Lethargy And Paralysis

Lethargy has become the rule of the road for me now.  What road?  The road that winds me through the life that I no longer feel in control of.  I am lost now, and free at the same time.  I feel and see my body wasting away, unfed by the nutrients or the exercise that they are so used to.  At the same time, what it has for the first time in many years, is rest.  But it is so frustrating to see the work that went into keeping my body in shape to do what it needed to do, and to see that after just a bit of loss of focus, it can fall around me like a suit that fits too loosely…

The answer, of course, is fanatical dedication to a new regimen, one that dictates fatigue as being roughly necessary to the process of improvement.

And where, in all of this, does the notion of fairness or honesty to the people around me, specifically, those people who care about me or who wonder where I have disappeared to, what it is that I am doing?  Where is the idea of a narrative, of a character?  How do we know if we have an idea of genius or just one of stark convenience… maybe no one has ever done something like this simply because the idea is too damned pedestrian; too damned boring.

So this is my pledge to myself…

I will be at the gym for 4 hours a day, starting tomorrow.  I will leave the house before noon in order to do it.

I will email everyone on my list.

I will take this as a profound and deep failure on my part if I am unable to carry out these simple pledges to myself.

There will be no game-playing, there will be no wasting of time.  I will eat when I am not hungry, and I will drink when I am not thirsty.  I will take my vitamins, and I will write three thousand words a day because I claim to be an artist, an acrobat, and I need to take such things seriously!

Perhaps it is time to put things into perspective, perhaps it is time to take matters in hand.

I will be tired, I will be unhappy, and I will be bored, but I will have some sense of necessity in my life.

I remember being at a Famous Amos stand in the subway mall of Taipei and hearing a perhaps over-enthusiastic manager of the tiny cart remarking to my companion something about something that made her mention the fact that she had lived in Africa.  He says that life is simple there.  She says, “Yeah, real simple.  People’s kids dying all the time…”  he doesn’t understand her English.  He pauses.  He smiles and says in Taiwan, people have lots of heart attacks.  She seems to see his point.  I don’t.  but I don’t see hers either.

I agree that the world is a messed-up place, and I am the first agree that we need to do something about it, but at the same time, I think that we need to accept these little injustices without drama for the time being.  People die more in some countries than other.  Of course, looking at these things from a humanistic perspective gives us a lot of pause, but at the same time, we need to have the option, and only the option, of looking at it in a more detached way.

I need to write an email to The Contortionist now, and in it I need to include a white lie.  It is about why I did not email her last night as I am trying to email her every night.  I will tell her that my roommate suddenly fell ill and my other roommate and I had to take her to the doctor’s office.  That is not a lie, that is really quite true, but we did that in the morning.  The evening, she was still healthy, and we engaged in wine drinking and general revelry until the wee hours, and that was why I did not email my girlfriend.

I don’t know exactly what it takes to have a girlfriend in the world any more, at least when you are living outside the norms of a regular address, a phone that works, and a group of friends that you can disappear into.  Will I miss this instability if I am ever to actually sit down and have a more stable life?  Will that life be just as stifling and soul-killing as this one is feeling for me?  Maybe the world itself is a stifling one, and this sense of despair that I am feeling is just some sort of metaphysical entropy, and it is exactly this sort of decay that we need to steel ourselves against to keep living as “beings,” and not as “beens.”

I want to meet my future head-on, standing straight and tall against the winds, not feeling like I need to destroy the city of Tokyo with an earthquake just to feel better about my writing.

What are the balls that are in the air right now?  A modelling agency that is not responding to my numerous emails, a job from Adco that may or may not have me exploring the corporate side of entertainment, a job offer from a man that I met at a Lithuanian film festival who may or may not be interested in engaging me in a job that has me once again performing acrobatics for Toyota, of all possible clients…  I have my number itself, which comes and goes in terms of how viable it seems, I have a possible grant which can take me possibly to Mongolia, to Bulgaria, to Lithuania, if my contact there ever decides to write me back.  I have the idea to teach something at my old university, but so many of these little attempts keep coming back faced with a wall of white, insurmountable silence.  Silence in the form of unanswered emails.   Makes me realize exactly why people need phones and face to face in the real world these day.

