Little Bill

So for about two months there, during this summer, I was eating healthy and in the gym three times a week, sometimes more. As a result of a better diet, swapping out Diet Coke for Seltzer water and regular exercise, I’d lost fifteen pounds. And then, somehow, for the last three (maybe four?) weeks, I fell out of the habit again.

I was really starting to feel better, and had begun to notice some differences in how I looked. Already I’m beginning to feel a little bit lethargic, though that could be the beginning stages of Seasonal Affective Disorder — not that I know if it really does anything to me — now that the sun’s setting before I step out of the office.

Though not quite sure why it happened, I really need to step up my game again. I’ve only gained three pounds back which, considering how I eat, is surprising. Starting tomorrow I’ll have to make up a grocery list for dinner, since that’s when most of my bad eating habits show up. It’s difficult with pizzerias, Chinese food, tacos, burgers and fries are all within walking distance from me. Also I’m just too exhausted after work (let alone after the gym!) to cook. Still, it’s got to be done.

So I’m back on that. And I’m also going to revisit my workout and try and make it more enjoyable. After all, if I’m not going to enjoy it, I won’t make it into a habit. Simple as that.

If you live in New York, you discover that there is, in fact, a sound to silence. It is the incredibly conspicuous clack of your fingers dancing across the keyboard. The fan of the laptop humming against the top of the bed. The actual ticking of your wristwatch from five feet away, and the freight train’s rumble across the tracks and whistle over three miles away. The simple fact that you can hear these things is a reminder of the things you’re not hearing.

And those things are the sounds of New York City. It’s where you’re forced to hear drunken people shuffling down the street. Cars and cars pass by. And what’s not expressly identifiable becomes this low hum of white noise which is the cumulative sum of every siren, junkie, broken bottle and subway train crossing town.

I’ve found silence again by coming to my hometown. Here, in the beginnings of autumn, not only can I find peace and quiet, but I can discover — I never fully appreciated that which I took for granted growing up here — the incredible beauty that are trees, spanned across the horizon, peppered with greens, browns, oranges, reds and yellows. Here I can find twilight with a dark landscape, indigo sky, orange sunset with the very rims of the clouds overhead painted a delicate red-violet.

Here is where I can find dew crystallizing in the middle of the night to greet the morning as frost.

I may never again belong here, but I’ll certainly never forget that I still call this place home even though I live two hundred and fifty miles away.

Despite being home today — instead of at the office — and having a mountain of work looming, there was a sense of calm tranquility. Curtains were drawn for kitties to bathe in sunlight and, out my window, Bedford Avenue fell into step with the pace of my day. The light was rich but the air was crisp and it all came together to feel more like a late afternoon in spring, rather than the dawn of fall.

Productivity was at a high level, which could be attributed to being home — despite not feeling well — or maybe it’s simply that things needed to get done.

And they did.

Two top tattoo artists rejected the design, calling it too intricate for such a small area. It’s unfortunate but it does make sense, so it’s back to the drawing board… kind of. The I-Ching will remain. But what will go inside? That’s the new challenge. And being told one cannot do something often times provides opportunities to approach from another perspective. And perhaps something even more beautiful will come from it.

It was a good day.

We can live beside the ocean,
Leave the fire behind,
Swim out past the breakers,
Watch the world die.

—Everclear

I can’t get this song out of my head. It got so bad that I went to YouTube, loaded the video up, and every time the song ends, I hit replay. Then I hit stop, grabbed my neglected guitar, sung it a few times until my fingertips went raw, and then hit replay on YouTube again. I don’t know what it is about this song but the chorus, which hits me from time to time out of left field, leaves me with a sense of longing.

What it is I’m longing for I don’t know. It’s certainly not material possessions, I’ve got enough of those.

Replay.

Is it love? Is it a sense of purpose in life that often seems fleeting, as if trying to grasp a fistful of water? Is it simply a computer chair that doesn’t leave my ass completely numb after twenty minutes of sitting in it? Maybe my stir-craziness is simply that.

