I told you!'s.

My life is never boring.