I need to make handstand blocks, I need to make new DVD’s I need to write emails, I need to train, I need to feel a zest for life and to feel that sort of poetic cloud that can sometimes well up and swallow my head whole.

I think that it comes from new environments, though, and what are my new environments now?  There seem to be none.

Handstands, ironically enough, is a discipline that requires stability in more ways that simply on your hands, inverted.  We also need the structure in our lives to fit in a bit of training here or there.  Once the number exists, we can run through it once a day in an hour, given that we have the space and the discipline, but once the technique falls by the wayside, you are trying to work your way up a hill… I guess I really need to focus my training now on the number and them concern myself with training later.

This is the way to go, I guess.

But god, it would be nice to look at myself in a mirror naked again and like what I see.  What I see right now is mediocracy at best.

I feel forgotten, like a rocket that burned brightly, arcing over a hill where no one can see it anymore, and even less people care.  I like the notion of a journey, and I like certain images in my writing, but in the end if I cannot harness it all into a tale of some sort, if I cannot craft what I am writing into a format that someone else would want to read, I am lost.  Floating in space.

Sickness

Brain Tumor Story

I am an investigative journalist.  Today I’m investigating a local medical anomaly and his distraught family.

He is a boy who thinks that he is god, and why not?  All people get to this point in their final dementia – rubbing elbows with god in heaven – this kid just got to that point too soon.

But what can a boy’s body do when its master is an injured brain that is trying to will itself into oblivion?

The boy was lucid for long periods of time but would slip into a trance so quickly.  And suddenly he would be back – haunted eyes were full of earnest belief that he wasn’t ill, he was being transported. 

It was a tumor, actually.  Aggressively over stimulating the imagination of a young child.

He thought he was god?  No, but he travelled to other worlds and recounted them in such detail that you wished you could go there too.  He could tell you of the time he had caught a quadruple somersault by just two fingertips in Monte Carlo.  He was so convinced that the world was more than what it was – and you wanted to believe him.

 “None of your dreams are real,” his family told him, hoping to cure him of these fantasies – and his face would fall.  They loved him too much to delude him.

But nothing they said made his experiences any less real to him.  This world view was based not in his experience but in something that existed inside him from the beginning: he was part of an unfortunate brotherhood obsessed with what the world could be.  And like any sickness, it consumed him.

Titan

The Heartbeat of Worlds

It was a usual day in almost every aspect except for what was missing.  There was an absence of a crashing roar that I had come to take for granted after a lifetime of living next to the sea.

“How long has it been like this?” the man asked me.

As well as I could remember the ocean had been functioning as normal the night before.  Wave after wave came crashing in, spraying a salty mist which coated everything in front of the churning gray organic stew with a sound that, above everything else, I what I had come to know as the sound of the earth itself.  Its breathing, its pulsing…  if the earth was a living object, then surely, the ocean is one of its vital signs.  Falling asleep, waves breaking at the base of sheer cliffs far below; whispered secrets of a forgotten past.

The assholes who had culled in the power of the ocean and that had choked it with an onslaught of silty poison…  the fish that smothered and suffered under the weight of countless belching smokestacks.

I am the horizon, I am unreachable.  Take four footsteps forwards and I will always be there, four steps further away from you.

We are on a journey that will take us to places that we cannot even imagine.  The journey can never end until we are told that it is over.  What are we walking towards?  What are we expected to do?

I think of a woman; I dream of her – obsess, even.  Men sense their own baseness, and we idealize and idolize “woman” as a vision of unobtainable heaven, one that can deliver us from all pain.  It is a curse.