I don’t know… but it’s gnawing at me. And so is this chorus. Replay.

- - -

In other news, I’ve been thinking about my tattoo more lately. I’ve nailed down the design, which you can see here.

Replay. (Yes, I’m typing these when I replay the song)

I’ve been calling around to some of the better tattoo shops in the city, as reviewed by others. One of the top tattoo artists I e-consulted with said it’s too difficult for him. Another one wants $300/hr at 15-18 hours. Um, no. Just because you tattoo celebrities doesn’t make their rates my rates. Other ones that I’d like to do the tattoo are booked into 2010. No kidding.

The tattoo features two visual elements. The first are the eight trigrams of the I-Ching, each one representing points on a compass, or the element pairs Heaven/Earth, Mountain/Lake, Fire/Water, Wind/Thunder. Four trigrams will go down one forearm, their corresponding opposites on the other. This is to represent to me balance. It’s a visual reminder, etched in blood, for me to strike a balance between play and work, between spending and saving, between being withdrawn and being gregarious.

The other element is The Great Wave off Kanagawa, a print by Japanese printmaster Hokusai. It’s one of my favorite pieces of artwork um, ever.

The thing is, for a tattoo that’s supposed to remind me to strike a balance (I am a Libra, after all) this is awfully expensive. That kind of goes against the whole save money/spend money thing. And believe me, I’m a champ at spending money.

So I’m left here thinking…

I don’t know what I’m thinking.

I do know that I’ve stopped hitting repeat. though.

This weekend, I was talking to an online friend from Florida who’s not very involved in politics and I found myself dismayed at how much of the misinformation and outright lies are circulating about Barack Obama. My friend D says she’s undecided between McCain and Obama, which is her right to be.

“I don’t know,” she said, “I just don’t think that it’s a good idea to put a Muslim in the Oval Office.”

I was aghast. “What makes you think he’s Muslim?”

“Well that’s what I heard…” she replied.

“Did you do any research to find out?” I asked.

“No, but isn’t his middle name Hussein?”

“Well, yes. But how does someone’s name make them a Muslim? Also, what’s wrong with a Muslim?”

“Well, aren’t they all anti-American and everything?”

This is where I had to stop her. First off, I told her, just because his middle name is Hussein doesn’t make him a Muslim. That his father was African, and had a son with an African name — but left him with his American Mother to raise him in Kansas and Hawaii — doesn’t make him a Muslim. Also, the name Hussein in Africa and Arabic nations is probably about as common as Smith is here.

Secondly, I explained to her, just because someone’s Muslim doesn’t make him or her anti-American.

“But aren’t the Muslims the ones who attacked the Trade Center and are terrorists?”

“Well, yes. They were Muslims. But they’re Muslim Extremists. They’re to Muslim what the Klu-Klux Klan are to Christians.”

“What?”

“Do you consider the KKK to be good Christians?”

“No…”

“Think of these guys to be about the same. They have taken and twisted the religion, which also teaches tolerance and peace, and twists it on its head.”

“Really?”

Again. Dismay. Here is a 24 year old undecided living in Florida, a swing state, receiving all this misinformation. I implored her to please please do some research on the candidates before November.

“But they’re all going to tell us what we want to hear.”

True. But facts and track records can be researched. Let their actions speak louder than their words. At least she’s in agreement that Palin’s inexperience made for a bad choice for McCain.

That said, I’m trying to figure out if there’s ANY way we can spread the truth about the candidates in the midst of this horribly horribly frustrating campaign. You know when Karl Rove, of all people, consider the McCain campaign to be going “one step too far” that’s a sign of how rotten this has become.

So how do we counter the misinformation that’s being spread in places that aren’t friendly to Democrats?