It is a woman that I am dreaming about when the idea of the trip first enters my mind.

…so we cut ourselves free from this life.  We, the students of science, of philosophy, history, dying, impotent disciplines, in this poisoned environment.  Academia stifles itself.

The present never pleases me until years later when today’s present is cruelly revealed as the finest time of my life: never had I been more handsome, more charming; never were my friends so exciting and so stimulating as they were in yesteryear’s “today.”  Sometimes the only way to get through today is to see how it will seem a few years from now.

The trip took from what we feared and cast us into utter freedom.  We had no support, everything was thrown to chance.

I was not happy with my studies, I was not happy with my life, I was not happy with my parents’ relationship, the only yardstick for my own which had just fallen apart.  It was like the ground opened up behind me and I knew that it was time to leave.

I despised drama, always had, and never meant for my life to become one.  I had never meant to do anything important, I simply needed to be free do what I was doing, finding meaning could come later.

I went to my last class not long thereafter, the image of the woman still fresh in my mind, but at the same time absent, like a memory stained by a perfume or a poison.

I am lost when I try to see the world poetically. All the “things” get in the way, and the best I can do is to try to juxtapose those objects in pretty ways.  My first step was to go to a place that I had never meant to go.  I wanted to see a desert, I wanted to see an ocean, I wanted to learn how to pump gas, I wanted to know which fork to use, I wanted to graduate, I wanted to have a good job, I wanted to be able to support myself, I wanted to stop wanting so much.

It is a way to get around, to go faster and faster through the routine until acceleration lifts you out of your orbit.  Nothing is predetermined, I know that now, though I could have never convinced myself of it before my parents left each other.

Finding meaning in life is a trap; nothing means anything – I’m certain of that – but I still don’t know what it means.

Muscles and veins and nerves and bones make a man, and this one has a desire for a woman that is so strong that I can taste it.

On the road and free again, I’ll never know what is actually happening and what is just remembered.

I feel like I am in a hospital.  The room is taller than it is wide or long.  I feel like I am in a hospital because of the way the sheets feel starched under my naked ass.  I feel a dull aching, like I had had too much to drink, and my throat feels raw, like I’ve swallowed a pinecone.

Since when did explanations have to be good, I wondered.  Explanations just tie observable actions to motivations, and no one motivation can be any better than the other.

I am not sure how I got here, of why I need to be here.

I know that I am injured, my joints seem so stiff… my mind is too cloudy.  I feel as though I might be missing fingers.

I know that I can fight, that I will not stop defending myself.  I get angry and when I do, I don’t back down.  It’s been that way since I was a kid.  Today, I want to look civilized and demure with the veneer of a gentleman able to pass through an airport without enduring random security checks.  I like having the illusion that accomplishments are somehow a suitable mask for the weak and ugly person that hides beneath.

Schooling is perhaps a way to mask our inability to deal with the real weaknesses lurking directly beneath the surface.

Now I admit that there is no science in art and that there is no art in science.  A person cannot live always inside of themselves.

When the Japanese first started to import foreign literature, Western translators discovered that no Japanese word mapped well to the western concept of love.

Imagine a whole island full of people living for thousands of years with no spoken way to describe an abstract feeling that in the meantime had become a central aspect of European culture.

I want to be in the crux of a y, I want to be there the moment that the ocean stops beating.

Ocean waves are the earth’s heartbeat.  On the day that it stops beating I want to be on the beach looking out over the glassy expanse with a flat stone in my hand.

I want to be there on the day that the earth dies, sending out a shuddering sigh that shakes all of our cities to the ground.

I want to understand all the things that I never have.

There are always two rivers flowing through the minds of men.  One is flows in the direction that they are meant to go in and the other is flows in its own direction.  There is no place for insanity in a disordered world.

Who knows what I am meant to do in my life?

Not me; otherwise I would have done something about it by now.

I want everything but can do nothing.

I am living a world of the mind an don’t even know what I want to say.

I do know however, that I was sitting in a basement bar in Taipei drinking myself into oblivion one shot of tequila at a time.  I was writing by hand, page after page.  I knew that I was going to finish my whole notebook and that I would read it the day after as my body voided itself of the poison I was feeding it.  I would drink until the words flowed freely, and then I would keep drinking until my mind was empty; until I was unable to put pen to paper to form a letter, a word, or a sentence, a story, or a message.  Then I was going to write an email to a woman.

When we get to the point that we can say nothing more, that I when we will truly find out what it is that we have to say.

This was the idea at least, the rhythmic nature of the ritual of drinking hypnotizing myself into a state of suggestibility and then I would tell myself what this as all about.

I am in a car I am on a street.  What do I want to say?  What the fuck is wrong with me?  When I write I can make the pen move and dance on the page and actually see how I feel without being able to understand the language that I am writing it; when I type the whole game changes and I am somehow separated from the story that I am telling by a screen that burns my eyes.  What is the story here, who are the people? Where is the death?  Where is the sex?  Where is the passion and how am I ever going to get to it if I am not able to even show my emotions on the page?

Before writing for me was such an intellectual thing, now I am flooded, soaked with emotions and I am finding that my old vocabulary is sadly and sorely insufficient to describe new things that I suspect are central to what it is that I want to write about.

Indecision, passion, flowing and loving, feeling and opening and connecting and getting past the things that get in your way just by keeping you what you always were.  It has to be a search, it has to be about lost opportunities and forgotten pasts.

There is a world of worlds out there, each one with a different heartbeat.  Our earth has a heartbeat of liquid water, whereas Titan has a heartbeat of liquefied methane.  It is a flutter of a heartbeat, it is light, it sounds like it might faint at any moment, an intricate dance between figures in a book, a beautiful dance between numbers in a calculation.

The sound of a dead planet, the sound the ice on Pluto.  Its heart has stopped.  We know it as Pluto, as Pluton, but there is no way to describe what it really is.  It is a “small planetoid,” sure, but there is still nothing on earth that we can compare it too… were Pluto to come and lie on earth somewhere, what would it look like?  A giant marble on a plane? What would it feel like?  Cold.  Smooth?  Would it be a round beautiful marble like jade spheres for sale in snake alley in Taipei?

What would we think of it if we could see it and smell it?  Everything has a smell.  We could bring samples of the moon back to the earth, but would they ever let me pop a piece into my mouth just to see what moondust tastes like?

Kinetic energy.

Where is it.

It is time to get focused.  Do I have something to say?  Yes, but that is exactly what I should never say.  People who say what they want to say are annoying – you can see right through them.  The story that someone wanted to tell is so transparent compared to the story that found itself, that asked itself all the right questions and was able to tear itself out of the terrible state of non-existence!

There is a lot that I hate about training myself to be, to quote my MIT friends, “a goddamn miracle of modern science,” but then there is a lot that I love about it too.

Am I a hard drinker?

“Fuck no,” says the brute, smacking the little shit on the crown of the head and sending him downwards in a pile.   The world can blink out of existence for just a while as I sit there in silence.  Why does a man meditate?  What is it that goes through his mind?

All In The Name Of International Understanding

The other day, one of my Jewish friends was telling me how she thinks people would be much happier these days if Hitler had won.  She says that a Nazi world is a simple world.  I asked her if she thought the world was simple in Dachau, where her grandmother died.  She told me I make things too complicated.  She said that I would have made a lousy Nazi.

I think she was being a little harsh.

Often, just walking down the street I find myself hating people for no good reason.  I think that I am right most of the time, and that people who disagree with me are wrong.  I believe these things because I feel as though I think more deeply about the world than everyone else.

It took me just under three years to get to the point where I am able to say the things that I need to without fear of repercussions….