INVICTUS,
by William Ernest Henley (1849-1903)

Out of the night that covers me,
   Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
   For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
   I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
   My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
   Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
   Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
   How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
   I am the captain of my soul.

Thanks to Dan for sharing this one with me.

It’s a cycle. And I go through it about once a year.

First I’m into seclusion. You know, for self-repair. Then it’s back out into the world for the very same reasons. The last few months of relative seclusion charged a toll. The price? My Self. Where is all the currency coming from? Where does it go?

Though I take little real stock in astrology, my sign is Libra. One could interpret that to mean that it means I strike a balance in things. This could be farther from the truth for me, where it’s either one extreme or another. Either I’m a hermit, or I’m gregarious. Where’s the balance there? Perhaps that’s what I should seek, perhaps it is the place from which I will rediscover the currency of Self.

For the last two years I’ve pondered getting another tattoo. On my forearms I wanted to get some of the Trigrams of the I-Ching. The eight trigrams represent directions on a compass, as well as the element pairs Heaven/Earth, Mountain/Lake, Fire/Water, and Thunder/Wind. Down each forearm would go four trigrams, with its corresponding opposite on the other arm.

I could literally etch into my body a reminder to strike balance. To find a balance between work and play, between society and withdrawal, and maybe even between the material and spiritual.

And maybe then I will have an abundance of currency to bank on and to invest wisely back into my Self.

little bill: help.
little bill: talk me out of it, Ed.
little bill: I have an overriding need for Doritos
little bill: STAT.
steel valor: DON’T DO IT!
steel valor: ewww
steel valor: wtf
steel valor: omg
steel valor: get drunk, then you can’t drive!
little bill: dude.
little bill: I live in NYC
little bill: I have all of a 20-foot walk for Doritos
steel valor: GET REALLY DRUNK!

So I’m kind of in a reinvention phase lately, following through on the promise I made myself when I turned thirty last October. I won’t deny that part of it has kept me a bit isolated from my somewhat scattered social circles, nor will I deny that I have — from time to time — found myself a little bit lonesome for someone to hang out with. But I’m not a complete hermit, and do get to see some friends from time to time.

Things are moving forward, though. I’m back in the gym and making strides towards getting back into shape and eating better. Also I’ve been dating less. Disappointment after disappointment on that front has left me to step back and go through another phase of self-analysis but reminded me that I don’t need a partner in my life to be complete.

And that’s really the crux of the whole deal: re-learning to like myself, and taking steps to correct those aspects that I find lacking. I’m making changes, but only for myself… and hopefully, down the road I’ll be ready when the right person comes along — physically, mentally and emotionally.

Again, sorry I’ve been quiet. I just haven’t had much to share lately… but I’m still alive and very much ticking!

Walked out this morning, don’t believe what I saw
Hundred billion bottles washed up on the shore
Seems I’m not alone at being alone
Hundred billion castaways, looking for a home
I’ll send an S.O.S. to the world
I hope that someone gets my
Message in a bottle.

— The Police

Things have been incredibly quiet lately, mostly since the move to my new apartment. My rent has doubled and, despite my being able to afford it, there’s definitely a new strain coming up with a new budget around which to live. Aside from that I’m definitely settled into the new apartment, but getting used to how quiet it can be living at home. Don’t get me wrong, living with my last roommate proved to be a little taste of hell but was still another face to see (or glare at.)

Aside from that some friendships have, as of late, waned. I’m finding myself secluding myself socially and focusing on myself. I’m no longer allowing other people to define my happiness or allowing them any control over my emotional well-being — whether they had any active knowledge in doing so or not. This has resulted in me being far less tolerant of bullshit.

Lastly I’m working on my own diet. I’m not on a diet per se, but I’m modifying my eating habits. I’ve cut Diet Coke out of my diet in favor of seltzer water. That one took some adjusting, as I used to think of seltzer as stale bubbly water. Now I not only enjoy it, but find it more refreshing than any soft drink — with the exception of guzzling Gatorade after a particularly grueling eleven-mile hike in ninety degree weather not having packed enough water. Not only that but I’ve cut out as many sugars as I can from my diet, have been eating healthier and cutting down portions.