It takes less than a half a century to forget the scars of a million innocent deaths.  It takes less than a man being willing and able to make a change in the world that keeps him down.

Down, down, down, so softly speaking to no one in particular.  It is a free world that is holding me from telling you all the things that you wish that I could say, but at the same time, I am locked in a vault of lost ideas, of unspoken beliefs, of forgotten vendettas…

I am on an island in the China sea right now and I am walking freely, feeling no compassion for the bands of emaciated and wild dogs that roam the streets looking for handouts or perhaps just each other’s company.

It is a free world, and that is what we often forget.  That others are not doomed to share our own beliefs.

This freedom can make the world an ideological prison for the small-souled.  What is it that can either feeds a soul or cuts it off to atrophy, to wither and die?  To fall off in a gangrenous heap and dissolve into its surroundings?

If we were all large-souled, if we were all free enough, then would there be space for emptiness?  The emptiness upon which we can project our freedom?  The emptiness that serves as a stage for the human spirit in a world slowly filling up with millions of people?

We need to change the way that we think about numbers of people about population.  We need to think in terms of volume, not numbers, to see the world around us as a whole unpunctuated with that unpleasant otherness that keeps ‘them’ away from ‘us.’ 

The shit begins so early in life – just as we start to put up the walls that tell us what is knowable and what is easy versus what is unknowable and difficult.

Why are we so able and willing to accept things that will make it more difficult for us to achieve more in the future?  We, the little human flowers, are pollenated by these same vices that we are told to avoid.

We need to kill our own assumptions and certainties about how the world works in recognition that everyone’s interpretation of the facts is pre-tailored to their own vision of the world – not the other way around.  And as it is, we are all right.  It is all valid.  Even the insane.   It is an insurmountable task to unify a world with such diametrically opposed views.  But breaking apart our own views, assumptions, and certainties – is that a cure for diametric opposition itself?

For example.

She is an educated American.  College graduate.  She can program a computer and she works in a lab.  She feels as though she has seen the world because she has been to Europe.  While she was there she spent two weeks in Paris, which is where Americans who want to go to Europe go to say that they have been to Europe.  She spent some time at the Louvre with the friends that he was travelling with and they took pictures of each other playing in the sculpture gardens.  They partied with other travelers in their youth hostel located just beneath the cathedral of the sacred heart.  They saw the Eiffel tower and celebrated bastille day.

They danced in clubs that are frequented by North American tourists and Parisians who want to pick up North American tourists.  They speak no French.  When people meet them on the street and ask if they might be American, they say, “No, Canadian.”  Easier than a political discussion around imagined political views.  Were Europeans to challenge their political views, they would simply say that it was not their fault as they had not vote for President Bush.

They see evidence of a political climate that is different from that back home in the homeless and the varied racial makeup of the denizens of this old European capital.  They make jokes at night about the frogs, snails, and funny accents.  They miss the food back home, and see the local cuisine as a necessary price to pay for their exciting experiences.  They meet a group of local guys (charming with cute accents) and they kiss on the dance floor of the club.  Their furtive attempts to explore the sweaty terrain covered by Abercrombie and Fitch halter-tops are giggly swiped away, but after closing time, in a back alley, a full expedition is encouraged by rhythmic swaying of American hips in the humid Parisian summer night.

They all have boyfriends back home who can’t understand why they would waste their short summer break from graduate school to frolic around in a country that has no relevance to or common history with America.  They explain themselves and the trip, saying simply that it is all in the interest of international understanding.  How can the world change, they wonder, if there are no brave souls willing to make that first tentative leap across the Atlantic to extend a hand of friendship to our European brothers who are so misled as to the true nature of the American soul.

These ambassadors of good will, who, through sloppy, drunken blowjobs, have drained their Parisian suitors dry, are now stumbling home with their arms around each others’ shoulders, singing the American anthem at the top of their lungs.  They’ll go back home to America tomorrow, but they have made some fantastic friends here in Paris, and the memories, the memories will last a lifetime.

All in the name of international understanding.

Back at school, their graduate programs are bursting with foreign students.  And now, they will be joined by these newly-minted, open minded, worldly Americans.

Water tableau in the National Circus School of Montreal's annual show

Why I Joined The Circus, or Lessons From Year One

i enjoyed the self-discipline of gymnastics and martial arts and thought that the performing arts would provide a platform of expression and communication – but why circus specifically?

i had always admired the mastery and grace associated with my romantic notion of a “circus performer,” but had always considered it to be an unobtainable goal – something one had to be born into, or something bestowed upon world-class athletes trained since childhood in an eastern european country.

in my third year at mit, and second year as a gymnast, i was sidelined by injury and its subsequent surgery and rehabilitation, trying to fight off feelings of hopelessness and helplessness.

a year later, now in my senior year, i recovered to the point that i could start training and competing again, but i wasn’t feeling the psychological connection or drive that I once had.

at about this time, i learned that boston was only 5 hours away from one of the premier professional circus arts training centers in the world.  auditions are grueling, competitive, and extremely selective, and less than 4 weeks away.  it was just the motivation i needed.

those four weeks were dedicated to training.  flexibility, strength, airsense, relearning skills, 8 hours a day, each day ending in a bizarre mix of frustration and hope.

at the audition, i was floored by the high skill level of the performers and the sheer difficulty of the tasks and assessments that we needed to perform: strength, flexibility, trampoline, tumbling, handstands, acting, dance, and a presentation in front of all the instructors of our own personal number of 3 minutes.

when it was all said and done, i was satisfied that i had performed my best.  a storm was rolling in between montreal and boston, and on the snowy 5-hour ride home i was certain that i had not made the cut.

but why, then, would i run to the mailbox every day for the next month and a half?  why did it feel so right when the fat envelope from the school arrived, overflowing with congratulations and immigration forms?

lessons from the first year of circus school:

  • learn to live with constant self-doubt and insecurity.
  • you’ll never realize that you are getting any better.
  • every day you are taught to accomplish things that yesterday seemed impossible.
  • you’ll overcome feeling of inadequacy (“i’m too heavy,” or “i’m too weak”) and overcome (not suppress) your fears by developping trust in others.
  • despite all the trash talking in the gym, circus is intrinsically non-competitive
  • circus crosses all borders

Vibrations In The Ether

it is so much easier to look at our lives and say ok, i have my babyhood, my childhood, my schoolhood, my collegehood, my jobhood, my marriagehood, my divorcehood, my grandparenthood, and it is so much nicer to sit back and be happy and enjoy this natural progression of roles.  to sit back and be happy and have friends and go places and sing songs and worry about things like what food to bring to the church brunch.   

if you see time as being a being of infinite size and breadth, it’s like the joke of the three blind men and the elephant.  what if there is another blind man there and he just says “there are an infinite number of elephants here if you can just get past seeing this one as a big grey sack of flesh.” 

i want to be able to talk with people i knew a million years ago and introduce them to people i have yet to meet.   

i would love to run fast enough that the sun rises in the west and sets in the east.  but no matter how fast you run east, you can’t make time turn backwards. 

lives lived parallel to each other separated by all things but the passage of time.  people on the outside thinking to themselves “my god they would be perfect for each other.”  

we just live our lives in little isolated spheres, and the mistake, maybe is to think “i sure am lonely in my isolated sphere, would you please come and join me in my isolated sphere?” maybe it is better to just ask yourself if you are doing everything that you ought to and if there is any other person out there doing the same thing, their vibrations pass through the ether so that when you are sleeping you will feel their existence in your dreams and know that while you may be lonely and alone, something out there knows that the two of you are there in the world and maybe someday you will meet.  maybe you are neighbors. 

our loneliness is what makes us search for things. 