That and I’ve been going to the gym semi-regularly. Well, regularly but not regularly enough. I’m working on that though.

Self-improvement is hard, but I’m sure I’ll be better for it in the end.

I played with fire. And didn’t get burned.

That is all.

Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits. There, I said it.

Hope you’re pissing everyone off in the afterlife, George. You’ll be missed down here.

I’m going to post my favorite George Carlin joke, from one of his books. Most people who have seen/heard this joke did not find it as amusing as I did, but I say “fuck you” to them, because this is my blog, Goddammit and if I wanna share a George joke then I will.

EIEIO is actually a gross misspelling of the word "farm" — George Carlin

Exposition: My friends Kitty and Greg are having a double-birthday party this weekend. I, being that one New Yorker with a car, offered to drive her to pick up the keg for the party.

Kitty: so I said I’d pick up the stuff between noon and 1. Sound kosher?
Little Bill: yes
Little Bill: sure just wake me up early on my day off. :-P
Kitty: :(
Little Bill: ’s ok
Kitty: :’(
Kitty: tears
Little Bill: yeah yeah
Little Bill: sure sure
Kitty: see the tears?
Little Bill: cry me a river
Kitty: (I can’t type a river….)
Kitty: ~~~~~~~~?
Little Bill: hahaha
Kitty: ocean?
Kitty: ~~~~~~^~~~~~ sharks
Little Bill: haha.
Little Bill: now cry me a boathouse
Kitty: dammit!

- - -

Also, sorry for the lack of entries lately… I just haven’t had much to say as of late. That’ll change I’m sure!

It’s two days after my best friend Michael’s wedding, and I’m still a little bit in recovery. Here in Brooklyn it’s a beautiful day and everyone in the neighborhood is walking the streets, enjoying the sun, getting ice cream, sitting in the park and so on. It’s a day off, right?

Around here it doesn’t look like anyone’s realizing that it’s Memorial Day. I mean, of course they’re aware what the holiday is, but I wonder how many people are actually thinking about those who have fought in wars for us. That’s when it occurred to me that my own grandfather, Jack T. Bright — doesn’t that have a great ring to it? I’ve thought for many years of naming my own son that one day — flew a bomber over Germany in World War II.

My grandfather was the pilot of the B-17 Bomber named Sure Thing and flew twenty-five missions over Germany. Twenty-five bomber missions was considered a tour of duty, as the life expectancy for any war pilot is high, let alone for the members of a slow, hulking bomber crew such as the B-17. If they weren’t flying through thundering explosions of flack from the ground praying not to get hit they were warily keeping an eye out for the Nazi Luftwaffe fighter pilots gunning to take them down.

One relieving and tragic story my grandfather told me when I was in grade school — I was doing a Social Studies report on him — was his twenty-fourth mission where, after having done so well, the Sure Thing took a good amount of damage from Flack. After the bombardment, my grandfather looked in his lap and saw a good amount of red. The story, as he told it, was that he panicked and checked his body only to be relieved that something had punctured the cockpit and blew up a can of tomato soup. You’d think it was a scene from a Hollywood movie.

However one of his crewmembers, their bombardier, wasn’t as lucky. He was injured and forced to sit out the Sure Thing’s final mission, in which the plane and all of its crew came back in one piece. Later, my grandfather learned that his bombardier died trying to fulfill his 25 mission requirement as replacement bombardier on another bomber.

So, I am remembering my own grandfather, who loved to tell me stories about the war, taught me how to throw a ball and came back to marry my grandmother and have children. If he hadn’t come back, I wouldn’t be here.

I’m thinking of future generations who will look back on fallen soldiers in this current Iraq war and remember them and hope this war ends soon so they can come home and start families of their own.