i live by the ocean and the waves stop and everything is still and silent and glassy and i decide to fashion a boat out of a tree and it takes me a million years but what the hell, i have the time and i head out across the ocean. “what the hell,” right?  i have the time.   

if we lived for a million years, would anything excite us anymore?  

is it the things that we have not done, the things that we wish we could do that make life worth living?  and if so?  what is the real difference between wanting to do it and actually doing it?  what the hell, we have the time.  we have an ocean here that we wake up to every morning. 

so go ahead, you know?  build a boat.  you have the time.  there is a whole glassy unexplored ocean out there to discover.  and once you’ve gone far enough and memorized what the horizon looks like and you start to go a little bit crazy… you’ll see. 

i want to be able to drown myself in a kiddie pool on stage.  i like seeing people get wet on stage.  in water i mean.  ha ha haha.  it is funny to get wet on stage especially if you fall in water.  i am falling in water to kill myself, though, so you better stop thinking that everything is so darned funny, ok?  maybe the guy is killing himself because he wants to be able to finish life now before he gets to the next bend in the river.  right now he has done everything that he wants to do and he doesn’t want to hear anything more about it.  he doesn’t want to know about what might be coming around the bend because he doesn’t want to want it.  he definitely doesn’t want to know about all the things that he has done less than perfectly in his life because he might then want to go back and redo it.  “oh, but you got to meet me!”  she says so perkily.  and he flops back over into the pool, completely convinced that he should have died about one minute ago.

Circus acrobat doing handstand on a tower of blocks

Recentering Day – That Acrobat Feeling

So I’ve remembered what it feels like to be a circus artist now after my first saturday recentering day back after vacation.  I’m actually not in as bad shape as I thought I was going to be in as far as strength and flexibility.  I just did a lighter version of my saturday recentering stuff: only one set of each strength series and only held flexibility positions for 45 seconds instead of a minute.  My kicks are still where they were and my pike isn’t as bad as I thought as it was.  I did lose side splits but those are just not coming easily at all.

Working with The Hotshot on our 2x 8 bars was fun and I think that what we’ve  put together is pretty cool.  The women in the class are going to complain some fo the one-leg fondus.  I like working with people that you don’t have to be too polite with and who are excited about what they’re doing.  It just makes the ideas really flow very easily.  It makes working egoless so you can just focus on making something that looks cool in the end.

i also worked on some rudi’s into the pit and discovered that if you actually look at the ground make a full rotation after coming off the minitramp before wrapping tighter to get the last half around it really is much easier and you don’t have to worry about overrotating – you know exactly where you are.  I was going a little crooked but I did about 10 of them for consistency down.  I’m really trying to focus on basics with professors and then and work these more complicated skills on my own.  Trying to develop that sort of patience to let the body and the mind develop in parallel – the mind’s awareness of what the body’s doing, “air sense” essentially, is developed simultaneously.

The Contortionist and The Dreamer who were also there so it was fun to have just the three of us working in the gym.

It’s weird how it feels like at this gym I’m more motivated than at the MIT gym.  Is it the sense that you’re going to be evaluated?  That would worry me because ultimately your motivation to excel should come from within yourself.  I’m worried that in this respect going to school for circus is almost like a motivational crutch.

I was thinking about how yesterday Byamba motioned to something in the corner and shook his head “no.” I had no idea what he was talking about at the time but now I wonder if he meant that he didn’t want me to work rolla bolla anymore.  After taking a sauna for the first time in forever (which felt great) I had to ask myself if I actually would stop working it.  In a way, it gives me the opportunity to train with him on things like acrobatics which he clearly thought would be a good idea.  If he is my “master” I should go with what his instincts.

If i hadn’t gone in today (which was tempting as I had overslept a bit) I still wouldn’t be feeling like a circus artist.  This is really important because I think feeling like a circus artist is a prerequisite to actually training in the circus fashion.  It’s important stuff – glad I got a chance to recenter and remember that it is for myself that I’m in here.